Under the dancing light of a brand, they dragged the other bodies into the pool. Cunedda dealt with Guertepir first. ‘It will hide the strangulation marks,’ he commented as he slid a blade across the dead king’s throat.
With no heartbeat to eject it, Guertepir’s blood seeped sluggishly from him, and moments later his corpse was surrounded by a swirling fog of crimson as his body turned and bobbed in the water.
Diarmait took his own blade to Almaith and dealt with her in the same way. Muirecán, he stabbed in the guts. When he had finished, he placed the blade in the druid’s stiffening grip. Perfect, he thought as he pushed Muirecán from him. You offered your people to the Gods then sacrificed yourself to them.
They climbed from the water and shrugged back into their tunics. ‘Come, let’s get out of here,’ said Cunedda as he grabbed the flaming brand from the wall. Pausing as he peered from the doorway, he added: ‘See you at first light. An interesting day awaits.’
The parties met under a clear dawn on middle ground between the ridge and the enemy line. Arthur stood with Ffodor, Gherwan, Flint, and the Anglii, Smala and Withred. Behind them, with bows primed and pointed to the ground, stood Dominic and his archers. Facing them, some fifteen paces away, stood Cunedda, Diarmait, Abloyc and Wigstan. Like Arthur, Cunedda had brought a company of archers with him to provide a measure of protection.
After a period of silence, Diarmait was the first to speak. He pointed up the hill to Arthur’s line of infantry. ‘Those men have no need to die here today,’ he said. He allowed the gravitas of his remark to sink in a moment before turning and pointing towards his own shieldwall some quarter mile distant. ‘And neither do they,’ he added.
An extraordinary expression had come to Arthur’s face, half scepticism, half surprise. ‘Where is your master,’ he asked, ignoring Diarmait’s words for now. ‘Why does Guertepir send his captain to speak for him?’
Diarmait’s group exchanged uncomfortable glances. ‘He’s dead,’ said Diarmait eventually, ‘… along with his wife and druid. He sacrificed himself to Sulis Minerva during the night. Thought he would be reborn a God, no doubt … he wasn’t … he’s still dead.’
There were expired breaths within Arthur’s gathering and an outbreak of hushed but frenzied conversation. Far from convinced, Arthur observed Diarmait through hooded lids. ‘You lie,’ he said. ‘This is a trick to fool us into complacency.’
Diarmait, who had expected such scepticism, signaled to a man who stood with a horse some fifty paces behind. The groom led the beast forward. Slumped over its back was a blanket covering a shape. When near enough for Arthur’s group to see, Diarmait walked to the horses and removed the blanket. Guertepir’s purple, bloated corpse was revealed.
Arthur stared at the aberration a moment then turned his attention to Diarmait. ‘Yes it’s him. The wicked bastard’s death should be celebrated, but this changes nothing. The rest of you still live and must pay for what you’ve done. Why are you even standing here, Diarmait? You said no one needs to die, but that decision was taken from you the moment you decided to kill my people and steal my city. What have you to say to that; captain of a dead king?’
‘That this day can still end by seeing us all walk away from here. We can pack away our tools of war and just go home.’
Arthur gave a sniff of exasperation, exchanging a look with Ffodor, who had watched and listened grim-faced to the opening exchanges. Arthur said: ‘That is not how these things work, you should know that. It’s too late to sue for peace now; retribution has to be exacted.’
Abloyc, who had remained silent up until then, burst out with: ‘And maybe it will be Britons who die in numbers if this goes ahead. The outcome is far from certain today.’
Arthur studied Abloyc. Arrogant in manner and insolent in tone, he did not like what he saw.
‘One thing is certain,’ said Arthur as he seared Abloyc with his cold-eyed appraisal. ‘I will seek you out personally and make you eat your words.’
Cunedda slapped his hand across Abloyc chest, restraining him as he made to step towards Arthur.
Arthur, singularly unimpressed, positively smirked at Abloyc.
Cunedda pushed the glowering Abloyc back a step. ‘Forgive my hot-headed friend,’ he said. ‘Never was one to think before he acted.’ He turned his attention to the matter at hand. ‘Diarmait is right, though … there is another way; if there wasn’t we wouldn’t have come to you. Instead, we would be locking shields by now.’
