by Signe Pike
I had run headlong into Gwrgi of Ebrauc.
I let out a cry of rage.
All I wanted was to kill.
Our swords clashed with such force it jolted our bodies, nearly sending us both from our horses. A good idea, I decided. Righting myself, I lunged at him, dragging him tumbling from his horse. Gwrgi’s sword dropped from his hand as he hit the ground and I pinned him beneath me, slamming the pommel of my blade into his cheek. No, that wasn’t right. I wanted to use my fists.
Again and again I struck him, blood coming with each strike, until Maelgwn’s voice came from somewhere outside me, shouting, “Lailoken! Stop this at once!”
Gwrgi’s lips stretched into a bloodied smile as I lifted my head only to find myself surrounded, a thorny garden of spears at my throat.
Maelgwn and the cavalry from Mannau emerged from the wood, weapons trained on the men of Ebrauc who surrounded me. “Draw back your spears!” Maelgwn warned them.
Gwrgi took advantage of my distraction and slammed his fist into my jaw. It knocked me just enough to the side that he rolled from beneath me and stood, eyes wild. “Come, then, Lailoken. I’ve waited so long. Be my first battle kill. I would begin with a Dragon today.”
I wanted to murder. I would finish him with my bare hands.
But if I struck him, our retinues would fall into battle with each other. And we could not afford it. I threw back my head with a growl of frustration. A fraction of a moment and I might have caved in his head. I could not be blamed. Such things happened in the chaos of war. But now we’d been stopped. Farther up the old Roman road, a battle raged, and our allied men were bleeding with every moment we delayed.
“You are wasting time. Tell your men to fall off,” I told Gwrgi.
He considered me unhurriedly, as if, somewhere up the road, his fellow Britons were not dying. If Gwrgi and his brother had ridden with all their men, they were nearly one thousand in number, a fact I believed, to judge by the endless stream of mounted men. He was thinking they could kill us all. None would be the wiser.
“Aye, you could do it,” I acknowledged. “But I swear to you, we Dragons do not die easily. We will take your men with us, as many as we can. And Artùr, just there? His father is king of Mannau as well as Dalriada. Aedan loves his sons. I do not think it would be wise to try to slay him.”
In the distance, four blasts sounded from the battle horn. It was the signal Rhydderch and I had spoken of. Panic struck.
“Four blasts from the battle horns signals our retreat,” I shouted. “We must get to them now!”
“Ride,” Gwrgi conceded, leaping back upon his horse. “Ride, I said!”
We charged along the old Roman road, and I leaned over my mount, urging it faster on, until the sounds from the battle raged about my head, and then we were upon it, our momentum carrying us like a tidal wave as we crashed into the rear of the Angle forces, running down their footmen beneath the hooves of our horses.
“Yaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” I lifted my sword, hacking the unsuspecting backs of the Angles who were racing to pursue the Britons in their retreat. But then a double blast bellowed above the fray. This horn belonged to the Angles, warning of our attack. I sucked in my breath as the vast horde before us stopped and turned to face us.
Perhaps it was battle madness, but as they lifted their weapons and charged, they were indistinguishable for a moment from a giant black boar. I was standing motionless in the river, waiting for the beast to charge. And then, with an earsplitting battle cry, the Selgovae burst from the forest, Old Man Archer first among them, his eyes wolfish with war.
The boar and the wolves. Aye. I saw it now.
“Here come the wolves,” I shouted in the face of the Bernician warrior, who turned as I rode him down, cleaving his weapon arm off at the elbow. But now the Bernician archers were loosing their arrows, their points piercing Selgovae flesh, embedding themselves in the trunks of the Caledonian Wood.
I wiped my eyes clear of the armless man’s blood only to block a spear thrust to my leg with the thick of my shield. Deadly points sailed from everywhere, each seeking a home. I roared out in pain as an arrow pierced my other thigh, its barb tearing deep into muscle. I knew better than to yank it. Gritting my teeth, I snapped the shaft, leaving the barb inside.
