Withred hesitated a moment. By his reckoning, Dominic could not be far behind Fróech’s group and that meant trouble. Should he fight or should he hide? Realising the probable conclusion of the former option, he heeded Guairá’s advice and ran over to the warehouse.
Guairá quickly took charge. ‘Get down to your boat and busy yourself,’ he said to Druce. ‘You need to keep out of the way. They’ll know your boat is British—her Latin name gives it away. You won’t see Latin displayed on any boat from these shores.’
‘What will you tell them?’
‘The Gods know,’ said Guairá. ‘I’ve not had time to think. Just get yourself down to your boat.’
Druce swung onto the hemp ladder and clambered down its fifteen frayed rungs.
Fróech and his entourage soon reached the docks. Guairá was a long-term acquaintance of his clan, and Fróech approached him as a friend. He clasped the dock master’s hand. ‘Guairá, you old bull, it’s good to see that you still breathe.’.
Guairá affected a delighted laugh. ‘And you, Fróech,’ he reciprocated. ‘At my age, I’m grateful each morning when the situation is so.’
Fróech smiled, then looked around him, now eager to get on with the purpose of his visit. Frowning, he walked to the edge of the wharf. He returned to Guairá. ‘I’m here to make sure that three Britons who carry my father’s gold have sailed, as they said they would, back to Britannia.’
Guairá, who had rapidly cobbled his story together as Fróech had walked to the wharf, did not hesitate. ‘And so they have; they left just after midday.’
Guairá hoped the Britons, when they arrived, would see Fróech’s party as they crested the hill above the docks … and that could be any time now from what Withred had said. If they had any sense, they would wait and hide until Fróech left. After that, they would be free to sail away.
But Fróech’s expression edged on the side of skepticism. ‘You’re sure they were the people I seek?’ He pointed behind him towards the wharf. ‘A British boat lies moored below. What is its purpose?’
‘It brought grain this morning—grain bound for the south. It arrived just as the Britons—three useful looking men—left with their pilot.’
Fróech nodded, lips pursed, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He looked up the hill, possibly anticipating his pending departure.
Guairá dared hope he had fooled Fróech.
Yet Fróech was becoming uneasy as he further dwelled upon Guairá’s statement. How could they have made it to the docks so quickly if they had diverted to the monastery, as his scout had suggested? Moreover, it was just too neat a story from Guairá. What about the British boat now docked? The boat might well belong to the Britons who carried his father’s gold.
‘The man in the boat … I would speak with him,’ said Fróech, determined to examine the matter further.
Taken aback by Fróech’s sudden demand, Guairá, nonetheless, readily called for Druce, knowing it would arouse Fróech’s distrust if he wavered.
He shouted down to Druce, who sat as if busy unraveling a twist of rope. ‘Druce, fellow! My friend, the cattle lord would speak with you!’ He turned, smiled, then winked knowingly at Fróech. He shouted back down to Druce. ‘Maybe you’ll get a job from him … fetch his father some grain from the warehouses in Gaul.’
Fróech’s looked to his man, Cillian, who stood beside him. Its nuance suggested, Did you hear that? He’s just told him what to say.Understanding, Cillian nodded.
Druce was soon up the ladder, standing uneasily before Fróech. The cattle lord asked him about his journey, and Druce, much to Guairá’s relief, concocted a story of his voyage from Gaul with a hull crammed with grain.
‘Small boat for grain?’ observed Fróech.
‘The price for grain is high so late in the year,’ said Druce. ‘A larger shipment would cost far more than my buyer could afford.’
Guairá tensed as Fróech asked Druce: ‘And your buyer is …?’
Fróech had turned at Guairá as he asked Druce the question; his expression conveying: Let the man answer this for himself.
‘A man in the west, named Renan,’ invented Druce. ‘A settler … new to the island.’
Fróech was not fully convinced. Guairá had said the grain headed south. The trader said it had gone westwards. Maybe an understandable mistake, but he needed to be sure the man was telling the truth. He would take him back to his father. If he was with the Britons, he was undoubtedly their sailor. Without him, they were going nowhere. If they had already left, then so be it, but—little matter— he would task Cillian to hole the boat just in case they had not.
