The scream silenced the mead hall like a slap to the face of a noisy child.
A chill ran through the throng. The brittle laughter died on lips that quickly twisted from smiles to scowls. The warm hubbub of moments before was shattered as easily as the thin skin of ice that formed on the puddles in the courtyard outside.
One of the hounds looked up from where it gnawed a bone by the hearth fire and whimpered.
Ælfhere, the scop, lowered his lyre, the last, interrupted notes, jangling in the air.
Octa set aside the mead horn he had been drinking from. His senses were dulled by the drink, but not enough that the small hairs on the back of his neck did not prickle with the sound of anguish that came from outside the hall. He turned to his friend, Bassus, who sat on his left. The huge warrior’s brow furrowed. Bassus met his gaze and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another scream rent the chill night that smothered the great hall.
There were words in that scream.
“The night-walker! The sceadugenga brings death!”
Night-walker. Shadow-goer.
Octa felt bony fingers of terror scratch down his spine. He shuddered, hoping none of the other king’s warriors would notice. He had not long before joined the king’s gesithas and some of the men were wary of him, he knew.
They had feasted; eating, drinking and boasting. Trying to ignore the one who haunted the dark winter paths. They had prayed, some to the old gods, others to the king’s new Christ god, in the hope that the night devil would prove to be nothing more than a wild animal. A man could hunt an animal. Arrows would pierce a wolf or a bear’s flesh. But deep down they had all been expecting more screams in the night. More death stalking the shadows. Few of those in the hall had seen the remains of the people who had been slain by the beast, but the tales of the corpses, ripped and raw, bones smashed, limbs removed, had reached them all. This was not the work of any animal. This was something else.
Something evil.
At the head of the hall, the imposing figure of the king surged to his feet. Edwin, King of Deira and Bernicia, pointed to the end of the hall where the door wardens stood.
“Open the doors,” he said, his tone commanding.
The shorter of the two warriors who guarded the door hesitated. There was a murmur in the great hall. There were many present who did not wish to see the stout wooden doors opened to the night. For who knew what horrors dwelt there in the darkness?
“Lord?”
“You heard my words clearly,” Edwin said. “Open the doors.”
Another scream, closer now.
“I am king of the folk of these lands. I will not leave them outside in the dark while we feast in the fire-glow and warmth of my hall. Now, open the doors.”
“Wait, lord king,” Bassus’ rumbling voice stilled the door ward’s hand before he had lifted the bar. Edwin looked to his champion, arching an eyebrow at the interruption.
“You are right, of course,” said Bassus, “but let us arm ourselves first. We know nothing of what awaits us beyond the walls of Gefrin’s hall.”
Edwin nodded. The door wards quickly distributed the weapons that had been left in their care. A hall crammed with drunken warriors carrying swords and seaxes was not wise, hence the precaution, but now protection of the king and the hall was more important.
Octa retrieved his seax. The weapon had been a gift from his uncle Selwyn and the smooth antler handle was comforting. For an instant his mind was filled with memories of his home in Cantware. Edita and Rheda. His mother. Beobrand. Would he ever see them again? As usual when he thought of them, he felt a pang of regret, a twist of guilt at having abandoned them. But Bernicia was his home now. Edwin his king, and the men around him, his sword-brothers.
He readied himself with the rest of the men near the doors of the great hall of Gefrin. Women and children huddled at the far end of the room, with the priests and the queen.
The reek of fear-sweat filled the air as another wail came from just outside.
“Open the doors!” roared Edwin.
The door wardens lifted the bar and swung the doors open.
Cold night air cut into the hall’s muggy warmth like an icicle plunged into pliant flesh.
For a moment, nobody breathed. The hall was silent, all eyes staring into the utter blackness of the night.
Then, stepping out of the dark and into the frame of the doorway, came a vision from nightmare. Blood-slick and steaming, staggered a figure into the hall. The men stepped back, without thinking, wishing to be distanced from this ghoul. The women gasped. The dark-robed priest, Paulinus, raised the amulet he wore at his neck and recited words of magic in the secret tongue of the Christ followers.
The figure’s eyes were bright in the mask of gore he wore. His mouth opened. Yet no otherworldly screech issued forth, instead words tumbled, quick and desperate.
“Help me. Help me. The nihtgenga came. It killed them. Killed them all.” Babbling as it came, the figure stumbled.
This was no night-stalker. No creature of evil. This was a man.
Octa was the first to react. He leapt forward, catching the poor wretch before he could fall to the rush-strewn floor. He was as cold as the bones of the dead, sticky to the touch with the slaughter-dew that covered him. And he trembled like a child with a fever.
“Quick,” said Octa, his voice snapping the watching thegns into action, “a stool here, by the fire. This man is near to frozen. We need warm water too.” Octa’s tone demanded to be heeded, and yet there was a momentary pause. This young man from Cantware did not lead here. The people looked to their leader. King Edwin assented with his head and the hall burst once more into life.
