Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3)

by J. M. Hofer

  The guard’s face changed upon learning his identity. “My apologies, Lord Bran. We’ve been waiting for you.” He barked orders at others within the camp and then turned back to Bran. “Please, come with me. I’ll take you to your commander. The guards will show the rest of your men where to camp.”

  “I’ll take over,” Gareth offered.

  Bran nodded his approval. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Bran followed the guard through the camp. As they moved through the sea of warriors, he felt a familiar hunger mounting within him. His muscles grew tense with it, eager to grip spear and sword again. The rush of battle was an addiction he had acquired at a young age, and one he had never found an equal for.

  “We’re here.” The guard motioned to a large tent. Bran entered and, to his horror, saw the man he hated most in the world. Aelhaearn.

  Before anyone could do anything, Bran lunged and grabbed him around the neck, intent on strangling him. His heart exploded in pain with the effort, but he grit his teeth and used it to fuel his anger.

  “Stop!” Guards rushed forward to separate them, but Bran’s fist remained like an iron shackle around Aelhaearn’s neck. “I’ll not stop,” Bran seethed, looking deep into Aelhaearn’s eyes. “You’ve been tricked by this coward! He led his own brothers to slaughter! He was condemned by the gods themselves! He is a traitor equal to Vortigern himself!”

  “Bran of the Oaks!” a voice cried behind him. He looked to see Myrthin standing beside him. “Stand down, at once! I command it!”

  The authority in the druid’s voice cut through Bran’s fury. “As you wish.” He threw Aelhaearn to the ground, disgusted. It was all he could do to refrain from kicking him in the stomach. “I will not march under that man’s command, nor will my men. You have a snake in your camp. You would do well to kill it before it strikes.”

  “Speak of this with Emrys, then,” Myrthin counseled, “for Aelhaearn is much favored among his commanders.”

  Bran spat on the floor. “Take me to Uthyr.”

  Myrthin gave a nod. “Follow me.” He led Bran to Uthyr’s tent as requested. “You’re in pain, aren’t you?” he said to Bran under his breath.

  “Yes,” Bran said, doubling his efforts to hide it. “Betrayal is painful.”

  “That is not what I meant, and you know it.” Myrthin glanced down at his heart and pulled back the skins covering the opening of Uthyr’s tent.

  “Brother!” Uthyr exclaimed, standing to embrace him, but upon seeing Bran’s expression, said, “What’s wrong?”

  “I must speak to you about one of your commanders.”

  “Speak, then.”

  “There is one by the name of Aelhaearn within your ranks who betrayed his clan—my clan. He led his brothers to slaughter in his lust for power. So terrible was his crime, he was exiled, yet somehow he has slithered into your good brother’s ranks. I am begging you, in the name of Emrys’ safety, you must dismiss him.”

  Uthyr narrowed his eyes. “Aelhaearn? We must go to Emrys at once, then. We are to march tomorrow. Tell him what you’ve told me. Only he can decide what to do with him.”

  “Fine. But I wish to bring my sister, who will confirm what I say.”

  “Bring her here, then. I’ll wait for you.”

  Bran brought Seren to Uthyr’s tent within the hour, telling her what had happened. Uthyr then personally escorted them to the tent of his brother, where, to Bran’s surprise, Aelhaearn was waiting.

  Bran shook his head, scarcely able to look at his enemy. What lies has he told him?

  “Bran of the Oaks,” Emrys said as they entered. “I know you have come to warn me of this man. I want you to know I am fully aware of his past and his crimes. I ask, as your high commander, that you allow him to speak.”

  Speak? How will he manage that? Bran said nothing, for he had no choice but to keep quiet. To do otherwise would have shown gross disrespect. His anxiety coiled about him ever more tightly as he noticed Aelhaearn had not taken his eyes off Seren since they had arrived, nor had she taken hers off of him.

  “Seren,” was the first word the accused man uttered. In that one word, regret, sorrow, love and desire could all be heard coursing through its two syllables. “Seren.”

  “You can speak?” Seren whispered in shock, her voice quivering.