‘It would please me if you would come with me to speak with my father about trade with Gaul,’ said Fróech to Druce. ‘It will be worth your while, believe me.’
Druce looked uneasily to Guairá. The dock master shrugged as if to say, There’s no way out of this … you must go for now.
Fróech clicked his fingers and Cillian brought a pony over to Druce. Smiling, Fróech invited Druce to mount.
After avoiding Colman’s party, Dominic’s group soon came to the dock road. Upon reaching it, Dominic dismounted and examined the ground looking for clues. Flint crouched beside him. Dominic was thoughtful as he rubbed the trail dirt through his fingers and looked down the track.
‘Problems?’ asked Flint.
‘Mmm,’ murmured Dominic, frowning now as he considered their predicament. After a moment, he came out of himself and looked to Flint. ‘Five riders recently split from Colman’s group. They went down towards the docks.’
‘Probably his brother, Fróech,’ said Flint. ‘I hope Withred has the wits to hide.’
‘No need to worry about Withred. Our problem now is how to deal with this?’
‘We’ll do what Withred no doubt decided to do: hide until they’ve gone.’
‘And hope Colman doesn’t turn up to complicate things further,’ Dominic added.
Flint looked at the children who watched and waited from the elevation of their mounts. Elowen and Mule shared the same pony now. Maewyn sat on the pony he had shared with Flint. Dominic told them of the developments at the docks. Mindful of the importance of lying low if they sighted the Hibernians, the group now continued down the track.
They encountered no one, and Dominic was the first to reach the rise overlooking the wharfs. Below, he saw Fróech and his men. He dismounted and led his pony back out of sight of the men below.
A stockyard full of steers abutted the track. Dominic tied his mount to the rough fence beside the holding pen. He flinched when a steer crashed against the timber. The commotion increased as the beasts within jostled for position. Trying to ignore the noise, Dominic looked down to the docks again. His concern leapt when he saw Fróech talking to Druce.
He halted Flint and the children, then updated them on the developments below.
‘Can we take them?’ asked Flint, unable now to see any other way around the problem.
‘Four of them; three of us with Withred … maybe. We‘ve had worse odds.’ After a moment of pondering he sighed and nodded towards the children. ‘But they make things tricky to say the least. However this plays out, they must be protected.’
Flint agreed, and was about to suggest they wait and watch a while, when one of the steers again hefted its bulk against the nearby fence. The ponies were spooked. Dominic grabbed the reins of the nearest two as they made to rear. Flint attempted to do the same with Mule and Elowen’s steed, but the animal bolted and eluded his grasp. He could only watch as the pony—with Mule and Elowen sat bestride it—ran down towards the docks.
Withred looked through the dusty, slatted wall of the warehouse. Frustrated and feeling impotent, he had watched as all the developments on the docks had unfolded before him. Earlier, his instinct had almost driven him to intervene and engage the men who had pressed Druce to mount the pony.
Having managed to control his urge to act, his plan was to stay hidden and follow the Hibernians when they left with Dr
uce. Somehow, he would get him away from them. He had no choice; the man was their mariner.
He tensed when he saw an astonished Fróech suddenly look up towards the dock road and order three of his men up the track. One of his men remained and stood with him beside the wharf.
Withred’s plans changed again when the pony carrying Mule and Elowen appeared heading towards the wharf. The pony—eyes rolling in panic—managed to come to an abrupt halt before reaching the drop into the water. Mule and Elowen fell heavily to ground. The pony, head tossing and tail swishing, clattered away along the wooden wharf.
Fróech quickly grabbed Elowen, who had rolled forward towardshim. Mule lay motionless, apparently stunned.
‘Guairá, you lying bastard, I’ll have you flayed,’ muttered Fróech, looking around for the dock master. Holding Elowen tight, he looked up the hill as his men ran to meet Dominic and Flint. He looked towards Cillian. ‘Get down the ladder and hole their boat!’ he shouted, as it dawned on him he could use the girl to his advantage.
Withred suddenly burst from the warehouse.
Fróech’s eyes shot wide, but his gaze never left Withred.
