dead!’
‘Yes. We are. All of us.’ Hereward swung his fist into the monk’s jaw and knocked him cold.
Dragging his companion across the snow and rocks to a broad oak tree, the warrior stripped off his own blood-sodden woollen tunic and leggings and used them to bind the monk to the bole. Once he was done, he tucked his leather pouch containing coin and a knife behind a rock. Naked, he flexed his muscles so that the blue whorls that covered his torso rippled in the fading light, and then he bellowed. A moment of silence ended in an abrupt crashing in the frozen undergrowth as Redteeth’s men raced towards the sound.
Hereward bounded off into the growing gloom.
The monk must have come round in time to see him disappear into the trees, for the warrior heard Alric roar, ‘Monster! You are the Devil!’
From his hiding place, Hereward watched two of the Viking mercenaries skid down the snowy bank to arrive beside Alric, one clutching an axe, the other a spear. Two more followed, wearing helmets and well-worn mail. ‘It is only the monk,’ the one with the axe said. ‘The other has fled.’
‘He left me here to slow you down!’ Alric shouted. ‘Pursue him! He is only a moment or two ahead!’
Hereward spied the two helmeted raiders following his trail; their time would come first. The Viking with the spear turned to Alric. ‘Your debt can only be repaid with blood.’
‘Harald will want to take that payment himself!’ Alric replied bitterly.
‘I will take your head back to him. He will be pleased with that… and reward me fully.’
Hereward saw Alric close his eyes and call on the Lord to save his soul. As the prayer whispered out on the wind, the Mercian was already circling round the two men trudging along his trail. When they separated to widen their search, he struck, allowing one blood-chilling scream to echo among the trees.
The monk’s two remaining tormentors laughed. ‘Your friend is dead,’ one of them said.
‘He is not my friend!’ Alric snapped. ‘He is nothing but a beast.’
Nearby, the dead man’s companion crashed through the undergrowth, each guttural curse a testament to the fear he now felt. Once again Hereward struck with the speed and efficiency of a wolf, delaying the killing blow just enough to draw out another cry. It rang above the gale whipping through the branches.
Slipping back to where he could observe the monk and the two remaining raiders, Hereward saw that the Vikings’ faces were drawn; their humour had drained away. The mercenary with the axe made to venture into the trees, but his comrade caught his arm to hold him back.
Letting his chin fall on to his chest, Alric whispered, ‘He is the Devil.’
Ignoring the cold, Hereward waited, watching the fear rise in the two warriors. They raised their weapons as they circled the monk, searching for an attack from any direction. Long moments passed with only the howl of the wind and the blast of the snow. The darkness slipped among the trees and enveloped them.
Finally, Hereward moved from his hiding place. Knotted together by their long hair, the two heads arced from the shadows, twisting and turning to crash into the snow at the feet of the raiders with a splatter of blood.
Overcome with rage at the slaughter of his comrades, the warrior with the axe roared his battle cry and raced forwards. The warning from the other Northman came too late.
Spectral in the gloom, Hereward stepped from behind a spreading oak and swung his sword into the back of the raider’s neck. Before the Viking had even hit the ground, the naked, blood-streaked man bounded towards the final mercenary. Hereward felt the rush of his bloodlust engulf him. The world diminished to his opponent’s eyes and the dance of blades.
The Northman ducked the first strike though it drove him back. A storm of iron, Hereward’s sword hacked right and left, high, for the shoulder blade, horizontally towards the ribcage. Struggling to stand his ground, the wild-haired mercenary dodged each blow and tried to bring his own weapon to bear.
For several minutes, the two men battled around Alric, fighting to keep their feet on the treacherous ground. Lost to his wild passion, Hereward failed to account for the deepening snow. Cursing, he went down on one knee. The mercenary saw his opening and thrust his spear.
Hereward threw himself to one side, bringing up his left fist into the warrior’s groin. As the Viking doubled over in agony, the English warrior jumped up and rammed his knee into his opponent’s face. The mercenary crashed backwards, unconscious.
Hereward heaved in a deep breath. As his vision cleared, the whispers in his head fell silent and his rage subsided. He moved to release the monk.
‘They could have killed me! You did not know I would still be alive when you returned!’ Alric shouted.
‘No, I did not.’ With irritation, the warrior waved a dismissive hand as if swatting a fly. ‘You seem to believe that I care whether you live or die.’
Once Alric was free, Hereward stripped off the unconscious warrior’s mail shirt, tunic and breeches and dressed in them. His arms and legs felt numb from the cold, but the feeling would return soon enough. Using the blood-soaked garments that had secured the monk, he tied the naked mercenary to the tree.
Alric slumped on to a fallen trunk, head in hands, repeating a short prayer in a tone of wrenching desolation.
‘Do not pray for me. I am long since damned,’ Hereward muttered as he checked the knots were tight.
‘I am not praying for you.’ With red-rimmed eyes, the monk levelled a haunted look in the direction of Gedley.
The Mercian could see that his companion was troubled by more than the deaths of the villagers. ‘Who pays the Northmen? And why do they hunt for you?’
The young monk wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. ‘No questions,’ he parroted.
Hereward shrugged. ‘Then we both have our secrets.’
Shuddering from the cold, the mercenary started to come round. The English warrior reclaimed his leather pouch from behind the rock and removed his bone-handled knife. With his thumb, he checked the edge for sharpness.
Uneasily, Alric looked up from his prayers. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I am going to flay the skin from him as I would a deer. And either his cries will draw Harald Redteeth towards us where I can butcher him too, or they will drive him away,’ Hereward said.
In horror, Alric jumped up. ‘You cannot do such a thing.’
‘Fear is what drives all men in this world. Those who wield it, win.’
‘No,’ the monk urged. ‘Love.’
Hereward laughed. ‘When the Northmen first sailed to England in their dragon ships, they defeated us by instilling fear, so we are told. They sacked your monasteries and raped our women and we English ran like whipped dogs. The good Christian folk frighten the heathens to drive them from the land. And your own God threatens you with the Devil and the burning fires of hell if you stray from the path of righteousness.’
‘What has made you like this?’
The mercenary moaned as he came to his senses. When Hereward leaned over him with the knife, the scream tore from his throat before the cold metal had even been pressed to his skin.
Alric shouted over the din, ‘You rise from the blood of innocents. You kill, without guilt, as if you have no soul. I ask you again — what made you like this?’
‘God made me like this.’
CHAPTER THREE
The blood-chilling scream ripped through the night-shrouded forest, growing shriller and more intense with each passing moment until it no longer sounded human. For that, Harald Redteeth’s men gave thanks, for they could pretend it was some wild animal or fearsome monster hunting among the trees. But when it rolled on as though it would never end, they bowed their heads and clutched at their ears, unable to extinguish their visions of the suffering their comrade endured.
Harald Redteeth listened impassively to the agonized sound. He was a mercenary who took the coin of any man, be he merchant, thegn or king, who wanted death dealt quickly and harshly, and his appearance underscored his fearsome reputation. From the eyeholes of his axe-dented helmet, his black, distended pupils reflected the
