by Paul Lewis
By the time he reached the ground, the sun was close to the mountaintops, rimming them with golden fire. Already the western side of the valley was deep in shadow. He would begin his search there, where he would be less likely to be seen.
It was like stepping back into the time before memory. Trees that had appeared small from the summit now towered over him, twisted and gnarled like surly old men. Exposed roots formed nests deep enough for a grown man to shelter in; the ivy that choked the trunks was as thick as a warrior’s arm; skeletal branches sagged as though too weary to raise themselves towards the sun. Days of constant sunlight had left the undergrowth dry and brittle, crunching and snapping beneath Dodinal’s boots as he made his way deeper into the forest. He was not unduly concerned. The hellish din the creatures were making masked all other sounds.
The ground rose and fell. He hid behind moss-covered boulders, searching the trees overhead, alert to any hint of movement. Again there was nothing. He pushed on, heading north, following the length of the valley. His throat was dry so he veered east, looking for the lake he had seen from on high.
It was closer than he had believed. The setting sun’s reflection sent dazzling flashes of light through the spaces between the trees. Dodinal raised a hand to shade his eyes.
The forest reached right down to the water, crowding the shore on both sides. The bank was muddy and fell away sharply. He hesitated, despite his thirst, until he was satisfied there were no malformed tracks in the mud. Then he crouched at the edge, cupping his hands to scoop water into his mouth. It was cold and fresh, not brackish like he had expected.
The sun dipped behind the mountains, and the shadows thickened around him. The screeching chorus intensified; the creatures loved the night. Dodinal drank more water until his belly was full and the thirst had gone. His head felt clear. Not that there was much thinking to be done. He could not plan for the unknown.
As he had no idea where the creatures were, he decided to scour the western side of the lake first. He worked his way steadily towards the waterfall as the forest slowly succumbed to twilight.
The trees thinned as he reached the valley’s westernmost edge. To his left, a cliff stretched away into the distance and up towards the darkling sky. It was sheer, its summit inaccessible. Dodinal peered into the gloom. Just ahead of him was the dark mouth of a cavern, taller than him. A boulder had fallen or been pushed across the entrance, blocking it. Dodinal ran a hand through his beard. The creatures must have pushed it into place.
What better place to hold the captured children? There would be no need for guards. No child, few men even, possessed the strength to roll such a heavy obstruction clear.
Dodinal drew his sword and eased towards the cavern, wary of a trap. The screeching was interminable, and louder than ever with the cliff to bounce it back. Had he believed in Hell this was what he would have imagined it to be like; a shadowy, grotesque place filled with the cries of the damned and the demented. Suddenly cold, he hastened to the cave and stood by the boulder with his back against the cliff, darting eyes scanning for any movement within the shadows.
The forest was still. As far as he could tell, he was alone. He sheathed the sword then leaned against the boulder and pushed. It did not move, and for a moment he wondered if the stone had been there untouched for so long it had sunk into place, held firm by earth and grass, but there were drag marks on the ground. He shifted position. Digging his boot heels into the ground, he pushed again, grunting with the effort, straining until the tendons stood out in his arms and neck and sweat ran down his brow into his eyes. The boulder trembled, and then gave, as if the earth’s grip on it had been broken. It rolled away with a grating rumble until it was clear of the cave.
Sword and shield in his hands, Dodinal stepped cautiously inside. He waited just within the entrance while his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and thought he heard, above the feral din, a furtive rustle deep in the darkness. He held the shield steady and tightened his grip on the sword. There came another sound; a muffled sobbing.
Dodinal crept deeper into the cavern, booted feet scraping across the stone floor. The sobbing was immediately hushed.
“Owain?” he whispered, the word echoing in the close confines of the cave. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me, Dodinal.”
There was no response, but as he looked around the cave it seemed the darkness was no longer absolute. The cave was small, no more than a modest hollow in the cliff, with a low ceiling that slowly dripped water. At the back, directly opposite the entrance, was a wooden pallet, the timber so cracked and dry it had partially collapsed.
Dodinal’s eyes, however, were drawn to the small hunched form in the centre of the cave, its hands and feet bound, its clothes in tattered ruins. A rag had been tied around the child’s eyes, and another used to gag its mouth.
Dodinal stepped forward and knelt, reaching with gentle hands to take hold of the trembling figure. Immediately the child cried out, the words lost behind the gag, and tried to struggle free of his grip.
“Don’t be scared,” he said, keeping his voice calm and friendly. “You know me. I have come to take you home.”
Now he could see from the child’s long hair it was Annwen he had found, not Owain. Dodinal reached around her head and undid the knot that held the blindfold, then removed the gag. “Hold still,” he said. The girl, a few years older than Owain, looked at him with wide eyes as he used the sword to slice through the bindings. They fell away from her, and at once she clasped her hands together to massage them, whimpering as blood began flowing freely through her veins.
“Did they hurt you?”
The girl shook her head.
“Have you seen Owain?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a little-girl squeak. Dodinal was conscious of what she had been through. It must have been a horrific ordeal, and he would not have been surprised if she had been unable to talk at all. “They came and took him away.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Not long ago. I’m sorry.” Her voice hitched and she sounded close to tears, so Dodinal quickly patted her hand, not wanting to make an already perilous situation even more fraught.