Ffodor, whose patience had drained as the parley progressed, stepped to the fore. His head bobbed like a feeding raptor as he challenged Cunedda. ‘Then spit it out man. If you have a solution to the impossible then spit it out, because I can assure you, you’re in for a fight here today—my men yearn to spill the blood of those who would take their lands. So what have you to say?’
‘This,’ responded Cunedda. ‘Sometimes these things can be decided by sole combatants rather than entire armies. Providing each side lay down their conditions and they are acceptable, then each of us can select a champion to fight for their terms.’
‘Terms!’ spat Arthur. ‘What happened to savage ambition—ambition to rule all the lands west of Norwic. I take it your aspirations have shrunken somewhat?’
‘No Arthur, they are the same,’ said Cunedda. ‘We Votadini never wanted anything more than security for our people. Our alliance with Guertepir was for that purpose. As for him’—he glanced at the dead king’s body—‘he wanted Aquae Sulis for his wife, but his desires came to a foolish end last night.’
Arthur shook his head, far from won over. Now he jabbed his finger at Wigstan, the Jute. ‘What about that dog and his like? How did you get him and his murderers to join you? What did you promise them?’
‘Lands to the west—your lands, I do not deny it,’ said Cunedda. ‘The two thousand they provided could have been the difference between defeat and victory for us.’ He shot a contemptuous look Wigstan’s way. ‘We were wrong, though. Many of them came thinking it would be an easy victory—more of a prolonged feast. As soon as their ale ran out and the ballista bolts started to fly they deserted in droves.’
‘So why do you stand here now?’ Arthur asked, turning his attention to Wigstan. ‘Why have you not followed your cowards eastwards?’
‘I am here because I’m the only one who hopes you do not accept a compromise. I am Jute and when I go home to Cantiaci, I desire my head to be held high, having done battle with you.
‘Oh, it will be held high, man. Held high for all to see on the end of my sword.’ Wigstan bristled at Arthur’s remark as a soft ripple of laughter came from Dominic’s archers who were within earshot. But the Jute, unlike Abloyc, had the wits to stay his hand.
‘So you wish your Jutes to regain their honour and fight this day, eh?’ pressed Arthur. When Wigstan gave a defiant nod Arthur turned his focus back to Cunedda. ‘See! One of your captains is still spoiling for a fight. What have you to say, chief of the Votadini?’
‘I say this—he will go by whatever is decided here. I have already spoken to him on the matter. He has no choice, he knows that.’
‘Name your terms and name your champion, then,’ said Ffodor, rather to everyone’s surprise. ‘I will reserve judgment until I’ve heard you out.’ He looked to Arthur and shrugged. ‘Might as well. What of you? What is your intent?’
‘Seems like I’m about to listen to his terms,’ said Arthur with irritable resolve. ‘I’ll let you know my intent when he’s finished speaking.’ To Cunedda, he said: ‘Speak out then. What are your conditions?’
‘Aquae Sulis—now we’re here, we may as well have the place—and the lands north—nothing more,’ replied Cunedda. ‘I will have Deva as before, but with the added protection of Diarmait’s forces along the western seaboard. Diarmait will take kingship of Dyfed, Guertepir’s lands, and he and I will form an alliance for our mutual protection. Wigstan will return to Cantiaci with a wagon full of British gold.’ He nodded persuasively to Arthur. �
��So, you see, even if you lose you come out of this pretty well.’
Arthur said nothing, but turned to Ffodor. ‘I would speak with you’—he pointed towards a patch of trampled scrub some two hundred paces distant—‘privately, over there.’ Ffodor assented and they bade their leave and left. Their conversation went on for a while, sometimes heatedly, sometimes conciliatory. After seemingly reaching an agreement, their parley closed calmly. They returned to the gathering.
Arthur got straight to the point as he addressed Cunedda. ‘We will go with what you say, but listen to this: if I win you hand me back my city and the men responsible for the deaths of the civilians and unarmed guards of Aquae Sulis.’ His smile was sardonic as he continued. ‘You see … I know what you did in there.’
He let the uneasy silence linger a while as Cunedda exchanged a barely perceptible nod with Diarmait. So far so good. Everything was going the way they had planned it to go.