  It seemed to take all of Aelhaearn’s strength to hold himself back from running and embracing her, even though he surely knew she had come to condemn him before his king. He looked like a stallion tethered to a rope.

  Bran lurched his eyes on Aelhaearn, feeling desperation burn in his chest as his control of the situation unraveled.

  “Please,” Aelhaearn said, noting Bran’s indignation, “let me speak.”

  He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, no sign of malice or pride. “I can’t undo the things I’ve done,” he began, “I can do nothing but ask your forgiveness, though I wouldn’t begrudge your withholding of it. What I did to you, Seren, and to our clan, was unforgiveable.”

  Bran struggled to hold his tongue, refusing to believe his words were sincere.

  “I was made to suffer,” Aelhaearn continued, “and suffer I did—resentfully, angrily, and full of hatred and pride. In rebellion of my suffering, I then persisted in committing more acts of hatred. I murdered for money and led demons to defile the sacred and subject it to darkness. This, I did, and did without remorse, until the blessing of remorse was given back to me by the one I now call Lord and Savior—the One who led me out of the darkness.”

  “Emrys?” Seren asked, innocently.

  “No,” Aelhaearn said. “Our Lord, Christ Jesus.”

  “Was it he who gave you back your speech?” she asked softly.

  “It was.”

  Bran had seen the power of the god the Romans had embraced and brought with them under Constantine. He was wise enough to respect the power of their god, but not in the same way the Romans did, who forsook all other gods. He would never forsake the gods he loved and knew so well, nor would he turn his back on the spirits of the woods and waters that he and his people communed with year-round.

  Seren nodded and looked over at Bran for the first time, perhaps to see whether or not he had softened in any way. He gave her a look that made it clear he had not.

  “You’ll never be expected to march under my command,” Aelhaearn said to him, “nor would I presume to command you in battle, for you are nobler than I could ever hope to be. I ask only that you attempt to tolerate my presence as a brother-in-arms.”

  Aelhaearn did not extend his hand, perhaps because he knew Bran would refuse it.

  “It is my wish that you seek to forgive the past, Bran of the Oaks,” Emrys said, “but I will not ask you to fight under a former enemy. You and your warriors will report to Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall.”

  Bran nodded. “That would be most acceptable to me, High Commander. I know Gorlois and his father-in-law, Amlawth, to be noble and honorable men. Our people are allies and our houses joined in friendship.” After a moment of careful consideration, Bran added, “I do not doubt something of a dramatic nature has happened to this man, whom I once called brother, but I cannot accept that there is nothing of his former nature lurking in the shadows. To do so would be foolish. Nor can I predict what might cause it to emerge and strike. I therefore urge you to watch him closely, as I most certainly will, for though we may acknowledge and repent our sins, most of us repeat them.”

  “We do, indeed,” Myrthin agreed, eyeing Aelhaearn.

  “With your leave, High Commander,” Bran said, “I shall report to Gorlois.”

  “Yes. My guard will take you to him.” Emrys dismissed them. They emerged from the tent to find night had fallen and the campfires had been lit.

  Bran realized Seren had not followed them out, and a sick anger overcame him. Had she been anywhere else but within Emrys’ tent, he would have dragged her out.

  Don’t be a fool, sister.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Justice an
d Mercy

  Uthyr sat tall in his saddle alongside his brother as they marched their army into Viroconium. Scouts had reported Hengist had sailed up the eastern coast, into the Humber river, and had now arrived at Goole.

  “Do you think he means to launch an attack on Powys?” Emrys asked him. “He may attempt to take Viroconium. If he does, he’d be within spitting distance of our lands.”

  Uthyr shrugged. “If the scouts’ reports are accurate, he hasn’t brought enough men for the job. We have more troops here than he’s rowed up the coast with him, that’s for certain. He’d be a fool to try.”

  Emrys shook his head. “I won’t make the mistake of underestimating him. I want a more thorough report. I’d also prefer to lure him south a bit.”

  “Of course.” Uthyr sighed. His brother’s cautious nature had always needled him, but never more so than when it turned out he was right. He would defer to his wishes. “Once we reach the city, I’ll send that scout of Bran’s to find out exactly how many men the devil’s brought with him.”