“Don’t get upset,” he told her, his measured tone belying his nerves. How long did he have before the creatures returned for the girl? They could be approaching the cave even now. “I’ll get you out of here. Then I’ll come back for Owain.”
That assumed the boy was still alive. This cave made him think of food being stored until it was needed.
“Can you stand?” In the dimness, he saw the girl nod her head. She got to her feet, struggling slightly, swaying for a second or two. Before Dodinal could reach out to steady her, she recovered her poise and stood with her arms folded across her chest. The gag and blindfold had been torn from her clothes. She would be freezing.
He looked across at the pallet, thinking perhaps that he might find an old blanket or cloth to wrap around her. When he saw what rested within the broken wood, he quickly placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder and turned her so she faced the entrance.
“Wait just outside. If you see anything coming toward us, run back to me. Don’t make a sound, though.”
She nodded again and made to move off, but then hesitated. Dodinal was about to chivvy her on her way when the girl bent down and reached into the shadows. “Here,” she said, holding out her hand. “This is Owain’s. You should look after it. You’re his friend.”
Dodinal knew at once what it was. It was not much, not really; just a battered old leather pouch holding nothing of value to anyone, save a little boy who missed his father. To that boy it was priceless. Dodinal looked at it. The strap had snapped where Owain had torn it loose. He must have been desperate to keep it from the creatures, so they would not tarnish the memory of a father he would never get to know. Dodinal gripped it so tightly his fingers threatened to tear it apart. If they had harmed the boy, nothing — nothing — would save them from his wrath.
“Thank y
ou,” he said hoarsely. “Now, wait outside.”
Annwen did as she was told, and Dodinal tied the pouch around his neck, so it rested against his chest, and crossed over to the pallet.
Resting on the tattered remains of a mattress, tufts of straw sticking out, were the remains of two people who had died many years ago. He knelt to study them closer.
There was nothing left but bones. The boy Arwel, and his grandmother Bronwyn, the one they had called Crow.
They had brought their village’s twisted offspring here, had raised them and fed them and then had gone the way of all flesh. At first, Dodinal assumed they had been placed here out of respect, as a son or daughter might honour those who brought them into the world. Then, peering closer, he saw that neither skeleton was entirely intact after all. There was a cleft in the top of each skull, where they had been struck and killed.
There was also something unnerving about the precise way the skeletons had been placed, on their sides with the heads close enough to touch, their arms and legs intertwined. It was, Dodinal suddenly realised, intended as a mockery of lovemaking. However long the two had lived before the children turned on them, he assumed that grandmother and grandson had not wanted for intimacy. He spat on the ground in disgust. The old man had said the madness had gone away, and he had been right. The Crow and the brehyrion’s son had taken it with them.
“Can we go now?” the girl called quietly.
“Yes, of course.” He joined her at the mouth of the cave and quickly looked around. Nothing to be seen. He crouched by the girl and looked at her intently. “I will take you out of the forest, to the mountain. There is a path you can follow. Once I know you are safe, I will return for Owain. But we have to hurry.”
The girl shrunk away from him, fearful. “You can’t leave me.”
“You cannot stay here. It’s too dangerous.”
Her eyes welled up. “But I’m scared.”
“I know. Owain gave chase when the creatures took you. He was very brave. Now you have to brave too. Once you get to the path, you will be fine. The creatures will not pursue you.”
“You can’t be certain of that.”
“I’m certain,” he assured her. “I found you and I got you out of the cave; now I’m asking you to trust me. Will you?”
She wiped her eyes and nodded.
“Good,” he said, taking her hand in his. “Now, we go.”
He led her through the forest, moving as quickly as he could, slowing whenever it became obvious she was struggling to keep up. The light was almost gone now, rendering the forest impenetrable to all but the keenest of eyes. When Annwen cried out and fell heavily to the ground, her hand tearing free from his, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, in much the same way as the creature had done when it stole her from her village. His progress was much swifter.
Finally they were out of the trees, the mountain’s sheer mass dwarfing them. The sky was deep purple and the stars were out. A full moon was rising, its great round face peering over the rim of the hills and washing the valley with its cold silver light. Dodinal carried the girl as far as the start of the path and put her down.
“Follow the path. Go as fast as you can.” He thought of her struggling to clamber down the rocks on the other side. After that, she would have to negotiate that fearsome ridge. He had barely made it across by daylight. If she tried it, she would almost certainly end up getting killed. “When you reach the summit, wait for me. I will come for you once I have found Owain.”
“Do you promise?” Her voice sounded very small.
“I promise.” Though it went against his nature to lie, it was better to give the child hope than admit the truth; he was almost certainly not coming back, and she might not survive the night without the means to keep warm. He had no intention of giving up, but if the worst happened, he hoped she would simply fall asleep and not wake again. “I thought you said you trusted me.”
“I do,” she said, throwing her arms around his waist and hugging him.