He shouted to his man. ‘See how big the warehouse rats grow, Cill. One has escaped to have its shit-eating life ended.’
Cillian stayed put by the wharfside as he watched Withred moved carefully towards Fróech.
‘At least I don’t hide behind the skirts of a girl,’ shouted Withred. He gave Elowen a reassuring look, Don’t worry, I can get you out of this, as she trembled in Froech’s grasp.
He continued to chide Fróech. Laughing at him now, he shouted, ‘If I’d known the best that Hibernia can offer uses a child as a shield, then I wouldn’t have endangered myself raiding the worthy men of Britannia for all those years. Instead, I would have come to Hibernia to fight its cowards.’
Cillian, eager to boost his standing with Fróech, drew his sword. ‘I’ll finish the upstart for you, my lord. His clever tongue will soon feed the fishes.’
Withred looked at Cillian. Obviously high ranking, the man, like Fróech, wore a full-length hauberk, probably imported from Britannia. Good protection against the slash of the sword but not the stab, thought Withred, who was singularly unimpressed by the man.
Withred readied himself for combat whilst Cillian’s eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. He had noticed the skillful and confident way Withred wielded his broadsword—the weapon swaying in his practiced grip. But his anticipation of a tough fight proved unfounded.
Fróech—stung by Withred’s words—shoved Elowen towards him. ‘Hold fast Cillian, I’ve changed my mind. Just keep hold of the girl.’ Fróech drew his sword and eyed Withred.
Cillian lifted his knife to Elowen’s neck and looked to Druce who sat mounted and unsure of what to do, nearby. ‘Don’t you even think about helping him,’ said Cillian to Druce.
As Withred and Fróech came together, Dominic shot his first arrow towards the group of three who rushed up the hill to engage them.
The arrow found its mark, hitting the leader in the hollow of his throat. The man fell, but the two remaining Hibernians were quickly upon Dominic and Flint before any more arrows could fly.
The ensuing melee saw Hibernian axes pitted against British swords. Amidst much grunting and clanging, Dominic and Flint weathered a brutal torrent of frenzied ax swings. Although wild and enraged, the Hibernians were accomplished combatants.
Flint had spent many hours in Brythonfort academy under the tutorage of Erec—a hardened warrior and weapons instructor. Trained relentlessly to defend and counter-attack against every type of weapon including the ax, Flint fought now upon raw instinct.
Erec’s words came to him—‘allow an aggressive assailant to tire himself, then strike when his muscles scream for mercy,’—just as his challenger paused after delivering a combination of relentless ax swings. Flint had deftly avoided all of them.
The Hibernian’s arms, now leaden, dropped a mere moment, but it was enough for Flint. A powerful and swift horizontal swipe cut cleanly through the flesh of the man’s ax arm, leaving the limb articulated and useless. Quickly, he strode close and thrust his sword through his opponent’s chest, finishing him.
As his man dropped, Flint’s side vision caught the other Hibernian fighting with Dominic. Without pause, he spun and delivered a powerful sideways slash to him. Cold steel cut through clothing and back bone. Paralysed, Fróech’s man dropped to the ground. Dominic fell to one knee beside him. Quickly, he slicked his knife across Hibernian throat flesh.
He pushed himself up off the dead man and stood up. ‘Tough bastard, that,’ he panted to Flint. ‘Lucky you were here.’
But Flint was preoccupied as he signaled to Maewyn, who sat bestride his mount further up the hill, to hold his position. The boy had seen what had happened on the wharf side and was itching to ride down to Elowen and Mule.
Dominic, also aware of Maewyn’s unease, shouted up to him. ‘Stay exactly where you are, lad! We’ll deal with this!’
As Maewyn reluctantly nodded his compliance, they turned to witness the conclusion of the fight between Withred and Fróech.
What they saw caused Flint to bellow. ‘NO!’ He set off to run down the hill. Aghast, Dominic followed him.
Earlier, Withred had watched Fróech closely as he shuffled towards him. Crouched and wielding a broadsword similar to his own, Fróech jabbed and feinted, looking for an opening in Withred’s defense.
Unblinking and intense, Withred bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to let Fróech show his hand first. He would assess the man’s fighting ability by defending his first strikes.
