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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

I did not waste my energy on a reply. Lunging forward, I feinted at his face with my shield rim, then, as he swayed backwards, quick as a striking viper, I slashed my sword blade across his throat. I could not be certain, but it seemed to me that he made little effort to defend himself in those last moments. Blood spouted from his severed arteries, spraying into the water all around us and raining down hot on my face. Clutching the axe tightly in his hand, the man’s grin seemed to widen as he fell back to be swallowed by the muddy river.

With Eafa’s help, I dragged Wistan out of the water. His face was as grey as fish guts, and we left a trail of red in the water behind us. Throwing my shield and sword down onto the mud of the beach, I got my hands beneath his arms and pulled him free of the water. Gently, I lay him down. His face was close to mine and I felt his breath, hot and ragged against my cheek. As I rose and looked down into his face, I saw there were tears there, or perhaps it was rain or river water. I reached for his hand, clutching it tightly. He stared at me in horror.

“I am sorry,” I said, though what I was apologising for, I could not say.

His hand was limp in mine. His eyes gazed, unblinking. I realised with a pang of pain in my chest as acute as if the Norseman’s knife had pierced my heart, that I had failed. The shuddering warmth of Wistan’s breath on my face had been his last.

Beside me, Eafa looked down at his dead son. The futility of it all hit me then and I rubbed a hand over my face. What makes a man a foe or a friend? I have oft thought of this over the long years. I have fought friends, and I have befriended enemies. That morning I had clashed blades with Wistan, then moments later we had stood together against the threat of the Norsemen. It felt like a kind of madness. Tears stung my eyes as I looked down at the corpse of the man I had failed to save in the end.

I do not recollect much of what happened after that. I was dimly aware of Mancas arriving with his hearth-warriors. They came at a gallop, dismounting on the run and adding their numbers to the shieldwall. Soon, all the Norsemen were dead, massacred by the grim-faced warriors and the villagers whose terror was replaced by fury. The mud of the beach was a quagmire of red-foamed puddles by the time they had finished, the cadavers of the raiders like so many fish washed ashore on the tide.

A shadow fell over me.

“Are you hurt, Hunlaf?”