Dodinal cleared his throat, embarrassed, and gently pushed her away. “I have to go and find Owain now. Remember what I told you. As fast as you can. It will help to keep you warm.”
He watched her go, her little legs carrying her away from him with surprising speed. Dodinal’s heart ached with sympathy. She must have been terrified from the moment she was taken until the moment he found and released her. He had filled her with hope. He had promised to save her, knowing it was a promise he might not be able to keep. Well, he was not done yet. He was Dodinal; Sir Dodinal the Savage. Men feared him, and with good reason.
Now the creatures would learn to fear him too.
TWENTY-TWO
Dodinal raced through the forest, shield over his shoulder, sword in its sheath, running with barely a sound, even though the ancient trees’ life-lights were too dim to guide him and the moon had created a realm of shadows whose secret paths would remain closed to those who lacked the art to find them. Not once did he stumble nor slow to search for the way. He was most at home in the forest. Any forest.
When the sun had set and the moon had risen, the cries of the creatures had become more subdued, spurring him on. There was an almost tangible feeling of anticipation in the air. Visions of murder, of ritual sacrifice, filled his head, and he had to quell the fury that burned inside him. Until he found the boy and established what he was up against, he had to keep his head clear.
The cave gaped at him like a toothless mouth as he sprinted past it. He had a feeling of time running out, and Owain’s life with it. The screeching sounded like it was growing louder again, and for one heart-quickening moment he feared he was too late. Despair turned to hope when he realised it was louder because he was getting closer to them.
The ground sloped upwards, and Dodinal slowed to a fast walk. The cliff was to his left, the deep forest to his right. The trees around him thinned out, and he cut eastwards until the denser woods closed in, shielding him from any watchful eyes. He ran on, reaching the edge of a steep hill.
Beyond the rise was where he would find the boy, he was sure of it. The noise was piercing, almost unbearable, a calamity of howling and yelping and screaming, as if every lunatic that ever lived had somehow ended up in this place of lost souls. It disorientated him, made him feel vulnerable. He spun around, braced in readiness for the horde of creatures he imagined stealing up on him.
The forest was deserted all around him.
He leaned against a tree while his nerves steadied. Once, he would not have bothered. Once, he would have charged straight in, seeing the Saxons as nothing but meat for his sword. He had been younger then and faster with it. Even now — when his bones felt the cold like never before and his muscles grew stiff if he pushed his body too hard — even now, the rage gave him a strength and an animal ferocity that no man could hope to match. But he was not just there to kill. He was there to save a child’s life or to surrender his own trying.
He ran at a crouch, stopping just short of the crest of the hill, where he got down on his belly and lay flat, using his elbows and knees to cover the last few yards. He edged forward until he could look down, the moonlight bright enough to leave nothing unseen.
The ground curved away on both sides of where he lay, sloping down to a deep, narrow bowl; he could have comfortably cast a spear to the opposite side. It might have been natural, a small lake whose waters had long ago run dry, or the hollowed-out remains of ancient stone workings. Forest debris littered the floor. Trees huddled around the lower edge of it, even more decrepit than those in the forest overlooking them. Their branches, bereft of green, seethed with a constant frenzy of motion; creatures, though nothing like as big as those that had attacked the village. These were as stunted as the trees they infested.
Scores of them crawled along or leapt between the branches. Two tumbled to the ground, where they rolled and thrashed about. But they were not fighting. No bigger than children, Dodinal thought, sickened, and already they were rutt
ing.
Halfway across the depression from him was a squat slab of rock, pale as bone in the lunar glow, the cliff a solid wall behind it. Owain was bound to the rock, with vines tied tautly across his chest and waist and holding his arms and legs outstretched. At first, amidst the shifting shadows, Dodinal could not tell whether the boy was moving. While he watched, Owain lifted his head as though he could somehow see Dodinal hiding in the darkness.
He drew back carefully from the edge until the trees concealed him, dry, brittle undergrowth cracking under his weight as he moved. Once out of sight he sat with his back against an oak with his chin cupped in one hand. If he made a move for the boy, the creatures would see him. Assuming the young were anything like the adults, they would attack without hesitation. Dodinal was confident he could fight them off, but less certain he could keep the boy safe from harm as he did so. What he needed was a distraction.
He shifted position in a wasted attempt to get comfortable on the hard ground, and Owain’s pouch bumped lightly against his chest. His hand closed around it. At once, his mind was back in the village, in Rhiannon’s hut, that evening when Owain had proudly displayed his father’s belongings for him to see. Dodinal lifted the pouch over his head, opened it, tipped its contents into his hand.
He grinned when he found what he was looking for. He would have his distraction.
He returned everything except the flint and steel, and their cushion of bark kindling, and tied the pack around his neck once more. That done, he ripped up a clump of bracken, screwed it into a small nest and placed the kindling inside it, then rested it against the base of the oak and worked flint and steel until the sparks brought forth a tiny flame.
Dodinal cupped his hands around the nest and gently blew until it ignited. Then he grabbed more handfuls of bracken and placed them carefully on the fledgling fire, anxious not to smother it. The bracken immediately started to burn, smoke rising from the flames. He nodded.