The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  A Song Keeper once sang of kingdoms far across the sea made entirely of sand, of leagues upon leagues where neither tree nor creature nor rivulet could be found.

  How empty and lonesome, Angharad had thought.

  This was what her father had done. He had taken a kingdom and turned it to sand.

  “Why have they done this?” she whispered.

  “Because this is the way people extinguish one another.” Eira’s voice was hard. “Come, Angharad. You have already seen too much.”

  They carried on a long while in silence through the wood. Then, suddenly, Eira stopped. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

  It was the trickle of water.

  “The burn,” Eira said. “Angharad, you’ve found it!”

  They rushed to the bank where crisp, clear water rushed beneath moss-covered boulders. There was a flat little island of pebbles just below the bank, and Angharad scrambled onto her belly at the water’s edge to cup her hands and drink and drink. Never had water tasted so sweet.

  “It will be running toward the river.” Eira knelt, filling their skins. “We will follow it that way. At the river, there are bound to be boats.”

  Hope fluttered in Angharad’s chest. A birdcall sounded, and for a moment she wondered if it might be some sort of omen. Angharad had taken quickly to birdcalls and their meanings, but this one she did not know.

  She did not see the spear until it was pointed at her chest.

  She gasped, and Eira turned, scrambling to her feet. A warrior stood on the streambed above in a dark leather helmet.

  “Be still,” he warned.

  “Please,” Eira said. “Lower your spear. She’s only a child!”

  But as Eira glanced at the warrior’s shield, her face shifted. Red and black, the colors of Ebrauc. Never before had Eira looked so afraid.

  “Someone’s already found you,” the warrior said with a smirk, eyeing Eira’s swollen face. He thrust out his chin to make a bird call, and a moment later a dozen men on horseback came crashing through the wood, a cluster of footmen following behind.

  “Get up.” The warrior jabbed his spear at Angharad and she groped her way to her feet, but Eira pushed her away, planting herself between Angharad and the soldier.

  “Lower your weapon!” she said. “The girl is a noble! Can you not see her torque?”

  “Mind your tongue, slave girl.” He poked his spear at the curve of Eira’s breast, and her face reddened with anger.

  “What have you found?” The voice was commanding but soft, almost curious.

  Angharad turned as a dark-haired man wearing rusted battle armor and a heavy golden torque pushed through the crowd of warriors. His hair was cropped close to his head, darker than it should have been, for he looked to be the age of Angharad’s father, but the subtle stain of plant dye yet lingered at his temples.

  Gwrgi of Ebrauc.

  “Leave off,” he said, and the warrior obliged, leveraging his weapon off Eira so that it nicked the skin. She winced as blood sprang to the cut.

  Gwrgi stopped and tilted his head, gazing at Eira as if transfixed. She averted her eyes, her tangled brown hair coming over her face.

  “You,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Eira.”

  “Eira. You remind me of someone. Someone I once knew.” Gwrgi stepped lightly onto the pebbled bank and leaned in, taking a breath as if to gather the scent of her. “And where have you come from, Eira?” he asked.

  “Pendragon’s lands. You’ve come upon Angharad of Strathclyde, a noble,” she said roughly. “I’m her nursemaid. We’re searching for Lord Rhydderch.”

  Gwrgi seemed to have scarcely taken notice of Angharad, but now he gave a short laugh, peering down at her face. “ ‘It’ll be war,’ my brother said. But what good is war without its spoils? And you are a speckled little chick. Lord Rhydderch is keen to find you, you know. Though who can say where he might be. We are all of us a-hunting now.” He lifted his brows in delight. “We are out hunting Dragons.”

  Angharad’s eyes dropped to his breastplate. No, it wasn’t rust. The burgundy stain of his armor was that of dried blood. Blood of the Dragon Warriors. She glared at him with the loathing he deserved.

  “Oh, aye. I know that look,” Gwrgi said. “So like your mother.”

  He stood so near that Angharad could make out the sunspots marking his pale skin. His breath smelled of fennel, as if he had sweetened it, for beneath it was foul.