Arthur went on. ‘Then you return to Deva … return to Dyfed, and swear to protect my northern territory from Saxon invasion. Indeed, a garrison of men from Travena and Brythonfort will billet in your towns and ride with your patrols. In turn, Brythonfort and Travena will accept a garrison of your troop and so an unbreakable bond will grow between us. Those are my terms Cunedda, my conditions Diarmait. But do not forget, I want the men responsible for cold murder. Refuse me that and total war is between us.’
Cunedda and Diarmait walked from earshot. Their conversation was short and decisive. When they returned, Cunedda spoke. ‘Accepted’ he said. ‘And maybe you can kill two birds with one sword.’ He moved to Abloyc and pushed him forward. ‘Here is our champion, now choose yours.’
Abloyc shrugged Cunedda’s hand from his shoulder. Having watched Withred, Flint and the famous Gherwan in battle he was not eager to fight any of them. ‘What … me? Surely Wigstan’s a better choice. I thought we had agreed before, that should Arthur—‘
’Two birds with one sword; what do you mean by that?’ Arthur’s tone was bitter ice. Cunedda’s seemingly throwaway remark had not been lost upon him.
Cunedda’s laugh was devoid of humour. ‘You miss nothing, I’ll give you that, Arthur … Him!’ he said in the way of explanation as he gestured towards Abloyc. ‘A killer of an infant child and slayer of the unarmed. Kill him and part of your conditions are met. I learned of his deeds when arriving at Aquae Sulis with Diarmait. And the act gave me no pleasure, believe me.’
All looked at Abloyc. Most despised him.
‘Let me do it,’ said Flint. All turned his way. He met Arthur’s gaze and continued with a quiet rage. ‘Let me be your champion my lord. Erec was my friend. His family were as my own.’
Arthur was silent a while, then said: ‘Very well, Flint. So be it. How can I refuse, I know what they meant to you.’
The rules of combat decreed that Abloyc and Flint should wield identical weaponry. Abloyc had put forward the use of ax and shield—it being his preferred combination. Flint had agreed, wishing only to get at the man and exact his revenge. Both wore bronze breast plates and simple nasal helmets.
Arthur accompanied Flint, whilst Cunedda escorted Abloyc. A ring of men surrounded them, allowing a large circle seventy paces in diameter to serve as a combat area.
Cunedda spoke first. ‘Let all here today hear my oath and hold me to it. I swear that I will ratify the terms of this contest should my man win; or accept the conditions of defeat, should he lose.’ He outstretched his arm, fist clenched, as he awaited Arthur’s response.
Arthur reciprocated the salute, and their fists touched as he repeated Cunedda’s oath, word for word.
They stood silent a moment.
‘Then let it begin,’ said Arthur.
‘Let it begin,’ repeated Cunedda.
Flint assessed Abloyc as the man shook the stiffness from his shoulders and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. With a movement of his head from side to side, Abloyc relaxed the sinews of his neck.
If unsure of an opponent’s capabilities, allow him the first strike. Erec’s words came to Flint as he watched his rival’s elaborate warm up display. Flint had adopted a motionless crouch, with ax and shield ready as he scrutinised Abloyc’s every movement. The eyes are the clue, Erec had said. They betray your opponent’s intention.
An eye flicker, then Abloyc was at Flint. Three rapid blows—one overarm, two sideways—were met by Flint’s shield as a roar erupted from the watching men. Flint’s parry hissed through cold air as Abloyc skillfully twisted sideways and avoided the swipe.
A flurry of assaults and counter assaults ensued, the clanging of iron upon bronze filling the circle of combat with its clamour. Shields soon became battered, axes dulled, as the contest raged on, brutal and unlovely. No spectacle was this for the admirer of subtle and skillful engagement; rather, the contest was a brutal display of raw belligerence.
A pause occurred as new, keen axes were thrown to the combatants. Between heavy breaths, Flint found words for Abloyc. ‘Killer of a child … do your deeds not keep you awake? … you dashed an infant’s head against … against a wall … how do you live with that?’
Abloyc picked up his fresh ax. There was a sneer in his smile as he replied: ‘Easily … I live with it easily … because I have killed many. The child becomes the man, and the man seeks you out for your deeds. Easier you pinch out the stem than chop down the tree.’
‘And you enjoy it, don’t you, bastard. I can sense your delight as you speak of it.’
