by Paul Lewis
The knight had left both sword and spear in Rhiannon’s hut, thinking he would have no need of them. It was too late to be concerned about that; he would have to make do with what he had.
“Stay here,” he said. Idris started to protest, but Dodinal waved him silent. There were no wild beasts outside, he knew that much. Men, then. If there were intruders in the village, Dodinal would need to move quickly, without Idris getting in his way. Should the rage overwhelm him, he would not differentiate between friend and foe.
He moved swiftly to the door and pulled it open. The hound growled louder, snarling, but staying at Idris’s side. Dodinal had encountered knights who were less disciplined.
He stood in the doorway and looked around. The sky was clear, the moon a polished coin. Stars glittered coldly. The village was a patchwork of silver and shadow. A faint voice called out from somewhere within the dense wall of trees beyond the palisade.
Dodinal glanced back into the hut towards Idris. “It could be trouble or nothing at all. I’ll go and look. Give me fifteen minutes; if I have not returned by then, gather your best men and take arms.”
“I will come with you,” the chieftain offered.
“Stay here. I can move quickly and quietly. They will not even know I’m there. Don’t worry, if I need your help I’ll call for it.”
“Be careful,” Rhiannon said, and Dodinal nodded and stepped outside.
As ever, he was soundless as he drifted across the deserted village. Dodinal eased through the broken palisade and hurried across the clearing until the black maw of the forest devoured him. He heard the echoing voice again, this time near enough for him to be certain it was a man calling out. If these were intruders, they were not especially bright. Even a child would know to keep one’s voice down while closing on a foe.
A twig snapped, unnaturally loud in the hushed woodland. Now Dodinal knew the man’s exact location. But was he the vanguard of an invading force or just someone lost, blundering through the cold, dark forest in the hope of finding shelter?
Dodinal had not travelled far when he saw a man, short and stocky, staggering through the trees towards him. The moonlight was bright enough to show he was alone. The man called out. When Dodinal shouted back, he jumped in shock and stumbled to a halt.
“Stay where you are.”
“Who are you?” the man asked, his voice shaking either with nerves or cold, or possibly both.
“I would ask that same question,” Dodinal answered, stepping forward so the man could see him. The stranger took an involuntary step back, his arms flailing for balance.
“Are you alone?” the knight demanded.
“Yes, yes, I swear. Please, I intend no trouble.”
“Then why are you here? It is hardly the place or the time of year for a midnight stroll.”
“I am searching for the brehyrion Idris. My people sent me to find him and seek his help. Do you know where his village is? If so, I beg you, take me there. I have not rested since daybreak.”
“Why do you need his help?”
The man clasped his hands together in supplication. “Please. I need to reach him while I still have the strength to walk.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes.” The man approached Dodinal slowly. He withdrew his sword and dropped it to the ground, close to the knight’s feet, before backing away. “There. Now, please, take me to Idris.”
Dodinal stooped to pick up the sword. When he carefully ran his finger along its edge a thin red line appeared on his skin. The blade had not been especially well made, but it had been kept sharp. The stocky man had been expecting trouble. “Very well.” Dodinal sucked blood from his finger. “Stay ahead, where I can see you. I will tell you where to go.”
“Thank you. You have no idea how important this is.”
“Save your breath for Idris,” the knight growled. The man nodded hurriedly and fell silent. He did not speak again until they arrived at the Great Hall. Dodinal opened the door and nodded him inside. As he stepped across the threshold, the man staggered and his legs gave way; Dodinal caught him before he collapsed.
“Who in God’s name is this?” Idris demanded, leaping to his feet as Dodinal lowered the stranger to the bench. Gerwyn did not move from his chair, and watched proceedings unfold through half-closed eyes. By contrast, Owain was staring wide-eyed at the stranger. Dodinal was well used to that look.
The man gasped out a name, Ellis, but was too weak to say anything else. Rhiannon hurried away, returning with a beaker of warm ale. The man held it in his hands to heat them and then gulped down its contents, shivering as the brew drove the worst of the cold from his bones. Wiping the back of one hand across his lips he gasped: “Thank you.”
Rhiannon nodded and returned to her seat.
“What brings you here?” Idris demanded. “Sneaking about in the night like a common thief?”
“We need your help,” Ellis said. His voice was hoarse and his breathing ragged. Water trickled down his face and dripped onto his chest as the ice in his dark hair and beard melted in the heat. If he had not stumbled across the village, if his calls had not been answered, he would have perished before much longer. Now his skin, almost blue when Dodinal had helped him inside, bloomed a vivid red.
“What do you mean by we?” Idris was too much the good host for belligerence, but there was clear suspicion in his voice.
“I come from a village half a day’s walk north of here.”
Dodinal straightened, his interest piqued. He was still bothered by the memory of that troubling presence in the north.
“Your brehyrion?” Idris demanded.
“Madoc.”
“I know him. A good man. You say you need our help. Explain.”
Ellis fidgeted nervously. “Something has taken our children.”
