by Simon Lister
They nodded assent and as Arthur turned to go he pointed to Ablach, ‘And build a pyre for him.’
‘Let the crows pick his bones,’ Gwyna retorted.
‘As you wish but you’d do better to show those that followed him some respect. Build a pyre.’
As Arthur went to rouse his warriors to begin the journey to Dunraven his thoughts were on Seren and the fact that she had been here on this headland and that she and Gwyna had stood face to face. He wondered if Seren had discovered that he had married Gwyna before he had the chance to tell her himself. He pondered on why it had been she and Terrill who had brought the message about the tunnel under the Causeway and how the Cithol had known that the Adren were going to use it. At the back of his mind was a nagging thought that Ruraidh had concealed something about Seren from him and had diverted his attention away from it before he could discover what it was but he was too weary to pursue the matter any further.
He stopped and looked around the green headland. The Uathach warriors were gathering around Gwyna as she explained how they were going to hold the cliffs against the Adren, while the warriors of the southern tribes were spread out across the grassland in various states of exhaustion. These were all that remained of Britain’s warriors; all that were left to stand against the Adren horde now crossing the Causeway.
The Causeway had fallen and he would have to retreat now to the Veiled City and hope that Lord Venning and the Cithol would join them in the battle against the invading Adren. He hoped that with the Cithol standing by them they could hold the Adren at bay in the Winter Wood until Cei managed to destroy the Adren’s legacy power source and halt their army’s supply line. So much depended upon Cei and Merdynn and he wondered if they had reached the Adren city yet.
But Cei had fallen in the Shadow Lands and Lord Venning had already made a pact with the enemy.
Haven
Shadow Lands: Book Three
Chapter One
The Causeway had fallen to the invading Adren. Arthur and his warriors had held the enemy for as long as it was possible but the horde from the East had numbered too many and were it not for the arrival of Gwyna’s Uathach, and Seren’s warning of the Adren trap, then none of the Britons would now be making the retreat to the Veiled City.
It was Gereint, the Mercian Warlord, who led the column of warriors that made their way back on the Westway towards the Winter Wood. He rode alone and although several of the Mercians tried to engage him in conversation they soon fell back rebuffed by his grim silence. His brother, Glore, had fallen before the Adren swords as they held the last bridge on the Causeway. He felt the loss all the keener for the knowledge that an hour after Glore had died they had finally made it to the safety of the cliffs. He had not even been able to retrieve the body to send his spirit onwards through the cleansing flames of the funeral pyre. He felt that he had let his brother down in death as much as he had in life and the bitterness of the acknowledgement seeped through his thoughts and poisoned his mind. He could stomach no other company and could not escape his own. He rode in silence and stared straight ahead and he heard nothing of the world around him and saw nothing but the distant Westway winding through the rolling countryside.
Of the proud southern warriors who had ridden to the Causeway only half undertook the return journey. The contrast could hardly have been starker. The returning warriors were slumped in their saddles with exhaustion and many carried injuries that ranged in seriousness from cuts and bruises to broken bones and wounds that may yet prove fatal. Ceinwen rode slowly along the column helping to temporarily address the various injuries until more permanent action could be taken once they stopped at the camp above the Winter Wood. She wanted to keep her body busy and her mind occupied and away from the one truth that obsessively commandeered her thoughts; she had treated and healed countless warriors yet she had been unable to aid her brother, Ruadan. Not only had she not been able to save him but with Morveren’s arms wrapped around her and dragging her backwards she could only watch as his body was butchered in a bloody fury of curved swords. She hadn’t truly realised just how much she had depended upon him since the deaths of her own family. Even when they hadn’t been together she had drawn strength from the knowledge that someone close to her was still alive and able to understand and support her in her loss. Over the months since Branque she had formed good friendships with Morveren and Morgund, and got on well with most of the other warriors, but none had been so close to her as Ruadan. The pain of losing her husband and daughter had barely begun to heal and now she had lost her brother too. Like many around her she rode in silence, unheeding of anything but the hollowness of her grief.
All the warriors had lost friends and comrades. The loss was all the harder to bear in defeat, and they had the look of a beaten army in retreat. Arthur rode at the rear of the column with Morgund and Balor. He thought the battle on the Causeway was anything but a defeat. It was impossible to assess with any accuracy but he guessed that they had destroyed between a quarter and a third of the enemy force as they had originally estimated it but having since seen the whole of the Adren army from the vantage point above the flats he felt it was more likely now that the Adren had only lost a fifth of their force in gaining the Causeway. More of them would die before Gwyna withdrew her Uathach warriors from the cliff tops. He had wanted to line his warriors alongside the Uathach but he knew they had fought beyond their limits and to throw them once more into battle would have been to sacrifice them for little gain. There had been no other option but to retreat from the fighting and rest.