A sharp intake of Froech’s breath gave notice of his opening move against Withred. The subtle hint readied Withred, who was surprised at the speed with which Fróech delivered his first attack—an overhead swipe, delivered rapidly and skillfully towards his exposed neck. He barely parried the hack, its force knocking him backwards. Fróech followed it with a backhanded slash aimed at his midriff.
The double maneuver was standard fare. Withred—who was almost balletic, such was the grace of his movement—deftly swept his sword upright, elbows uppermost, to meet a blow he fully expected.
Fróech repeated the two strikes (neck then midriff) and again Withred met steel with steel.
Withred knew a sword-slash would not breach Cillian’s knee length hauberk. However, such a blow would knock the stuffing out of him. A momentary opening was all he needed. He landed a heavy sword strike past Froech’s defenses and into his ribs.
Fróech exhaled a huge ‘whoeff’ as the blade crunched into him—his chainmail managing to halt the blade. Staggering backwards with several ribs now broken, Fróech fought the desire to scream his agony at Withred.
Withred’s eyes widened with surprise when Fróech, ignoring his pain, came at him again. Processing his thoughts rapidly, Withred decided to take a risk. Quickly, he dropped his broadsword and removed a short slender stabbing sword from his belt, just as Fróech, who seemed to have limitless reserves of stamina, swung another powerful swipe at his neck.
Withred fell to his right knee as deadly steel whistled above him. Seeing an opening, he lunged forward with the seax. With his full weight behind the weapon, it pierced Fróech’s hauberk a hands width above his navel. The tip razored through chainmail and continued through the Hibernian’s midriff, its progress halted only when the sword’s cross guard hit Fróech’s abdomen. The blade emerged slick and bloody behind Fróech.
Fróech’s mouth dropped open as he looked down at the handle of the seax sticking from him. Never had he fought anyone like the man before him. Phantom-like, the man had avoided or blocked his best moves, then in the blink of an eye, run him through with a subtle combination of grace and power.
Standing back as Fróech dropped his sword and fell to his knees before him, Withred retrieved his discarded broadsword. Now he looked at Cillian, who stood mortified after seeing the defeat of his lord—a man h
e deemed immortal. Cillian backed towards the wharf, still holding Elowen.
Withred kicked Fróech’s broadsword over to him. ‘Let her go and defend your master or I will remove his head here and now,’ he said.
Cillian hesitated a moment, knowing as sure as night followed day and day followed night, that he would die if he took on the man before him. The alternative was to plead for his life like a coward and that was worse than death. After a moments further hesitation he chose to fight. He let go of the girl.
Mule dreamt that Maewyn clashed two pans above his head to wake him as he slept in his warm bed back at the monastery. He opened his eyes in a series of blinks as his blurry vision cleared. He discovered the clashing was not pans but swords, then winced as he felt the bump on his head and realised what had happened.
Not far from him, two men fought—neither of whom he recognized. He watched the fight with fascination, his eyes widening as one of the men fell to his knees and quickly and skillfully thrust his sword through his challenger’s belly. Standing a distance away, holding a knife to Elowen’s throat, stood another man. As Mule watched, the man released Elowen and started to shout to the kneeling man. Mule was up at once.
He knew the man could yet harm Elowen, and acted without further thought. He rushed the man and hit him full on. He grasped him as they fell a full second through the air before hitting the cold brown water of the docks.
Cillian gasped and grabbed on to Mule as the weight of his hauberk dragged them downwards. The Hibernian’s lungs filled with water as he spiraled—still clamping Mule—down to the seabed fifteen feet below. Then the last of Cillian’s air emerged in a procession of gurgling bubbles as he lay on top of Mule on the rocky floor of the harbor.
Mule, kept his mouth clamped shut in an effort to keep the water out (and his breath in) as he tried to heave Cillian’s dead weight from him. A muffled splash had him look to the surface. Another man had entered the water.
After his fight on the road, Flint had watched as Mule had run at the man on the quayside. His only thought when he saw his brother tumble out of sight was to save him. Knowing Mule couldn’t swim, he sprinted down the road and crossed the plank decking of the dockside.
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 46