He looked at them and there was unmistakeable suffering in his eyes. “Two now. Vanished, as if they had never been there. Not one of mine, thank God, but my sister lost her only daughter.” His voice caught and he struggled to continue. “We searched, but… nothing.”
Rhiannon gently took the beaker from his unresisting hands and brought him more ale, and they waited in silence while he drank it. Even miserable Gerwyn seemed to have taken an interest, sitting up in his seat. Knowing him as he did, Dodinal suspected this was less out of concern for missing children than at the prospect of an intriguing tale.
He caught Rhiannon staring meaningfully at him. Owain could so easily have been lost that fateful night in the woods. Although the boy appeared none the worse for his encounter with the wolves, Dodinal felt this conversation was perhaps one he should not overhear. He need not have worried; when he looked down at Owain, the child had placed his head on his hands on the table and was asleep.
Once he had composed himself, Ellis told them his story. The first child to disappear was his sister’s daughter, a beautiful blonde girl named Angharad. She had been playing with her friends in the woods at the edge of the village. It had been the summer of the previous year, when the days were long and heavy with heat.
The children had been taught not to stray too far, and dutifully returned home as dusk fell. Only then was it was discovered that Angharad was not with them. Men were quickly summoned and the forest searched in all directions until darkness defeated them. They returned the next morning, this time with hounds. There was no scent of the child to be found, nor of any predator.
“My sister harboured hopes that one day she would return,” Ellis said, eyes seeing something far away. “It broke her. Madoc made the forest out of bounds to the children after that. We found no trace of wolves, but something must have happened, though we know not what. Children do not just blow away like smoke.”
His tale continued. The months passed. Life moved on, until winter came and the food became scarce in Madoc’s village, as it did in every settlement along the borderlands. Men hunted, but found no game. The struggle to survive pushed the tragedy of Angharad to the back of their minds.
They had thought no more of it, until last night.
A frail and sickly boy named Wyn had been stricken by a coughing fit. His mother had sent him to the wood store, thinking the air would clear his lungs. Wyn had kissed her on the cheek and she had placed one hand on his face just before he left.
It was the last time anyone saw him.
“Was the snow still falling?” Dodinal asked.
“Yes. Very little, but it still lay deep on the ground.”
“Were there tracks?”
A frown etched lines into Ellis’s forehead. “Yes, but that’s the strangest part. The boy’s tracks were clear, leading from his hut to the store. Then there were other tracks. Strange tracks. They appeared as if out of nowhere in the woods, came into and out of the village. When they reached the forest again… nothing. They vanished.”
Idris leaned forward. “They just stopped?”
“In the middle of a drift.”
The old chieftain brought a meaty fist down on the table so hard, Dodinal half expected Owain to wake up. The boy, however, was too far gone to have heard or felt anything. “Impossible!”
“That’s what we thought, too. But the proof was there before our eyes. Or, rather, it wasn’t. The tracks were there and then they were gone. The snow all around was unbroken. Again, we searched for as long as we could, but we had no idea which way to look. The cold drove us back. By next morning the snow had filled in what tracks there had been. It was like the spirits had made off with him.”
“Enough of that,” Dodinal snapped. There was a rational explanation for everything. He had no time for those who blamed the gods or spirits for their tribulations. They were hiding from the truth: every death, every tragedy or misfortune in the world was down either to uncaring nature or to the cruelty of man.7
“I’m sorry,” Ellis stammered. “But if you had been there and seen it with your own eyes then you would have felt the same way.”
“Perhaps so,” Dodinal said softly, reminding himself that the man had suffered personal tragedy as well as a hard and exhausting journey. “But you say you need our help. If you have searched and not found the boy, I fail to see what more we can do.”
“Everyone believes whatever took Wyn, took Angharad as well, and they are scared it will happen again. They are afraid to leave their huts and will not let their children out of their sight. We need help to hunt down whatever took Angharad and the boy and put an end to it.”
“But why us?” Idris asked. “I know Madoc and he knows me. We have shared stories and flagons of ale at the gatherings. We have respect for each other, but we’re far from close.”
Ellis shook his head. “It’s not only you. He has sent a man to every village within a day’s walk to seek their help. I would have been here hours ago, had I not lost my way. It was pure good fortune your…” — he eyed Dodinal nervously, not certain of the big man’s status — “your friend here found me when he did.”
Idris eyed him for a moment, chewing his lip. “Very well,” he said. “We will help with the search. God knows, we have nothing else to occupy our time. We leave at first light.”
Ellis looked ready to argue, to press the case for leaving there and then, but common sense prevailed. Any man who went out into the woods at this hour was as good as dead. Even in his anguish, he understood dead men were no good to anyone. “Thank you.”
“You will stay here as my guest,” Idris said. “We have little to share but what we have, we will share with you.”
“I will go with you,” said Dodinal. “I know the forest and can track better than any man. Believe me, that is no idle boast. If something out there has taken your children, I will find it.”
Shortly afterwards he returned to Rhiannon’s hut, where he tended to the fire all the while deep in thought.
He had come to believe he might have found peace, out here in the wilderness. He had come to hope there would finally be an end to the bloodshed that had been part of his life ever since he was a boy. Now he feared he had been wrong.