  “What scout?”

  “Neirin, I think his name is. He moves like a ghost and the brilliant bastard’s learned to speak Saxon, as well.”

  Emrys nodded his approval but had an absent look on his face.

  “He’s a fox on the run.” Uthyr said in an attempt to reassure him. “A fox, to be certain, but we know his tricks, and we have thousands of hounds with us—good, loyal, vicious hounds—you and I among them.” He turned to look his brother in the eyes. “Hengist will fall, brother. Mark my words.”

  ***

  “I’ve never seen a city this big,” Gareth remarked.

  Thanks to its former Roman citizens, Viroconium had proper roads, cisterns, aqueducts and baths, but they had long ago fallen into disrepair. Emrys had restored them all since coming to power. To accommodate his ever-growing army, he had added a fine hall to meet with his commanders, several barns to house the livestock needed to feed the warriors, stables for their hundreds of horses, several forges, and large grainhouses. The Roman baths had been converted into barracks.

  Bran nodded. “It’s one of the largest settlements the Romans left behind.”

  “As large as Caer Lundein?”

  “No. Not as large as Caer Lundein. But one of the largest.”

  Merchants approached them as they rode through the market, holding up everything from fruits and fish to knives, furs, and leather goods. Once on the other side of the city, they were directed to the barracks designated for Gorlois’ men. There, they were given blankets, food and water. Shortly thereafter, Gorlois summoned all the chieftains in his command.

  Bran made his way to the hall to find he was in good company. Among those reporting to Gorlois were Amlawth of Dumnonia and Eldol of Caer Glou, whom he was proud to fight beside. Once they had all arrived, Gorlois rose to speak. “Tonight, we choose who stays to guard the city and who marches north. I have not commanded you in battle before, brother chieftains, nor fought beside your warriors. Therefore, I leave it to you to choose who, among your own men, will march north and who will stay behind to defend the city. Choose well, for it could mean the difference between victory and defeat. Report to the field outside the main gates at dawn with the men you have chosen to march. That is all.”

  Bran lost no time returning to his men and gathered them together to give his orders. “I’ve just come from a meeting with Gorlois. Thanks to Neirin, we know Hengist is moving south. Emrys believes he means to take the city. We march to meet them at dawn.”

  Gareth was standing close by and gave his father a confident nod, eyes full of fire. “I’m ready.”

  Bran gripped his son’s shoulder. “You must be.” He looked out at the rest of his men. “As must every man here. If Hengist takes this city, he’ll sit on the doorstep of Powys, and from here, lance his threat ever westwards into our homeland. We cannot allow that to happen. Some of you will ride north tomorrow, and some must stay here to defend the city in case it is attacked. I need the head of each family to decide who comes and who stays—one man to stay for every four that march. All those chosen to march, report to the field outside the main gates at dawn. Don’t drown in your cups tonight, lads. We have a long march ahead of us.”

  The men cried out for Saxon blood, swearing Hengist would fall come morning.

  Bran held up both his hands, moved by the passion of his men. “Arawn would surely rejoice over such a prized skull. Let us deliver it to him!”

  Gareth came to him after he finished his speech. “You’ll not leave me behind again, will you? Please, Father. Not this time.”

  The fierce desperation he saw in his son’s face made what he had to say stick in his throat. “You’ve not fought on the battlefield, before. But you do have years of experience defending our village. I doubt anyone here knows as much as you do about it. I need you to stay and help mount the defense of the city.”

  Gareth had never been the more difficult or disobedient child—that title had ever-belonged to Arhianna, who questioned or fought against nearly everything put before her. Now, however, Gareth seemed infused with his sister’s rebellious spirit. “No, Father. I’m going to fight tomorrow, with or without your approval. I’ll not stay behind again.”

  Bran, though sympathetic, did not tolerate disobedience from any of his men, least of all from his own son. “Do not defy me. I’ve made my decision. You will stay. This is where the war needs you. There will be more battles. Don’t be so eager to charge into Arawn’s arms.” Before Gareth could protest, he turned and walked away, intent on finishing his duties as chieftain of his clan.