Abloyc deigned not to reply; instead he repeated his stretching and bouncing display as he fixed Flint with an impassive stare.
Flint was back in his crouching stanch as he hefted his own new ax, testing its balance. His other arm throbbed from its battering behind the shield.
Again, Abloyc’s eyes forewarned of his forthcoming attack. Flint’s shield met the first blow, but this time he left a gap for Abloyc. His second strike was aimed at Flint’s exposed neck and Arthur’s man barely raised the shaft of his ax in time to parry the swipe. Deflected upon his breastplate the ax head sparked, then scraped downwards. Flint staggered, aware that death had kissed him briefly. He took three stumbling steps backwards. Seeking to press his advantage, Abloyc came at him again. Still off-balance, Flint could only defend against the overhead hack which fell upon him. The ax slid down his shield and severed one of the shoulder straps securing his breast plate.
Abloyc’s momentum had taken him shield to shield with Flint. As they pushed apart, Flint’s breastplate, secured by its remaining strap, swung away from him. He flung the sheet of bronze away and pressed forward towards Abloyc.
Two of Flint’s ax blows fell into the Votadini shield; then two more. Abloyc stumbled and barely managed to fend off Flint’s combination. As Abloyc spun away in a bent-kneed stoop, he sent an opportunistic backhanded slash at Flint. The attempt was clumsy, but the back face of the ax found Flint’s ribcage. With no breastplate to protect them, his ribs crumpled.
Bile leapt to his throat, an agonised ‘heahh!’ coming from him such was his pain. He staggered away from the next attack as his man rushed him again, but his heel caught against his abandoned breastplate and he went down. When his arm came from his shield loop, Abloyc was quickly onto it and kicked the plate out of reach. Flint rolled and turf and soil erupted beside him as Abloyc’s ax bit the ground.
Flint’s avoidance had taken him near to the breastplate. He grabbed it and held it above him as a shield. Sparks again flew as Flint repelled Abloyc’s swinging hack at his forehead.
Abloyc sensed victory and grinned. Now he could finish Arthur’s man, who had nothing but a fragmented piece of armour and no weapon to wield. It would be easy to end this now. Again, he hacked downwards, Flint barely managing to meet the attack with the breastplate again.
Flint rolled again, this time towards Abloyc—so near he could smell the leather of the Votadini’s boots. He heard his nemesis swiftly inhale above him. The man was about to strike his final blow. Galvanised,
Flint rammed the edge of the breastplate into exposed shinbone, the strike cleanly fracturing the leg. Howling, Abloyc hopped away from him.
Most of Flint’s energy was gone as he struggled to his feet. Abloyc, frantic to keep upright, spun on his good leg. When his balance left him, he fell forward before Flint. Grimacing, he attempted to gain his knees, but his jarring bones caused him to scream. He was defeated. He could not stand.
The circle of men had closed around them; and only now did Flint absorb the wild cries which had sounded unabated throughout the duel. He stood above Abloyc, panting but resolute.
With no need to rush, such was the level of Abloyc’s debilitation and his own fatigue, Flint strolled to retrieve his discarded ax. Looking to Arthur and Gherwan he gasped: ‘This … is for our friend … and the baby who would … who would have become him.’
He kicked Abloyc’s helmet out of reach. The Votadini twisted his head, his eyes glittering with hate as he spat out his final curse. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Finish me you Dumnonii shit!’
Flint looked to Arthur again, and then to Cunedda. To his surprise, the Votadini chief looked untroubled by the outcome. He gave Flint a brief nod. ‘Finish him. Do it now,’ he said.
Flint obliged, and two hacks with his blunted ax removed Abloyc’s head. With disdain, he kicked the head to one side and pushed through the cheering crowd, their praise and adoration unwanted.
Raedwald lay, locked-breathed, under the shrub as Nila approached. So near was she, he heard her sweet singing voice as she stooped to take water from the stream. He decided she would have to do for now—the other hag could wait until she strayed from the protection of the dog. Knowing he had only seconds to act, he crept from cover and approached Nila.
Away from them and unaware, Modlen took Titon’s jowls in her palms and gave them a spirited shake. The dog, ever glad of human attention, gave out low yelps of pleasure and playful growls.
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 83