  “You have found me,” Angharad said. “Now take me to my father!”

  “Is this how they raise a daughter of Strathclyde? To shout? I’ve just told you I’ve no idea where he is.”

  “Take me to my brother Rhys, then! Or summon him. He will come for me.”

  Gwrgi inclined his head. “Would that I could. But your brother is dead.” Angharad stumbled back. “You did not know. Of course. How would you? It is a sorrow, truly. He showed such promise with a blade.”

  “Rhys?” Angharad’s vision was coming in flashes. She sank back and Eira clutched her, pulling her into her arms.

  “Oh, Angharad. Oh, my sweet,” she whispered.

  Gwrgi studied Angharad as if deciding what to do before turning to his men. “Lord Rhydderch. Where’s he gone, then?”

  “Can’t say, my lord,” the spearman answered.

  “Surely someone has seen him.”

  “He was last seen following a band of men fleeing west,” another of his men called out.

  “Well enough. Send word that we’ve got her. She will stay at camp until Rhydderch can fetch her. I am a king, not a courier.”

  “And the nursemaid?” the spearman asked.

  Gwrgi searched above the trees for the sun’s height, face tight with impatience. “Take them both. I mean to resume the hunt while we still have light.”

  Angharad clung to Eira as the spearman ushered them toward the horses. She looked at the men and recognized faces she had seen at the river.

  The bad men.

  “We mustn’t go with them,” she whispered.

  “Hush now, all will be well,” Eira said. “They cannot harm you. You are a noble. They would never risk angering your father.” Her voice was reassuring, but her blue eyes fixed upon Gwrgi as he pulled himself astride his mount.

  “If that is so, then why are you afraid?” Angharad asked.

  “Because Gwrgi is mad,” Eira answered. “You must do nothing to anger him, Angharad. We will bide our time until you are delivered safely to your father.”

  “Up you get.” The spearman came and pulled them apart, passing Angharad off to a warrior on horseback. The warrior gripped her too tightly, and Angharad stretched out her hand to Eira.

  “Stay close,” she begged.

  “I am here,” Eira said, but there was confusion in her eyes, for no man had taken Eira upon his horse.

  “Bind her,” the spearman commanded. A warrior produced a length of rope from his saddlebag, and Angharad looked at the men in horror.

  “Whatever can you mean? No!”

  It was as if he did not hear her. Yanking Eira roughly, he knotted the rope about her wrists, handing its end to the spearman mounted upon his horse.

  “She is my nursemaid,” Angharad shouted. “You cannot treat her so!”

  The spearman kicked his horse into a walk, jerking the rope with a look of satisfaction. Eira stumbled, hurrying to keep her feet beneath her.

  “You might be a noble,” the spearman said, “but she’s none such.”

  Something had shifted. Angharad had imagined they were Gwrgi’s guests. But now that they were in hand, she felt more like a prisoner.

  “She is my chamber woman!” Angharad said, staring at him until at last he turned round.

  “Nay. Perhaps once, but no longer,” he said. “Now she is something better. Now she has become our Pendragon whore.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Lailoken

  The Caledonian Wood

  26th of November, AD 573

  We n
ever intended to survive. We only wanted to kill.

  We slaughtered men in the forest for a fortnight and a month, and we were slaughtered in return.

  Gwrgi and his warriors of Ebrauc hunted us, even as I hunted them.

  One hundred and forty men carried the fight to the Caledonian Wood.

  Now only nine of us yet lived.

  Maelgwn and me. Fendwin, Rhiwallon, and five others.

  I’d carried Gwenddolau upon my back until my legs gave out, his blood running down my neck.

  I buried my brother in the heart of an oak grove.

  We ate roots and small game, but our enemies were many, and soon animals were scarce. For weeks we scoured the wood for any sign of our women or children who’d fled from the fort. When I asked the wind, it only rattled the trees.

  Eira.

  We spoke little, then not at all. Stomachs sunken, we counted our ribs.

