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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

I glanced once more at Leofstan’s pallid, grisly form, then, abandoning Runolf to his wyrd and praying that God would watch over me until I had delivered justice for my friend, I rushed through the doorway.

Fifty-Seven

I stepped into a small antechamber that was flanked by two doors. The door on the right was open and light spilt out from the room beyond it. This must be where Chlotar had come from, I surmised, so I turned to the left-hand door, which was closed and dark.

In the main hall, Runolf and Chlotar exchanged blows and insults, while further away, outside in the night, the throng of Ljósberari’s folk howled and clamoured, battering at the doors to get to their master’s aid. The hall reverberated with noise, so I did not hear Scomric’s approach. But as I stood outside the closed door, readying myself to push it open and leap inside, a shadow rippled over me, alerting me of my mistake in thinking that Ljósberari would be to the left.

I flung myself to the side and careened into the thin whitewashed wall that separated the sleeping quarters from the hall. The mud-covered wattle wall shook, dust showering down on me. And a searing pain lanced into my shoulder. I spun around, swinging my sword wildly.

Scomric, eyes feral and hair dishevelled from sleep, jumped away with a yelp. He stumbled back into the room. Scowling, I followed him. In his hand, he brandished the small knife that had taken Leofstan’s life. It was red with my blood. My shoulder was agony and I could already feel hot liquid pouring down my back, soaking the linen robe I wore.

Scomric looked about the room, desperate for another weapon perhaps, or anything that might help him escape. There was a large, wooden-framed bed. A chair and a table, upon which rested a small earthenware oil lamp that provided the only light. There was a stoutly built chest against one wall, but there was nothing that Scomric might use to prevent me exacting the revenge I so craved.

“Not so brave now, are you?” I snarled, lunging at him with my sword.

He whimpered and took a quick step back.

“You are not sent by God,” he hissed. “The Devil sent you. Isn’t that so?”

“You can ask him yourself soon enough,” I said, closing on him and raising my sword. It was clear Scomric was no warrior. He was clumsy and slow, and I marvelled that he had lived so long without someone slaying him, surrounded by violence as he was. Perhaps fear of being killed by one of his followers was why he slept in the hall alone, save for his most trusted man.