Soon the man was seated beside the hearth. A thrall had brought a bowl of water and worked the worst of the cloying blood from the man’s features. In his hand he now held a cup of mead. The liquid spilt into his beard as he drank, such was his shaking. Drops of amber clung to the matted hair.
The doors had been closed and barred once more, but the hall was still quiet. They waited until he had drained the cup, but the atmosphere in the hall was as taut as a bowstring.
Edwin stepped forward, nodding to Octa as he passed. In his hands he held a bearskin. He made to drape the fur over the man, who still shook terribly. The man recoiled as if burnt, shying from the king.
“Easy now,” said Edwin, his voice soothing, as one who addresses a scared animal. “I am your king. I mean you no harm. This is the skin of a great bear that I killed years ago. It will warm you.” Edwin saw something in the man’s expression. Understanding dawned. “This bear is long dead. Killed by my own hand. It was a fell beast, but it can harm no-one now. It cannot hurt you.”
The man’s eyes focused and he reached out a hand, tentatively caressing the fur. Edwin gently draped the skin over the man’s shoulders and sat down facing him.
The king’s retinue, his comitatus, crowded closer, to better hear what was said. Edwin gave them a stern stare. They took a pace back.
A log cracked in the fire, shifting into the embers and sending sparks spiralling towards the smoke-stained rafters.
The man started at the noise. He was not the only one to do so.
“I have told you my name,” said Edwin, his voice still soft. “What is yours?”
The man looked lost for a moment. His eyes flicked around the watchers. The king waited patiently. At last the man spoke.
“I am Banstan, son of Banstan.”
“Well come to the great hall of Gefrin, Banstan. Now, tell me what happened to you.”
Banstan swallowed hard, looking down to his empty cup. The king took an earthenware pitcher from the table and poured more mead. Banstan took a long draught, then let out a shuddering sigh.
“It came upon us out of nowhere. Silent it was, until the killing started. We were bringing the sheep in, Breca and me.” Banstan’s face crumpled and tears began to fall. “Breca…” he said, in a hollow voice.
Something in Banstan’s anguish spoke to Edwin.
“Your son?” he asked.
Banstan nodded. He let out a sobbing cry, pulling the bearskin around him and rocking forward and back.
“What happened? What was it that came upon you?”
“It was a giant. It came fast on two legs, like a man, but this was no man. Before we knew it, it had ripped the head from one of the sheep, as easy as pulling an ear of barley from a stalk. Breca was faster than me, he’s a strong boy…” His words caught in his throat.
“Your son was brave, yes? What did he do?”
“Yes, brave and strong,” continued Banstan, his pride in his boy giving his voice strength. “He ran at the thing with his spear, but it did no harm to it.”
“No harm?”
“The blade was good iron, strong and sharp, but it bounced from the hide of the creature, as if its skin were made of stone. The nihtgenga laughed then.”
“It laughed?” The hall was still and the fire did nothing to warm those who listened to the gruesome tale.
“A horrible sound… like boulders rubbing together… It laughed as it…” Banstan’s words cracked. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks.
“What?” asked Edwin.
Paulinus stepped close to the king and spoke quietly in his unusual voice. He had come from over the sea, from a land far to the south where the Christ’s followers ruled.
“Lord, this man has seen terrible things. He must be allowed to rest now.”
Edwin gave Paulinus a withering look.
“This man will tell us all he has seen before he rests, Paulinus. Speaking the words will cause him no further harm, but I would know what has been attacking my people.”
The tall priest nodded and retreated. He did not yet have the full support of the king, but Edwin turned to him more and more frequently for counsel.
“Speak, man,” said Edwin, an edge of iron entering his voice, “tell us what happened, so that I may kill this beast.”
“Nobody can slay this creature,” said Banstan. His words were as empty as a winter forest. “It laughed as it ripped Breca’s gut-ropes from his stomach. It laughed as I ran at it. I turned and I looked into its face a moment before…”
“Before?”
Banstan took a deep breath. “It must have hit me, for the next thing I remember was waking to hear the crunch and slaver of the monster eating. It was feasting on my son’s body like a lord eating a roast boar. I was behind it then. I should have tried to kill it. To avenge my son. But, Woden help me, I knew I could not cut it, so I turned and fled into the night.”
There was silence in the hall. Octa felt for Banstan. He had not only lost his son, but now he was shamed before the king and his thegns.
Edwin spoke the words Octa was thinking.
“But if you had stayed to fight, Banstan, you would not have been able to tell your king of what you had seen. Breca’s death would have been in vain if you too had been slain.”
Banstan sat up slightly straighter on the stool.
“Are you quite sure if was not a bear?” asked Edwin.
“Aye. It was no bear.”
“And not a man.”
“Not a man, lord. This was no mortal thing. It is a nihtgenga, a night-stalker. A monster from the otherworld and nothing can slay it.”
Edwin placed a hand on Banstan’s shoulder for a moment, then stood abruptly.
“Well, we’ll have to see about that,” he said.