While he did not regard the battle on the Causeway as a defeat, and despite the fact that the Adren had lost thousands of their soldiers, he could not bring himself to regard it as a victory either. He had lost almost half the total of warriors from Mercia, Anglia and Wessex and the latter two had already suffered greater losses than the Mercians had. The Adren, at best, had lost a fifth of their force and if the exchange continued at that rate then the outcome could only be complete defeat. The addition of the Uathach warriors would redress the balance to its former unequal footing, and there was still the hope that Mar’h could train an effective force from Caer Sulis, but it was an inescapable conclusion that the losses of the hardened and trained warriors of the southern war bands could only be replaced by wild, undisciplined warriors and hastily trained and untested soldiers. Added to this was the fact that they had just lost the most defendable position in the whole of Britain.
Once again Arthur’s thoughts turned to Merdynn and Cei. So much rested upon their attempt to destroy the Adren source of supplies. Arthur knew that if he could delay the Adren advance long enough for Cei to permanently cut their supplies then the Adren would have to turn back. No army could keep going forward when the country around them was bare of food and no supplies were being delivered to them. Despite Arthur’s best attempts to keep Cei’s mission a secret the word had gradually crept out until all the southern warriors knew the truth of his and Merdynn’s absence in the East and the importance of buying them as much time as possible. The memory of his dream returned unbidden and the image of Merdynn lying lifeless on a cold headland lingered in his thoughts.
Whether or not Cei had yet succeeded Arthur knew he had to make his stand in the Winter Wood. If Cei had already managed to destroy the Adren’s source of supplies then they would need the Veiled City to replace it and if Cei had yet to succeed then the Adren’s original aim of taking the Veiled City would still hold true.
His attention returned to the present and he noticed how silent Morgund and Balor were. He looked along the length of the column ahead of him and saw the same slouched silence. He cursed loudly and both Balor and Morgund looked across at him in surprise.
‘What are you? Jilted milkmaids? Sulking farm hands? You’re warriors! Warriors who have just killed thousands of the enemy! Act like this now and the next time you face the enemy will be the last time. You two can start acting like the warriors you are and set an example for t
his lot or slink off home now and get out of my sight!’ He spurred his horse forward in disgust and started to work his way along the strung out line ahead of them. He shamed, praised or encouraged each group he passed through and gradually the visible despair of the worn warriors was replaced by a pride for what they had done and, while their obvious exhaustion remained, a grim determination steadily spread along the column, the battle hadn’t been lost and neither had the war; they would make their stand in the Winter Wood.
After the initial shock of Arthur’s scorn wore off Morgund watched as the subtle transformation took place ahead of him. No battle songs rang out, their pace did not increase and no boasts of combat sprang up but group by group their heads lifted to look forward and they sat straighter as they neared their destination. When they eventually reached Dunraven, the camp above the Winter Wood, they no longer had the appearance of a defeated army but the look of a battle-worn war band, exhausted and bloody, but proud of what they had done, proud of those who had fallen and determined to avenge them further.
Despite their weariness they set about the business of setting up camp. Much of what they required was already stored there and they soon had food cooking over fires. Some of the warriors decided to postpone their meals in favour of the desperate need to sleep and they slumped amongst the furs and blankets that were already laid in the makeshift sleeping quarters.
Ceinwen finished attending to the last of the injured and had them carried off to rest in the same lean-to shelters where others already slept. She wiped her face with a dirty cloth and tossed the last of her short knives and stitching needles into a pot of water that boiled over a low fire. She sat back on her heels and massaged her painful neck before opening a packet of powder and tipping it onto her tongue. She grimaced slightly at its bitter taste and felt her jaw as if expecting the pain there to be dulling already. She closed her eyes and felt herself slipping into sleep almost immediately but the image of Ruadan falling under the Adren swords sprang straight to her mind and slapped her back to wakefulness. She groaned softly and felt the weight of grief and despair settle deep within her chest until it filled her with a contradictory feeling of hollow emptiness. She ran her hands up the sides of her still dirty face and up into the roots of her tangled hair. She sensed someone standing by her side and fought back the bitter foretaste of tears.
‘He died as a warrior defending the land he loved, the people he loved. Fighting for you, and me. It was quick and we can only hope for the same when it comes to our turn.’
She looked up at Arthur silhouetted by the rising sun behind him. She blinked in the brightness and saw that his hand was stretched out towards her. She took it and he lifted her to her feet. She linked her arm through his and leant against him as they walked to the edge of the copse where they stood overlooking the Winter Wood.
‘This is where I sat with Leah. You stood here watching the Wood while we all slept.’ She still spoke with a conscious effort not to move her healing jaw too much. She was silent for a while remembering the time she had sat here with Leah then asked quietly, ‘Was it really only seven, eight months ago?’
‘Yes. And Cei sat here with you both.’
‘So much has happened since then. So many have died. So much has changed.’
‘When we stood here the Belgae already lay dead in their valleys and the Branque villages had already been slaughtered.’
‘And now they’ve come to slaughter the peoples of Britain.’
‘And that’s why Ruadan fought and died. To stop that happening.’
‘Yet still it’s happening.’
