The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) by Matthew Harffy Page B

hall. They moved slowly forward, drawn towards the shape. Beobrand did not wish to believe what it was, yet he was already certain. He walked past the broken pottery and ripped sacks that were strewn on the ground, hardly noticing them. Beobrand did not heed the fabulously intricate design of a man’s face in small tiles on the floor. His eyes were held in the inexorable grasp of the unthinkable form on the altar.
    When they were close enough he saw the true horror. The pale skin of the blood-stained thighs. The teeth-shaped bruises on the breasts. The tongue, lolling from the blue-lipped mouth. And those sightless eyes. Staring, staring, in imploring silence.
    He wished he had trusted his instincts and turned away. This was a sight he would never forget. It would haunt his dreams. Its gory vividness seared into his mind.
    Beobrand did not know the young woman who lay like an animal carcass ready for butchering, but he shuddered to think of how she must have suffered. Coenred let out a cry on seeing the girl and fell to the ground. He buried his head in his arms and wailed. Beobrand, now without support, staggered. He stumbled to the side of the hall, and leaned against the wall.
    He wanted to avert his eyes from the body of the girl, but some perverse fascination drew his gaze back. He shouldn’t look, he knew, but he was powerless to stop. He felt sordid, shameful.
    Coenred’s sobs filled the chapel. “Tata! Tata!” he cried. Beobrand didn’t know how to console him. His own recent losses seemed to have inured him to the sorrows of others. He just wanted fresh air. To be away from the milky white flesh of the slaughtered girl. Using the wall for support he made his way out of the building and left Coenred alone with the corpse and his grief.
    He stepped out into the watery light of the afternoon and pulled the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. It was cold, and they would need a fire soon, and food. He looked in the direction of some of the living quarters. Did the houses contain similar gory secrets to the chapel? He wasn’t strong enough to enter any dwelling yet, not alone. When Coenred had calmed himself they could go in search of clothes and food. Maybe get a fire going. But for now he would just sit and wait.
    He had been sitting with his back propped against the door frame for a short while when he sensed a presence nearby. He looked up, afraid that the Waelisc had returned. Perhaps they had feigned leaving in order to lure people from hiding. The man standing over him leaned down and said in a soft, unusually accented voice, “Do not fear, my child.” Beobrand had been avoiding looking in the direction of the dog and the sound of Coenred crying must have covered any noise the man made when he approached, but his sudden appearance was unnerving. The man was old, with thinning grey hair and intelligent, sad eyes. Beobrand tried to stand, but pain coursed through his chest and his vision blurred. The old man put a gentle hand on his head, bidding him to stay seated.
    “Jesu be praised that you have been spared,” the old man said. “Is it Coenred who weeps inside the chapel?”
    Beobrand nodded, but found no words worth uttering.
    “Does he weep for Tata?” the old man asked, but went on without waiting for a reply. “Her faith in the Lord was stronger than mine. She said he would deliver us from evil, but we fled. God have mercy on our souls.” He drew in a ragged, deep breath and walked slowly into the gloomy chapel. Towards the sounds of Coenred’s grief.
    If this was how the Christ god protected his faithful from evil, allowing their enemies to rape and murder them, Beobrand preferred the old gods. They smiled on the brave and laughed at the weak. They didn’t offer false hope.
    Others were now moving into the clearing. Having watched the old man enter the chapel safely, thirty or forty people came out of the trees at the foot of the slope and walked sheepishly into the settlement. Beobrand