I swung my weapon in the rhythm that came from beyond thought, the one fueled by hate and elemental survival, lifting my head to try to catch sight of our men as they battled in the fray. Maelgwn and Archer had drawn tight their men, pinching the Angle forces upon two sides now, the rear and the flank. Ebrauc’s and Artùr’s men were entangled close by, battling with me in the thick of it.
I sensed the shift before it came, the turning of the tide. And not in our favor.
And then the army was swelling back upon us, the men roaring their fury. Artùr picked up the measure of his attack as three men charged him at once, having caught sight of his breastplate and torque. Infantry and horseback were not a sustainable pairing. Our legs were too vulnerable. But to dismount—we would be swallowed. It was an almost certain death.
“Artùr!” I shouted. “Artùr! Fall back and come round! Fall back and come round!”
He’d felt the shift come, same as me. We had to pull back and circle about, for thundering along the distant flank was the Angle cavalry. If we did not beat them out of the fray, they would hem us in from behind, trapping us against their infantry with no hope of escape. The horse beneath me had grown tired; I felt the clumsiness of his legs. I lost sight of Maelgwn even as Fendwin and I signaled our men to withdraw. Even as we shouted, Dragon Warriors were cut down all around us.
There are too many, I thought. This has all come undone.
Where was the second set of blasts from Rhydderch’s war horns?
At the first signal, Rhydderch and Urien were to retreat, leading the Angles beyond the battlefield and over a short rise, where the land on the other side formed a vast bowl at the foot of Dùn Meldred. At the second signal, Rhydderch’s men were to turn and reengage just as our cavalry came round. The Angles trapped within the bowl would be forced to battle Britons who stood on higher ground, with our cavalry closing in from behind.
At last the horn’s bellow echoed between the hills, and I let out a whoop.
“Finish this fight!” Fendwin cried as we ran through their cavalry, cutting them down. I glanced over my shoulder as I crested the hill. Bodies were everywhere, piling up as living and dead were trampled underfoot. But we had divided them—half their men were locked in combat with the Selgovae and the bastard warriors of Ebrauc on the battlefield. The other half had charged Urien’s and Rhydderch’s men in pursuit. Now Artùr’s men and the Army of Stags pushed the Angles downslope, even as Urien’s army turned to engage the Angles in a tremendous clashing of blades.
We no longer battled a force of ten thousand men. We had forced Hussa to split his army.
With our warriors clashing together, it was impossible to say exactly how many Angles we still faced, but it looked from this height to be only half his army. The other five thousand marched on to Din Eidyn. Gods be with the Gododdin there.
I could see Meldred’s fortress now. I felt Eira and my sister beyond its timber walls. I spun at the sound of an approaching horse only to find Maelgwn, face bloodied but otherwise intact.
“Shield,” he said, motioning to his face.
“Arrow,” I replied, gesturing to my leg.
The sun was choked by dark clouds. A summer storm was coming. But Maelgwn’s gaze, too, had fixed upon the fort. Rain and storm bolts were the least of our worries. If we should fail, Dùn Meldred would be overrun.
“We cannot let her die,” Maelgwn said.
Together we charged into the fray.
CHAPTER 49
Languoreth
Dùn Meldred
Southern Kingdom of Gododdin
1st of July, AD 580
The rain was a thunder of pounding fists.
The army had fallen back to the foot of the fortress. The me
n had closed us in the great room at the sound of Meldred’s battle horn, rushing out into the storm to join the fortress’s last defense.
I went to sit beside Eira and the women and children from the forest.
“Take my hand?” I asked her. There was such strength in her grip. She had survived so much. Down below, I heard the Swineherds whistle, sending out their dogs. I heard them snarl and growl, the anguished cries from ripping flesh. I heard the squeal of hounds meeting swords. I heard a hundred deaths piling at the foot of the rampart.
The Angles were coming.
What a prize I would make. Strathclyde’s queen. I would kill myself first.
“Let us sing,” I said, in an effort to quiet the children.
Cywyllog had collapsed and was rocking to and fro, praying with the monks, but the fear upon her face showed she’d found no satisfaction.