Before turning in, he sat at the table and used the stone Idris had given him to sharpen his sword and spear, running it along each blade in turn until they felt keen enough to cut the air itself. Something in his bones told him he would need them before long.
Sleep did not come easily that night. When it did, it was filled with such tormented dreams as to make him to cry out in despair.
7Clearly an extraordinary position for a medieval warrior to hold, especially in Malory’s world of miracles.
NINE
They set out at dawn, Ellis leading the way. With him were Dodinal and Idris and three of the chieftain’s most trusted men. There was Emlyn, dark of hair and quick to smile, who had the surest aim. Then there was Hywel, dark also, a wiry man who rarely spoke but who was considered their most skilful tracker. And finally there was Elfed, a giant of a man whose blonde hair and beard set him apart from the others and who was said to have once wrestled a bear to the ground.
All three were younger than Idris but older than Dodinal. Each man held a spear, the weapon of a hunter. Their eyes were restless and vigilant, missing nothing. Dodinal carried the spear that Idris had given him, his sword sheathed at his side.
Idris had insisted on bringing his son. Why was anyone’s guess. Gerwyn did not want to be there, and made his reluctance known by constantly scowling and muttering under his breath. He held back from the rest of the party as if to reinforce his displeasure. Dodinal grinned as understanding dawned; Idris was punishing him.
The sky, as before, was steel blue and cloudless. Though it was cold when they set out, the air grew noticeably warmer as the hours passed, though not so warm as to melt the snow that crunched under their feet as they walked. While there was still no game to be found, Dodinal felt renewed hope that spring was finally on its way.
They journeyed in silence, troubled by the story Ellis had told. Children, vanishing as if into the air. Stolen away, so Ellis had said, although Dodinal still harboured doubts. The borderlands were harsh and unforgiving. There were countless ways a man could lose his life, let alone a lost and helpless child. If ravines or rivers did not claim them, there were creatures that could. Dodinal knew that better than anyone.
They had travelled perhaps two hours and the men had drifted apart, following their own paths, certain now that the forest was devoid of any kind of threat. Idris caught up with Dodinal and cleared his throat. “The weather is improving. I suppose that means you will be leaving us once we are done.”
As it was not a question, Dodinal chose not to answer. He had a feeling Idris would fill the silence, and he was right.
“As soon as the thaw comes, you’ll have no reason to stay.”
Dodinal shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You have doubts? I am surprised, sir knight. I would have thought you would be eager to be away on this quest of yours.”
Dodinal raised his eyebrows at sir knight, but let it pass without comment. If Rhiannon was to be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her, Idris did not want him to leave. Yet the old chieftain was either too nervous or too proud to ask him to stay. Well, then. If he wanted to talk around the matter, so be it. Dodinal would do so too.
“I am in no hurry. The quest will be there whether I leave at the first sign of spring or wait ’til high summer.”
“I see,” Idris said. For a moment he seemed ready to say more, but then he bit his lip and turned away.
They walked in silence for a while after that. Dodinal watched Idris from the corner of his eye, suppressing a grin at the sight of the chieftain’s mouth moving soundlessly, as though rehearsing the words he wanted to say. Finally Idris shook his head and gave up, perhaps having concluded it would be best to wait until such time as Dodinal announced he was leaving before trying to persuade him to stay.
For a moment, the knight was tempted to tell the old man the secrets he was keeping from him, the story of his life, although he had never before felt the need to share it wi
th anyone. Idris had shown him nothing but courtesy and hospitality. If anyone deserved to hear Dodinal’s tale, it was the white-haired chieftain.
Then again, he thought, remembering all that had happened to him since the Saxons had stolen his childhood, he would also reveal himself to be what he really was: a man with too much blood on his hands. A killer without mercy. Better to save his tale for another time, if at all. But still he remembered, and he let his mind drift…
On a cloudless summer day in Dodinal’s sixteenth year, he heard a distant commotion. With nothing else to occupy him, he went to investigate, moving through the forest until he was close enough to recognise the sounds of fighting.
As yet he could see nothing, as the battle was being fought on the other side of a wooded ridge ahead of him. His movements became more stealthy as he made his way closer; this was not his fight, and he had no desire to get involved.
Upon reaching the crest of the rise he pressed up against a tree for cover and peered around it. The ground before him fell away steeply, providing an uninterrupted view of the combat in the narrow valley below. Dodinal watched for a while, squinting against the flashes of light glinting off weapons and armour.
The melee was furious. There was no telling which side was winning. Bodies were strewn across the forest floor. Around them dozens of men, too many to count, hacked at each other with swords and axes, some blows blocked by shields or armour, others getting through to crush heads or tear through flesh and bone.
Dodinal grimaced as a man staggered away, mouth open wide in a scream that could not be heard above the clamour. His hand was pressed against the ragged stump at his shoulder in a futile attempt to staunch the blood pumping from it.
His suffering was mercifully short-lived, for a moment later an axe blade sunk deep into his throat. His head snapped back, attached to the neck only by a flap of skin, and he took a few staggering steps forward before collapsing.