  We killed in a stupor. Light as bone, emaciated shades of death. We fashioned gifts of the warriors we snared, draped them upon branches, carving curses upon tree trunks. Five men of Ebrauc we burned alive, only to trap others who rode after the sounds of their screams.

  Then, one day, our enemies were no more.

  For two days we hunted woods bare with coming winter. We stalked with a fervor that soon became a madness.

  Dead men stood in my path as I walked the woods in search of food.

  Not only dead men. My nephew. Rhys.

  My eyes had been trained upon my boots. I felt him before I saw him.

  Uncle, he called.

  I looked up to see him standing before me in such detail I noticed a thread had pulled loose from the fine weave of his tunic. His skin was browned from a summer spent in sun. His gaze was expectant, as if he’d been awaiting my arrival overlong.

  Rhys was yet living? I fell to my knees.

  Uncle, he said. But his lips did not move.

  Only then did I realize I was seeing a shade. I folded over myself, sobbing, beating at my head.

  I did not wish to remember. We had not intended to survive. We had wanted only to kill.

  But when you wish away your memory, you cannot choose what you keep. Soon I began to forget—even those I once loved.

  With no more enemies to hunt, we began to turn upon one another. Our eyes became small and unyielding. We layered our bitterness about us as if it brought warmth. Days grew dark and short, blending with night. We’d discovered a small cave where we slept and sat by day, blinking by a fire.

  The beast had consumed us.

  And then, one night, she came in a dream.

  We were moving in the twilight of morning, our lips interlocked, my breath was her breath. The smell of her was intoxication. Her skin was velvety as a fig, and the perk of her nipple stirred the animal in me. I raised myself over her, bracing so I could see her, watch her, as I entered. Her eyes were pale and deep as the sea. The world fell away. The only world I cared for lay beneath me, her fingers kneading the straining muscles of my arms, roaming my back, until I felt the sharp dig of her nails claim me as she lifted her hips, begging, demanding.

  Lailoken.

  I came awake. I remembered.

  I am a Wisdom Keeper and a counsellor. My name is Lailoken. I am loved by such a woman.

  I’d said good-bye to Eira knowing I would not live to see her again. And yet somehow I still was not dead.

  I kept my eyes closed a moment, as if I could keep her near, but water pressed painfully at my bladder. I shifted and cursed. Pieces inside my shoulder were loose and aching. I stood, making my way out into the cold to relieve myself.

  Outside the cave, the first snow had fallen. My urine burned a yellow stream into the white eiderdown, and I felt aged as an old man.

  I was tucking away my member when I heard a familiar creak that warned of death—the draw of an archer’s bow.

  Before waking from my dream, I had not cared if I lived or if I should die. But now I had remembered. And I would not die before finding Angharad and Eira. I turned, slowly.

  The archer stood not ten paces from me, arm drawn back and arrow pointed between my eyes. “Move once more and I’ll let it fly,” he warned.

  His silver hair was long and straight, tied back from his face. He wore a thick brown bratt, clasped at his shoulder by a simple silver brooch. I squinted, making out the figure of a dog upon it. No. A wolf.

  Selgovae. Any other would’ve killed me by now.

  I lifted my hands slowly, wincing at the pain.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  It had been days, if not weeks, since I’d spoken aloud. Now that words were demanded, I could not find them. But the Dragon Warriors had heard the man’s voice and scrambled from their pallets. They appeared at the mouth of the cave now, weapons drawn, ready to strike.

  “I’d stay as you are,” the archer addressed them. There was a sifting of snow, and I blinked as three dozen Selgovae armed with bows and spears stepped from trees where no men had stood only a moment before. We were outnumbered.

  “Your name,” the man said.

  My voice was a husk. “Lailoken, son of Morken.”

  He studied me, his brown eyes keen. “You are counsellor to Uther Pendragon.”

  I looked down at the snow. “Uther Pendragon is dead.”

  “So they say,” he answered. “Are these your men?”

  I nodded. Maelgwn was Pendragon now, but I’d not endanger him by putting him forth.

