The Pendragon's Blade (The Last Pendragon Saga Book 2)

by Sarah Woodbury

  Dafydd wasn’t as skilled as Rhiann, but his bow was more powerful and when his arrows hit, the men he shot were thrown backwards off their feet. Taliesin took it upon himself to keep their quivers full, and together they kept going mindlessly, trying not to think about the men they were killing. Trying not to think at all. Press, loose. Press, loose.

  Dafydd tipped his bow towards the sky and loosed the arrow. It arched over the boulder to land on the other side. A telltale shriek came up from a man they couldn’t see.

  “Keep doing that.” Rhiann pressed another arrow into the bow. “I’ll take care of the ones that get through the gap.”

  Whether under the watchful eye of the garrison captain in the fields outside Aberffraw, or in the early morning hours when she was able to steal away alone, she’d made shooting a game. She’d imagined herself standing alone on a castle rampart, mowing down her enemies. It had been a fantasy, however, and one she was ashamed now to have even dreamt. Cade worried that killing took away the last bit of humanity he still possessed. Standing with Dafydd on the boulder, Rhiann knew exactly how he felt.

  Taliesin murmured under his breath beside her. He was counting, and she realized that it wasn’t the dead he was calculating, but the number of arrows they had left. When she’d been alone, she’d automatically kept a silent count because she had only twenty arrows in her quiver and she was afraid to take the time to pull any more from the bundles at her feet. It was a hundred paces to the rock, but a man could cover that distance before she could reach down, grab a handful and throw them into her quiver.

  Once Taliesin came, however, Rhiann had lost track of the number of arrows she’d loosed. “How many arrows do we have left?” she said.

  “Twelve.” Taliesin placed a last few in Rhiann’s quiver and the rest in Dafydd’s and sat back on his heels. The tension rolled off him in waves. He had a staff and Dafydd a blade, but how long could they hold them off if the Saxons kept coming?

  And then suddenly, they ceased to come. Rhiann couldn’t see anything beyond the boulder because the trail curved just after it, but she could hear cursing and the clash of weapons. The noise continued, growing louder as it seemed whoever was doing the fighting was getting closer, pressing the remaining Saxons along the trail. She listened, standing ready. Eventually, even that noise died down.

  The pause lengthened. “Is it over?” Dafydd said.

  “No,” Taliesin said. “I sense a malevolent force close by.”

  Suddenly, the demon who’d nearly made it to the boulder threw himself to his feet. He’d snapped the arrow that Rhiann had sent through his throat in half and pulled at each end until he was free of it. Rhiann stared at him in terror, too stunned to move or think. Once upright, he yanked at the arrow in his stomach. With the same awful smile, he gathered himself. “I thought I’d kill you before the sun gets any higher,” he said, in Welsh this time, so they’d understand.

  He tensed and then leapt towards Rhiann, so incredibly strong and quick to have been able to project himself at her with such force, wounded as he was. Her eyes went wide as he flew at her. Too stunned to defend herself, Rhiann remained frozen, her feet immobile on the rock. Just in time, moving nearly as fast as the demon, Dafydd stepped in front of Rhiann, an arrow in his fist. The monster barreled into him, knocking both Dafydd and Rhiann backwards. Rhiann fell hard on her rear and clonked the back of her head on the rock.

  Dafydd landed across her legs, preventing her from tumbling off the rock, but at the same time, so heavy she couldn’t escape from underneath him. In turn, the demon lay fully on top of Dafydd, his teeth bared and aimed at Dafydd’s throat. Dafydd’s arrow had gone into his chest, however, and the demon was dead. Taliesin shoved at the creature with both hands. With a mighty heave and some help from Dafydd, he rolled him off the rock. Taliesin then grabbed Dafydd’s hand and pulled him to a sitting position. Dafydd hung his head, breathing hard.

  “Are you all right?” His eyes full of concern, Dafydd turned to look at Rhiann.

  “I think so.” She too sat up and gently touched the back of her head where it hurt. Her fingers came away bloody and she stared at them, hardly knowing what to make of what had happened and what they had endured. She swiped her fingers across her thigh, anxious to be rid of the blood. Dafydd then took her hand in his and carefully helped her to her feet. Rhiann staggered.

