Free The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) by Matthew Harffy

cold night," he said. "Step close to the fire here. It's not so bad then."
    She didn't move.
    "Do you think they have already fought the Waelisc?" she asked.
    He shrugged. "Only the gods can know. We have heard no word." He looked out into the night. Lightning flickered. For a moment his face was white, stark against the black sky.
    Sunniva followed his gaze. Had Beobrand already been taken from her? Were the gods laughing? Or rejoicing? Were the flashes in the sky the souls of men feasting in Woden's corpse hall? Or angels of the Christ god?
    "Perhaps the gods are angry."
    "Perhaps," Anhaga said, his voice distracted.
    Sunniva turned back to him. His eyes were roving over her. Lingering on her legs. The curves of her form beneath her cloak. Their eyes met.
    Anhaga quickly looked away.
    Sunniva felt a wave of loneliness. Beobrand had sworn he would return to her. He would not break his word to her. He would not.
    But what if his wyrd had a different path?
    A few drops of rain fell, sizzling into the embers of the brazier. Sunniva looked up and felt drops on her face. Like tears.
    She stood for a moment like that, face uplifted with the rain washing down her cheeks, then she turned abruptly. She would not stand here fearful for a future she did not know. Beobrand would return to her. He would.
    "I had best get in, out of the rain," she said. Her voice sounded harsh and jagged to her own ears.
    Anhaga stiffened.
    "Aye, that would be best," he said. "Watch your step on the ladder." He turned his back on her and did not offer his hand again.
    Sunniva was at once relieved and saddened by his lack of attention.
    She made her way quickly back to the hall. There she removed her wet cloak, wrapping herself in everything she had available. It took a long while for warmth to return to her body.
    She clutched Beobrand's kirtle, breathed of his redolence and prayed for his return to any god that would listen.
     
    Scand gritted his teeth against the pain. His back throbbed and the tingling in his right leg had transformed into a jabbing sensation in his knee. Every step was agony.
    The warhost ran headlong towards the Waelisc camp. The rain fought their progress, but they pushed through it. Towards their prey. Just enough light spilt out from the dampened campfires for the Bernicians to guide themselves.
    Scand hobbled along as best he could. He drew his sword, revelling in the perfect balance of it, despite the discomfort he felt in his back and leg. The blade was a gift from King Oswald, as recognition for his oath-swearing. It replaced the sword that had shattered in Gefrin. That had been a great blade. It had slain many men and even in its moment of destruction it had served him well. A shard from the broken blade had injured Cadwallon, causing the Waelisc to retreat. Scand hoped this new sword would serve him as well.
    The front ranks reached the encampment. Shouts and screams. That was the king's own retinue, his most trusted thegns. Like a pack of wolves loose in an enclosure of sheep, they were wreaking havoc.
    Scand slipped on an uneven stone, almost losing his balance. His ankle was close to turning, but he righted himself with a grunt. Stumbling, he moved on. He could not see the look of unease on the faces of the men who ran with him. But he imagined it. They would be concerned that their lord was no longer the warlord he had been in his prime. Gods, he was as concerned as anyone!
    These were his men. Trusted. Battle-hardened. He was proud of them and they had once been proud of him.
    He vowed they would be proud again. This night he would show them who they followed.
    He was Scand, son of Scaend. Mighty in battle. Bringer of death to his foes. Songs were sung of his exploits in Albion and over the sea in Hibernia.
    He may be old, but this wolf still had teeth.
    Raising his sword in the air with a flourish he screamed in his battle voice, "Onward, my gesithas! Remember the ford at Gefrin. Remember the faces of those who fell.