Arthur turned to look at her and took her by the elbows. ‘Listen to me Ceinwen. I need you. We all do. Don’t do Ruadan and your family the dishonour of giving up either in your heart or thoughts. We know the Adren won’t stop until we are all dead but we haven’t yet lost a single village in Britain. They want the Veiled City and they want all other peoples exterminated. They want the world to themselves and themselves alone. Ruadan and the others died attempting to stop that and stop them we will. We stood on the Causeway and they died in their thousands. We’ll stand here and again they’ll die in their thousands. We’ll fight them until every last dog soldier of theirs lies dead. And when we’ve hacked the head off the last of the corpses of those who sought to defile our shores then we can grieve and lament our own dead. But now we have to carry on the battle and I need you to fight with all your strength. Use Ruadan’s death to steel your resolve, don’t let it rob you of everything that he fought for.’
She looked up at him and nodded despite the silent tears rolling down her face. He gently brushed them aside and the completely unexpected tenderness of the simple act broke her resolve not to weep for her dead friends and family. She wept for the brother she couldn’t save. She wept for her daughter who had been so full of life. And she wept for her husband, Andala; good, steadfast Andala. Her sobbing tears racked her anew at the memory of her husband; the husband she had never truly loved. The marriage had been founded more on his love for her than on any reciprocated feelings and the guilt she felt about having been unable to equally return that love added remorse to her tears; she hadn’t deserved his love and he hadn’t deserved to die.
Arthur held her for long minutes as she sobbed without control or embarrassment. He needed her to be free from her grief because she was one of the few Britons who had been in the Veiled City and she would be important in helping to calm any fears the other warriors might have about entering the Winter Wood.
Finally she pulled away and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes and said with a shuddering voice and an attempted smile, ‘Enough! Ruadan would be ashamed to see me weep before the battle ends!’
Arthur smiled sadly at her, ‘A warrior has more right than anyone else to weep for their dead and the dead have every right to demand it. You have nothing to reproach yourself for.’
She smiled more genuinely and took a deep breath. As they returned to the sleeping shelters she said, ‘I wonder where Cei and Leah are now.’
During Arthur’s seemingly sincere attempt to comfort her, his thoughts had been occupied by much the same question.
When he saw her bedded down and drifting quickly to sleep he looked around the camp and saw Gereint sitting alone with a hot drink clasped in both hands before him. He crossed the camp to go and sit silently beside him.
When he finally took his turn to get some rest he went to sleep thinking about Gwyna and the rearguard on the cliffs above the Causeway but it was the image of Seren that crept into his dreams.
*
Arthur awoke some hours later to the sounds of the camp around him. Half the warriors were still sleeping but those who were awake were feeding the horses, cleaning weapons and checking on what remained of their stores and provisions. He lay still for a minute listening to the rain fall on the canvas roof of the sleeping shelter. As the land warmed under the gradually rising sun it drew in the colder air from the East and while he had been sleeping heavy clouds had crept across the land bringing with them petulant showers of hail and cold rain.
He sat up and cast aside the cloak that had served as a blanket and watched as the hail bounced off the ground outside the shelter. Every muscle in his body seemed to be contracted in a knotting ache and he absently massaged the back of his thigh where he had been hit by an Adren arrow several months ago. The wound still troubled him, more so than the other various injuries he had received over the years and he put it down to no longer being young; his body was beginning to rebel against the demands he forced upon it. He ran a hand over the deep gash on his left forearm that Ceinwen had stitched together some days ago and struggled to his feet.
The warriors nearby called a greeting to him and he nodded in return as he surveyed the camp. Everything else was at it should be and he noted with satisfaction that the warriors seemed to be in better spirits now that they had slept and eaten. He saw Gereint standing with Morgund on the eastern edge of the copse. They seemed
to be arguing and he frowned as Gereint turned angrily aside and stalked off alone. Morgund stood in the hail watching him for a while then made for the shelter where Arthur was standing. As he passed by, Arthur asked, ‘What was that about?’
‘Nothing really,’ Morgund replied without catching Arthur’s eye then added by way of an explanation, ‘Glore died back on the Causeway.’
‘I know. And he blames me?’
Morgund gave up on his attempt to avoid the conversation and faced Arthur with a shrug.
‘Why?’
‘He thinks that if we pulled back when he suggested then his brother would still be alive.’
‘Does he?’
Morgund shrugged again to show that he did not agree with Gereint’s opinion.
‘Have you slept, eaten?’ Arthur asked.
‘Yes but not enough of either.’
‘Spend some time with Ceinwen. I don’t want her dwelling on Ruadan’s death.’
Morgund agreed but he was thinking that he might spend some time with Morveren instead.
‘Ceinwen,’ Arthur reiterated and walked out into the hail in the direction Gereint had taken leaving Morgund to wonder if Arthur had just been repeating himself or correcting him about whom to spend some time with. He had the uneasy feeling that Arthur had indeed been correcting him and he groaned quietly to himself as he suddenly remembered who Morveren’s father was rumoured to be. He went to find Ceinwen.
Arthur caught up with Gereint on the edge of the copse overlooking the Winter Wood. ‘You blame me for your brother’s death,’ Arthur stated straight away.
Gereint looked warily at the warlord before turning away and saying bitterly, ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Gereint glanced quickly at Arthur trying to gauge the other’s temper. ‘We should have retreated when I told you to.’