  Taliesin grasped her shoulder to keep her upright. “Careful, Rhiann.”

  Rhiann checked her head again. The blood matted her hair, but no longer bled freely.

  “Dafydd!”

  The call came from beyond the bolder and Rhiann held her breath, hardly able to believe that rescue had come.

  “We’re here!” Dafydd said.

  Geraint poked his head through the gap between the boulders, his bloody sword still in his hand. He’d lost his shield and his cloak had a large tear in the hem. Geraint stepped towards them, followed by a dozen other men, each carrying a pike or an axe. Blood stained their weapons. Several men limped painfully, or wore a cloth wrapped around a wounded limb.

  As they came through the gap one by one, each stopped, startled, and stared at the bodies of the fallen Saxons. Rhiann looked with them, acknowledging what Dafydd and she had done. The dead lay in every possible position. Piles of them covered the ground, draped on the rocks, on the trail, and under the trees on either side.

  She looked away and was glad to see Rhun and Goronwy push through the gap behind the other men. Rhun had a spray of blood across his face and helmet. Goronwy’s surcoat was coated in mud, obscuring Cade’s red dragon. His own eagle badge, which he carried on his shield, had been split down the middle.

  “By all that is holy, I’ve never seen the like.” Rhun met Rhiann’s eyes—and fixing them with his, gave her a quick nod of his head.

  Rhiann would have smiled if smiling were possible. She took a step forward, thinking to climb down from the rock, when Dafydd shouted, pointing to the hill to the left of the trail. “Goronwy! Behind you!”

  A giant of a demon had scaled the hill so that he might go around the boulder, and now came down their side at speed. A studded leather collar adorned his neck and he carried an enormous axe. If he was the creature that had forced the Saxons up the trail, then they’d had every right to be afraid. It seemed impossible that he could be there at all, but he was, and he launched himself at Goronwy. Rhiann saw him jump with a clarity of thought and purpose that suspended him in the air for a moment, his axe above his head.

  In that space, she moved. She pressed an arrow into her bow and loosed it at the demon. It took him in the gut. Time sped up again as he bent forward in reaction to the shot, and collapsed, falling forward just as Goronwy brought his sword from low to high in an upper cut that sliced the creature in half.

  With this new death, Rhiann’s mind went numb. Men shouted orders to other men, but she couldn’t marshal any feeling about what they said. It came to her that she would never feel anything again, and if a bird were to sing or a cricket chirp, the person who heard those things would be someone else entirely. Her shoulders sagged. Sensing her distress, Taliesin took her arm.

  “Let’s not stay here,” he said.

  Dafydd responded by jumping off the boulder. He reached up and lifted Rhiann down, enveloping her in a hug as he did so. Her arms hung limply at her sides, however, and she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. With a pat on her shoulder, Dafydd set Rhiann on her feet and ran forward to embrace Goronwy.

  “Young pup!” Goronwy slapped him on the back.

  “You came just in time,” Dafydd said. “We were running out of arrows.”

  “We fought the Saxons at the river, and then all along the trail,” Geraint said. “I feared in my heart that you were dead. And now that I see you, it doesn’t seem possible that you could have survived.”

  Rhun spoke briefly with some of the men-at-arms who’d accompanied Geraint. At his command, they dispersed, some to head back toward the Rhiw, while others walked past Taliesin
and Rhiann to scout further up the trail. Rhun and Geraint then skirted Goronwy and Dafydd who were still talking and walked to where Taliesin and Rhiann stood. Rhiann stared past them, not seeing anything, not even the dead bodies on the ground.

  “How many dead Saxons are there?” Rhun said, his voice husky.

  “Dozens,” Taliesin said. “I stopped counting after a while.”

  “Killing this one clearly took some doing.” Geraint nudged the body that had fallen from the rock with the toe of his boot.

  “That’s a demon,” Taliesin said, his tone flat.

  Geraint made a face and stepped away. “Why didn’t the Saxons give up?” He studied Rhiann who looked down at her feet. “Surely they could count as well as you.”

  “They were more afraid of the demons behind them than of the arrows in front,” Taliesin said. “It seems they might have been regretting the bargain they made with the Underworld, whatever that bargain was.”

