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Back A Night of Flames
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

The men continued walking forward, their steel threatening in the flickering light, no smile on their faces. Around me, the crew of Brymsteda were handing out shields and weapons along the line. Silently, without fuss, we prepared to fight on that forlorn beach, under the summer-bright night sky. There were perhaps a score of men approaching us now. We outnumbered them, but if they were seasoned warriors, it would be a hard-fought confrontation, and there was no guarantee that we would prevail. Many of our number were fishermen and thralls. Strong and hard-working, but not well-versed in the art of bloodletting. I felt the growing pressure within me that precedes a fight. Muttering the paternoster, I drew my sword from its scabbard and raised my shield, adjusting my stance, ready for battle, as Gwawrddur had taught me.

With a shock, I saw the Welsh swordsman, face pallid, but shield and sword in hand, standing towards the end of the line. I marvelled at his strength. I had worried he might die and here he was ready to fight.

The men from the hall halted some thirty paces from us. They stood there quietly, an impassive wall of wood and iron, where the sand and shingle of the beach met the straggling marram grass. A slight breeze blew in from the sea now, tugging at the flames from their torches, fluttering them like standards before a battle.

For a time there was silence in both ranks. At last, Runolf stepped forward, perhaps so that the torchlight would fall on his face. If he was known to these people, surely there could be no mistaking him with his flame-red beard and great height. I saw he held his great axe by his side, its massive blade touching the sand at his feet. Perhaps he was not so sure of the reception we would receive here after all.

“It is I, Runolf Ragnarsson,” he said, his booming voice filling the night. “We do not come to cause trouble.”

A man stepped forward from the group before us. He was tall, though he would still need to look up at Runolf. Taking a torch from one of the other men, he walked half a dozen paces across the sand. The torch lit his handsome features. Like Runolf, he had long hair and a full beard, but his black hair was plaited and oiled in the way of the Picts, his beard groomed and combed smooth. He scowled at Runolf, his hand resting on the pommel of the sword hanging at his side.

“And yet, trouble so often follows where you go, Runolf Ragnarsson.” He shook his head and glowered. “You are either foolhardy or brave to come here after what you did.”

I tensed, my grasp tightening on my sword’s grip. I sensed the men around me shifting their feet, imperceptibly raising shields, holding weapons more firmly.