The Sword of Wayland by Gavin Chappell
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‘Who are your allies?’ asked Cynethryth, as her vision shifted and she found herself - or rather the being whose sight she shared - slowly creeping up behind the three frightened figures.
‘The folk of the woods,’ intoned Grimbert sonorously, ‘The old people, who ruled these lands long before the coming of god or elf or man. These days they dwell far from the habitations of the people who defeated them in ancient times, coming up from the deep woods only rarely, to slay and to eat, driven by hunger - or an age-old desire for revenge.’
‘And you… you control these creatures?’ Cynethryth asked with a shudder, peering still into the steaming waters.
Grimbert paused.
‘To some extent,’ he replied. ‘But there is little I can do to control them once they have sight of their prey. They will kill, and kill savagely.’
Cynethryth watched pitilessly as the creature whose eyes she shared crept closer and closer to the three men. They were turning round and round desperately, staring wide-eyed into the surrounding night.
Oswald had drawn his sword, and one of his companions held an axe. But their faces told her that they were far from confident of their chances.
‘Show yourselves!’ Oswald shouted hysterically, brandishing his blade.
‘Quiet!’ hissed Edwin frantically. ‘Quiet!’
‘At least we do not skulk like cowards!’ Oswald bellowed, ignoring the little thief. ‘Come out of the trees and face us like men!’
A distant chorus of yells and shouts came from the trees to their right.
‘Where are you, Oswald?’ someone shouted. ‘Traitor!’ another voice came. ‘Come and taste steel!’
Oswald shot a startled glance at Edwin. Bork rumbled something under his breath.
‘It’s Egfrid,’ Oswald said.
‘But between him and us…’ Edwin replied, ‘are the monsters…’
Cynethryth frowned. The vision in the waters changed, as the creature seemed to turn in its tracks. She caught a confused glimpse of the thing’s companions; dark, bestial figures with the barest hint of manhood. Then it seemed that they were changing course, away from the fugitives.
‘What is happening, Grimbert?’ she demanded querulously.
The Laplander’s voice was shaking.
‘Something has drawn them away,’ he replied uncertainly. ‘A greater threat? More prey?’ He was speculating. ‘Ah, but…. Look!’
Cynethryth’s vision changed again, and she saw more figures dead ahead, these no less human than Oswald and his companions; men in armour, staring wildly in her direction, horror on their faces - they were the king’s thanes!
She recognised her own son at their head.
And now she was shambling towards them; all around her, her apish comrades were also lumbering in their direction, eyes glittering in the darkness, bright with primordial hatred, teeth bared, claws extended to slash and to rend…
She broke away from the cauldron, and cast a glance across the chamber. Grimbert stood in the shadows, his face pale.
‘That’s my son they’re attacking!’ she snapped. ‘He must have tracked Oswald to the clearing! Now those creatures will kill him!’
Grimbert swallowed. He nodded.
Cynethryth was on him in a second. She struck him across the face.
‘Do something!’ she cried. ‘You are the mighty wizard! You’re the greatest sorcerer the North has ever known!’ She taunted him savagely, angrily. ‘Stop them!’
Grimbert raised a hand to his cheek, and gazed at her in bewildered wonder. She seized him by his jerkin collar.
‘Very well,’ he choked suddenly. ‘I’ll try!’
She let him go, and stepped back as he began to play his flute again. What spirits he was summoning now, what gods or devils he called upon, she could not guess. But if they did not save her son, Lapland would welcome home one less wandering wizard …