  “Well they’re with Arawn now,” Rhun said. “It is he who enlisted them, and he who will now have to take them in. The tables in his hall will be full today.”

  “The Saxons were drunk too.” Goronwy came forward with Dafydd at his side. “Too much alcohol and courage after their easy victories of yesterday.”

  Dafydd’s eyes were bright as he spoke. “I can’t believe Rhiann and I held out!”

  Rhiann shook her head before meeting Rhun’s gaze again. “There’s nothing there. Inside. Nothing at all.”

  Rhun put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t think of it now. You have fought long and hard and you ask too much of yourself.”

  “So many are dead,” Rhiann said.

  “And so you would have been, along with all the villagers who travelled along the path behind you if you had not been here to defend them,” Rhun said.

  “You did what needed to be done,” Taliesin said. “And I, for one, am grateful.”

  “Where are the villagers?” Geraint said.

  “I took them up the trail that climbs the face of the mountain,” Taliesin said. “They were to make their way to the village by an alternate route.”

  “I’ll send a man-at-arms to let them know the Saxons are defeated,” Geraint said. “Some, at least, may want to return to their homes.”

  “I’ll get the horses,” Dafydd said. “I left them in the woods off the trail just along there.” He made a motion with his hand to indicate where.

  “I’ll come with you,” Goronwy said. The rest of the companions stood silent, not quite sure what to do next.

  “Cade,” Rhiann said, and then stopped. She couldn’t think of what to ask, but Rhun didn’t need her to say anything more.

  “He is well,” Rhun said. “He sent us to find you.”

  Rhun reached for the arrow that Rhiann still clenched in her right fist. He tugged at it, and when she wouldn’t release it to him, gently pried her fingers apart. “It’s all right, Rhiann. You don’t need this anymore.”

  She nodded and he handed the arrow to Geraint. Rhun then grasped Rhiann’s right hand and gently tugged the tabs from her fingers. She rubbed the fingertips together. They were so sore they hurt to touch. She’d never shot so many arrows in one day before—or maybe she had, but not so quickly and under such pressure.

  “It’s because of Cade that we knew the Saxons had come a different way,” Geraint said. “Without him, we’d still be standing on the hill above the Roman road.”

  “Come,” Rhun said. “We must return to Llanllugan. There are many wounded and even more dead. You need rest and food.”

  Rhiann nodded, too exhausted to think or wonder if she should argue with him, and allowed him to lead her away. She stepped awkwardly over the dead bodies of the Saxons, and her stomach revolted as they squeezed through the narrow gap between the boulders that had saved them from the Saxon advance. Once on the other side, she couldn’t hold herself together any longer. She bent forward, staggering off the trail and vomiting in the grass while Rhun wrapped an arm around her waist and held her.

  “You’ve done well, Rhiann.” He rubbed her shoulder. “Far better than many a seasoned warrior.”

  Geraint handed her a cloth to wipe her mouth.

  “I’m all right.” Rhiann straightened and felt oddly comforted to see the ebullience had faded from Dafydd too, who stood resting his head on his horse’s neck. Tears poured down his cheeks, though he wasn’t making any sound. Goronwy stood by, patting his back awkwardly.

  It was all Rhiann could to do to remain upright rather than crawling back to the Rhiw River. She thought that death couldn’t shake her anymore after what she’d experienced already, but when they came out on the Roman road, the sight that met them was, if possible, even more horrifying than the carnage at the boulder. Countless men lay on the blood-soaked ground, on the banks of the river and in it, and all along the Roman road.

  Rhiann stopped, stunned at the sight. Instead of feeling nausea, she found herself growing angry at the waste of it. “You’ve seen this before,” she said to Rhun, knowing that her tone was accusing and undeserved.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Rhiann shook her head. Rhun still held her arm and now looked into her eyes, clearly concerned. She pushed him away. “Go do what you have to. I’ll be fine with Taliesin.”

  “Rhiann—” Rhun began.

  “Don’t make me angrier than I already am,” she said.