  “Dragon Warriors.” The man stood back with his bow yet drawn, raking us over. “Battle-sick, the lot of you. Suppose you didn’t think you were frightening our children, leaving the dead as you have, all scattered round our wood?”

  We glanced at one another with a bewildered sort of shame, and Maelgwn took half a step forward. “I am sorry if we frightened your children. That was not our intent,” he said.

  “And who might you be?” the old man asked.

  “Maelgwn. Pendragon’s general.” Maelgwn nodded at our men to lower their weapons, and at last I found my tongue.

  “We sent our women and children into the wood. Have you seen them? Have you come across any others?”

  “Could be so,” the archer said gruffly.

  “Sweet Gods.” I took a breath to keep from weeping. “Please. Can you take us to them?”

  The old man looked at me. “I suppose you’re in want of shelter, too.”

  Shelter. We’d not thought to live long enough to need it. But to hear that Eira may have reached them, that she and the others might yet be safe? I looked at the nine of us. Half-starved, covered in filth and blood.

  “We would be grateful for shelter if you might grant it,” Maelgwn said.

  “Call me Archer.” The man lowered his bow, slinging it over his shoulder. “Come, then. I’ll get you into the warm.”

  Snow creaked beneath our boots as we followed Archer and his men deeper into the forest. Shady dark towers of emerald pine. Oaks so vast we became little more than a wandering chain of beetles. There were fortresses buried in the Caledonian Deep for those who knew how to find them. I quickened my step to obey the drumming of my heart as Archer turned, cutting a path uphill into the snow. She would be there among the others, safe and warm by the hearth. She would turn as we opened the door, and I would see everything that had come to pass mirrored on her face.

  The forest was silent in its drifting snow, silent and without wind. There were watchers in these woods; we should have known they had seen us. Now, as we moved farther into the Selgovian land, warriors draped in brown fur dropped from trees to follow us, faces impassive, impervious to cold. This old man Archer was a lord or I was mistaken. The Selgovae kept close to their gods and the beings of the old forest they tended. Those I’d met had little care for finery, though they possessed wealth in plenty, for they traded in furs—wolf, bear, rabbit, hind. Their huts were warm and dark, tight against the weather. Their halls were modest and made entirely from wood, devoid of the rich outer carvings beloved by o
ur people.

  Soon we reached the foot of another small hill, and their huts appeared, hunched beneath the snow-covered branches of the forest. People peered from opened doors, then disappeared quickly. I could not blame them, given the sight of us. At last we climbed an ice-slicked footpath through rusty spines of bracken, and my face was met with a gust of woodsmoke. The hall was long and narrow, with tidy thatching, a heavy set of oaken doors waiting beneath unadorned beams.

  I followed the men inside, stepping into the dim of their feast room. Archer gestured to the far wall, where a cluster of figures sat by a pair of looms, nearer to the hearth light for weaving. I heard a sharp cry as they saw us, and my breath caught as a woman stood. Rhiwallon’s lover rushed from the shadows, throwing herself into his arms.

  Nine Dragon Warriors remained, and less than a score of women and children. The Selgovae waited in silence as we sought the faces of our loved ones in a room in which absence meant death. Seren, Dreon’s wife, searched the men’s faces eagerly, her arms wrapped round their children. There was a woman without her daughter. Three little boys, brothers, blinking in the dark. I swallowed the dryness in my mouth, my mind racing. Perhaps Eira was in another hut. Perhaps I had not yet seen her. But as my eyes grew accustomed to the low light, I could not deny it. Eira was not among them.

  I ran a hand over my face. She was not here. How could that be? Across the room, Seren stood, Dreon’s children clinging to her skirts. I went to her and reached for her hand. “He held the dyke,” I said softly. “Dreon chose a hero’s death.”

  Seren shook her head, her face reddening as she looked at me. “And what death did you choose?”

  I bowed my head. “One that has not found me yet.”

  She did not release my hand. I waited until I could wait no longer. “Seren, please. Tell me what happened. Where is Eira? Where are the others?”