I bent my mind to my own prayers even as I sang. The names of all those I loved who battled below on the grass.
CHAPTER 50
Angharad
Dùn Meldred
Southern Kingdom of Gododdin
1st of July, AD 580
Angharad lost sight of the eagle as they followed a cattle trail through a wood and up into the hills.
Show me, show me, Angharad begged. But nothing more came into sight. She was just about to stop when they heard the ominous blast of battle horns.
“This way,” Ariane called out. They moved toward the bellow of horns, picking up speed.
Too late, they were too late.
Angharad cursed aloud. Soon the retinue was at a run, racing over hidden pastureland and mounding slopes of heather as they drew closer to the war being waged on the other side of the hill.
“Keep from sight at the hill’s crest,” Muirenn warned her men. “I would see where things stand.”
“Angharad, you must be careful,” Ariane said as Angharad crept to the hilltop to peer over the edge. A fortress stood on the far hill. And stretching in the distance beyond it, she saw the emerald canopy of a forest.
“The Caledonian Wood,” she said.
Down the hillside below her, a vast and sunken place in the earth, swarming with death.
It took her without warning, her fear of what she might find as she scoured the heaving mass of men and clanging metal in search of shields and standards.
Rheged.
Strathclyde. Angharad’s breath caught in her chest.
“My father is here,” she said, and for the first time, Muirenn looked concerned.
“You must promise you will stay here, or you will endanger us all. I cannot be preoccupied with keeping you safe.”
Angharad met Muirenn’s eyes with a nod. “I have no place on a field of battle,” she acknowledged. “But your ancestors are with you.”
Muirenn kissed her cheek, then drew out her sword. Angharad felt strange, as if a storm gathered inside. Perhaps it was the Cruithni, for their blood was like water, and ever since they neared the hilltop, Angharad had felt their blood beginning to rise.
“The Britons are outnumbered,” Talorcan said. “Even with our swords.”
“Yes. But look. Here comes their cavalry. And there! The Britons beneath the fortress have turned round to fight. Now is the time, Talorcan. We will attack from this hill and hem them in.” Muirenn turned, lifting her voice for all her retinue to hear, her heavy silver torque catching in the light. “Talorcan is right. The Britons are outnumbered. But we are not two hundred eighty-eight men. We are two hundred eighty-eight Cruithni! And we do not come here to fight for the Britons. We come here to fight for ourselves. For if these vile men triumph today, next will they come for our people! Next will they come for our families! Today they will not triumph!” Muirenn shouted. “On this day, we will water the field with Angle blood!”
The battle roar of the Picts sent a shock along Angharad’s spine. They were in hiding no more. She took Ariane’s hand as Muirenn and her men propelled themselves down the hillside, the fury of their war cry making the men below stop mid-strike.
A horn sounded from beneath the fortress ramparts, and within the mass of tangling bodies, each side summoned their men to face a new fight.
For a moment, it was as if the battle had frozen in confusion.
This was not their war. Who had these wild, painted warriors from the north come here to fight? But then Muirenn reached her first Angle and, with one swift move, ducked to sever the tendons in the backs of his legs with a single strike.
“Yaaaahhhhh!” she cried. The Angle man dropped, spasming upon the ground.
The sight of the Picts sprinting downhill, dispatching Angles left and right, brought new life to the Britons. The warriors lifted their spears, faces fierce with fury and eyes filled with hope. The very earth shook with the rise of their battle cry, a roar of welcome and thanks that summoned forces greater than any could understand. The battle snapped back into motion. As Angharad watched, one of the Cruithni took a cluster of arrows to his chest.
“Pray with me,” Angharad said.
“Yes,” Ariane agreed. “But first, it is time at last that you wore this.” She reached into her deerskin bag and drew out the folded bulk of Angharad’s cloak.
Angharad stepped back. “But I left it aboard the ship,” she said.
“A mistake you will not make again. Come, Angharad, and don it. You are a novice no more.”