  Rhun walked away, glancing back once more to make sure that Rhiann had meant what she’d said. As Rhiann watched him head towards a tent that someone had set up to shelter the wounded, Taliesin, who was still beside her, began to recite the death song to Cadwallon. It was one Rhiann had heard many times before:

  “I broke a hundred forts.

  I slew a hundred lords.

  I knighted a hundred men-at-arms.

  I severed a hundred heads.

  And yet, if not for my son, no one would remember me.

  Mine is but a ninth share of the valor that will be his.”

  “I’ve heard that song a hundred times,” Rhiann said. “Every time the bard sang it in our hall, my father cringed. He bore it because to deny the people the right to hear it would upset them.”

  “Or, rather, to stop the singing of it would call attention to the fact that he killed Cadwallon,” Taliesin said.

  “I didn’t know that then,” Rhiann said. “At the time, I liked to hear it purely because it disturbed my father. Hearing you sing it now, I finally understand what it means. I know why the warriors always wanted to hear it.” Although she’d known of the prophecies of Taliesin and what they foretold of Cadwaladr—and of Wales if Cade didn’t arise—she’d been lost in her own small world. She hadn’t realized the full implications of that prophecy. When she’d saved Cade from Cadfael, she’d saved herself, as Alcfrith had said. What she also might have done was save her country.

  “I find myself agreeing with you,” Taliesin said.

  “Bards will sing of this battle because Cade fought in it,” Rhiann said. “Won’t they?”

  “Yes,” Taliesin said. “He fought. We won. That’s all that anyone will remember.”

  “Where do the prophecies end and his life begin?” Rhiann said. “These last few days have turned all the world on end.”

  “And it’s only the beginning of the legacy Cadwaladr will leave,” Taliesin said.

  At his words, Rhiann looked around, suddenly puzzled. “Speaking of Cade. Taliesin, where is he?”

  Chapter Four

  Cade

  “Who is he?” The whispered voices from the men around me echo in my ears as I sit hunched on a log next to a fire. Beside me sits Rhun, gnawing on a hunk of mutton.

  “They’re talking about you,” Rhun says.

  “Let them talk,” I say. “They saw me fight.”

  “You won the battle nearly single-handed,” Rhun says. “I barely had to lift a sword.”

  “I’m learning how to be,” I say. “How to live again.”

  “That you ar
e,” Rhun agrees. “That you are.”

  Cade suppressed a moan. Of all the ironies of his affliction, one of the greatest was that he might not feel heat or cold; he might not breathe or have a heart that beat; he might be dead, but inexplicably, he still had a sense of touch and still felt pain. It was pain that Cade felt as the dream-that-was-not-a-dream faded and his surroundings came into focus. He shifted uncomfortably and his head lolled on the hard slats at his back. He was a prisoner.

  Idiot! He cursed under his breath, acknowledging that the winter rains had made him complacent and lulled him into forgetting the basic principles of his life. He’d been hunting Saxons in the woods and then walked along the road away from the Rhiw, looking for Cadfan. The day had turned bright within the hour, with the mists of the early morning burning off and leaving the sun brighter than any time since he and Rhiann had escaped from Aberffraw.

  He’d known he was weak, but hadn’t taken any precautions, nor turned back to his men who could have protected him. The men who held him now had snuck up on him—Cade, the sidhe who could sense a human at twenty paces and cover that distance in the blink of an eye—and coshed him on the back of the head.

  His captors had thrown a blanket over him, covering his body from head to toe. The wool was rough and smelled of horse. It rubbed against his cheek and through it he could feel the sun shining down on him. He checked his inner time sense but didn’t have an awareness of how long he’d lain in the cart, only that he was weaker than he liked to be. It was too close to noon. He longed to feel the heat from the sun on his face, but the physical cost was simply too high.

  Cade contemplated escape and then immediately dismissed the thought. Later. He wanted to know where they were taking him and who his enemy was. The cart rocked along a trail; it could even be the same one he’d been walking on in search of Cadfan, although Cade couldn’t be sure of anything at this juncture. Cade sniffed the air, filtering out the smell of horse and the other scents of the natural world. His guards, at least, were human. Unlike the Saxons he’d killed in the woods, however, they were neither drunk, nor injured, nor negligent of their duties.