  Bran knew how badly Gareth longed to prove himself on the battlefield. He had not forgotten how bloodthirsty he had been in his own youth. He doesn’t realize how many more battles there will be—how much more blood will be spilled. This is far from over, even if we do defeat Hengist. Far from it. He could not change his mind, now, however. He had made a decision, and it would stand. Still, he lay awake much of the night wondering if he had done the right thing. He worried, too, about his heart. His hand went instinctively to the thick scar tissue on his chest that marked the wound that should have killed him. He had not fought in a battle since that day.

  Just before dawn, Bran went looking for Gareth, for he had not returned the night before. He noticed Idris sitting on a boulder, sharpening his spear tip. “Have you seen Gareth?”

  Idris nodded. “Just saw him. He was speaking to one of Emrys’ men about where to post archers. Not sure where he is now.”

  Bran looked for his son until the sound of Emrys’ battle horn demanded he quit his search. He felt a sick twisting in his gut. Dammit, Gareth. Where are you?

  ***

  The next morning at dawn, Gareth prepared himself for battle. He had spent the night in the barracks, with Laust, Taliesin, and the other Oaks. “I’ll not stay behind, Laust. Not again. I’ve done my duty, haven’t I? Ever since we sailed home, I’ve done whatever he’s asked of me—and without complaint. I’ve sat through every boring council meeting he’s been absent for, received his visitors, managed the forge, and looked after my mother and sister.” The more Gareth thought about all the responsibilities he had shouldered in his father’s name over the past few years, the more his anger burned in his chest. “He’s doing this because of my mother. I know he is. If she could, she’d sit on me like a hen on an egg forever.”

  Laust nodded and slapped him on the back. “He’ll forgive you. Every father wants his son to prove himself on the battlefield and make him proud. The first time my father and I went raiding together, I was younger than you and not nearly as good with my axe as you are with your sword. Besides, you’re one of the only men here as big as a Saxon. Most here will be staring up at the enemy. You know what they’re like.”

  Gareth smiled, encouraged by his friend’s confidence. He was glad of his size. He and his father stood nearly eye to eye, and the hard work at the forge had given him a strong, muscular build. Buddug had taken to aski
ng him, almost weekly, which maiden in the clan he planned to marry, embarrassing him with a flood of praise every time she saw him. “Oh, dear gods, what a handsome lad you are! So tall and strong, with such a good head on your shoulders. You could have any lass in the clan, you know—you know that, don’t you? Time to pick one!” Thinking of it made him chuckle. There would be plenty of time for women after he had proven himself in battle.

  Laust socked him in the arm. “So? What are you going to do?”

  Gareth felt resolute about his decision. “Well, it’s not as if I lied to him. I told him I’d not stay behind. He shouldn’t be surprised to see me among the ranks today. And by the time we reach the battlefield, it’ll be too late for him to do anything about it.”

  Laust threw him a shield. “Fine, then. Enough talking. Let’s go.”

  ***

  The next morning, every man under Emrys’ command assembled upon the field outside the city walls in a cold, ominous fog. No warrior could see anything but the man to his left, to his right, and directly in front of him. They marched like an army of ghosts within that eerie cloud, their spears glinting like signals to one another in the mist.

  Gareth’s heart slammed against his ribcage, beating double-time with the deafening war drums. He and his brothers-in-arms stared into the battle like a pack of wolves ready to spring, waiting for Gorlois to launch the attack. The chieftains under Gorlois’ command, his father among them, were positioned at the head of their clans, ready to lead them into the fight when Gorlois gave the order.

  Does he know I’m here? He thought back to his conversation with Idris that morning.

  “Your father was looking for you,” Idris had said upon seeing him among the warriors on the field that morning. “He must have changed his mind about you coming, eh?”

  Gareth could not bring himself to lie so instead ignored the question. “Let’s put this land back in the hands of honorable men, where it belongs.”

  “You’ll be a terror,” Idris said, beaming, for he had trained him from the time he was old enough to walk. “May the gods drive your blade into a thousand hearts today.”