Angharad fastened the cloak about her shoulders. The feathers stirred in the growing wind. Ariane looked to the darkening sky. Angharad reached for her hands. They lifted their intertwined fingers to a sky full of gathering cloud, chanting a charm of protection.
Charm for the Britons.
Charm for the Picts.
Charm against arrow,
Charm against sword.
Charm against spear,
Charm against peril.
Charm against harm in this field of battle.
It began in monotone as Angharad and Ariane swayed upon the hill, arms lifted to draw down the power of the sky. Angharad squeezed her eyes shut to block out the blare of battle, for words had no power if one did not believe. They chanted the words again and again, ’til the words were a circle without beginning or end and their voices became vessels, deepening in tone. Charm for the Britons. Charm for the Picts…
Angharad rocked as the wind whipped her hair.
The air of the battlefield crackled with the promise of lightning and thunderous rain, and though her lips did not cease in their chanting, deep from the place within whispers, Angharad summoned her, calling out her name.
Cailleach Bheur.
There was such vast power sweeping above the fields, even the golden eagle had taken to its nest to brave the coming storm. Angharad reached out with her senses, letting the storm blow through her body. Her head swam with pulses, and still she drew it in.
Charm against arrow. Charm against sword…
She was not big enough to contain it. The force breathing beneath her was a frenzy. A bringer of chaos. A loud rumble of thunder made her open her eyes. And then the gray-black sky burst open, drenching every warrior on the battlefield to their marrow in an instant.
“It is only a summer storm,” Ariane said. “Do not be afraid.”
They chanted on.
Rain beat on their heads. Down on the battlefield, men’s faces ran in rivers of blood.
“What have I done?” Angharad whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. The soil had been churned up by the boots of thousands of men. Now that soil became slick as an eel’s belly. Men slipped and scrambled, ankle-deep in mud. “Oh, what have I done?”
Ariane’s voice was stern. “You can do nothing the Gods do not grant. Look now. The Angles scramble and slip—they cannot gain purchase on the slope beneath the rampart.”
It was true—she could see if she squinted in the rain. They had slowed in their attack, and the Britons took advantage, sending their spears sailing even as unseen archers let fly their rain of arrows. Angles were fallin
g back in heaps, wounded or dead.
And then Angharad saw him as he mounted the crest of the distant hill.
His hair was plastered with water as if he’d stepped from the sea. He bled from his brow, and as he pushed his mount over the rise, he pivoted sharply in his saddle to slash at the men who pursued him.
Artùr.
Goddess above, what was he doing here?
And there beside him was Cai.
Protect him, protect them, she begged, tipping her head to the storm.
The field below was an ocean of dead bodies. The rain pounded down. There were more Angles lifeless than there were yet fighting.
Angharad felt their fear.
Your beast has abandoned you, she thought into the wild whipping of the storm. All there is left to do is flee.
As if they had heard her, a blast of a horn sounded the Bernicians’ retreat as the men clawed from their death pit, fleeing on foot or kicking their wounded horses to find refuge in the Caledonian Wood.
Artùr and his men swung round on their mounts, taking off in pursuit.
Talorcan struck down Angles as they scrambled to race from the battlefield, one after another. Bodies piled at the ramparts of the fortress. Archers in brown cloaks, some of whom held blades, followed the Angles unhurriedly, to finish them in the wood.
The worst of the storm had assailed them, and now, as the dark clouds swept north, the rain lessened, becoming little more than a finicky mist. Below on the battlefield, the warriors stood, weapons still gripped, surveying the field of the dying and the dead.
Silence reigned.
And then, as they looked to one another, Briton and Pict, their shoulders sank in relief. As whoops of victory rose up, smiles creased their bloodied faces.
“They’ve done it.” Angharad turned to Ariane. “They’ve done it.” She threw herself into Ariane’s embrace.
“Come now, Angharad of Strathclyde,” Ariane said, smoothing the feathers of her cloak. “Your homecoming awaits.”
CHAPTER 51
Languoreth
Dùn Meldred
Southern Kingdom of Gododdin