by M. K. Hume
‘I asked certain mutual acquaintances if they knew of a band of northerners who would have the balls to capture a group of aristocratic British tribesmen and women for the certainty of the gold involved in selling the prisoners back to their kin for a ransom. Preferably alive. If you go by the name of Stormbringer, you were recommended to me by a mutual acquaintance.’ Mareddyd chose his words carefully, glad now that he had taken the precaution of placing a bowman from his entourage in the crown of a nearby oak. The slightest turn of Mareddyd’s eyeballs in the direction of the tree would result in an arrow firmly embedded in Stormbringer’s back. Mareddyd felt a moment’s disgust and contempt. Did this oaf think that an obvious alias like Stormbringer would make him anonymous?
‘Don’t look for your bowman, Mareddyd, or whatever your name is. Your archer is now wearing an extra grin. I’m not fond of men who plant assassins at my back. It indicates a lack of trust on your part.’
Mareddyd suddenly felt alone and unprotected, so he hurried back into speech. The promise of coin might save him yet. ‘In a few days, a party of eight men and four young ladies will be riding in this direction. They are bound for Onnum in the north. The party is distinguished, although you’d scarcely know it from their mode of dress. Two of the women are barely of age and are of noble birth. The black-haired bitch is the daughter of King Bors of Cornwall, and she is betrothed to the son of King Geraint of the Otadini tribe who dwells north of the wall. The red-haired piece is the daughter of the Arden Knife, the master of Arden Forest. You may have heard of this man, who goes by the name of Bedwyr.’
‘Yes, I have heard of Bedwyr. These girls will be good for ransom, or as noble slaves. And . . . ?’ Stormbringer realised that the fate of two prepubescent female children meant nothing to the prince, certainly not enough to turn him against his own kind. Careful to keep the distaste out of his expression, Stormbringer waited patiently for the real point of this meeting.
‘The leader of this party is a tall, red-haired lad not yet out of his teens. He’s an excellent warrior, so don’t treat him casually. As the eldest son of the Arden Knife, he is ripe for ransom, but you may want to consider using him in another way. He is the unacknowledged son of Artor, the Dragon King, who was the last High King of the Britons. My heart will not weep if you sell him into slavery beyond these lands, or kill him. I leave the decision to you. But I must warn you that he carries Artor’s Dragon Knife and wields a sword wrought by the best metalsmith in our lands. He will not be easy to capture.’
‘Is there anyone else you’d like me to assassinate or send into slavery?’ Stormbringer asked sarcastically. Such was Mareddyd’s vanity that he missed the contempt in the warrior’s voice.
‘A shorter, dark-haired warrior travels with them. He is the third son of the King of the Dumnonii tribe, who protects vast acres in the south-west of Britain. His name is Eamonn pen Bors. Whatever you decide to do with him is up to you.’
‘Who else travels with them? Such important personages should not travel unguarded.’
‘Arthur’s bodyguard is a blond-haired warrior called Gareth. He will not be easy to subdue as he is oath-bound to his master, who is known as the Last Dragon. Five Dumnonii warriors accompany them, along with two serving maids for the girls. You may do with them what you will, because I don’t care if they live or die.’
‘Why are you giving me this information, Mareddyd?’ Stormbringer asked.
‘Do my reasons matter? I have given you information that will bring you gold. Surely I can keep my motives to myself. Why should you care?’
‘I am Dene. I like to know why I’m hired to kill someone.’
Mareddyd caught a trace of Stormbringer’s disdain. The man’s use of the term Dene puzzled and wrong footed him, for he had never heard of the Dene. Puzzles normally made him nervous, but his desire for revenge continued to burn inside him and caused him to give the man a little more information than he had intended.
‘Arthur and I have been enemies for years. He has shamed me, but he has so much power and reputation that I would never be permitted to meet him in open combat so I cannot retaliate, no matter how he insults me.’
Something of Mareddyd’s passion overrode the lie, and convinced Stormbringer that this Arthur had already proved too powerful for this Dobunni cur to overcome in mortal combat. This pact was a dirty business all round, but it could prove to be profitable on many levels for Stormbringer if he was successful. Mareddyd, on the other hand, could rot for all he cared.
‘Very well. You may expect that this party will not reach its destination. Ride on to Onnum, and await word from me there. Your . . . friends and countrymen will not arrive.’
‘Good.’ Mareddyd would have mounted his horse and ridden away, but the Dene stopped him with a guttural command.
‘I take nothing without payment,’ he muttered. He tossed a leather bag towards Mareddyd, who was forced to catch it awkwardly. Something inside the bag clinked dully, but by the feel it wasn’t coin. Mareddyd pulled the drawstring open and found five large rings of pure silver, linked together, inside the bag. Each of the rings was large enough to be worn on a man’s wrist but they were obviously a means of exchange, and not for decoration.
‘I want no payment,’ Mareddyd snapped. ‘What do you think I am?’
‘I know exactly what you are, Briton. I choose to pay my debts as they become due.’
Every mile travelled northwards sent the itch in Arthur’s brain into increased urgency and soon interrupted his sleep. Attuned to his master’s every expression, Gareth confronted him once they had left the relative safety of Vinovia. They had just crossed a Roman bridge over a wide river when the itch turned into a hard, painful moan that added to Arthur’s woes. Ahead, hills led into the mountains, and Arthur knew the heights offered greater safety. The lowlands provided greens, berries, fruit and a plentiful supply of small animals for the cooking pot, when Arthur permitted it, but until he reached the hills the leader of the party would be unable to rest.
‘What’s wrong, Arthur? You’re pale, your eyes are never still and your hands remain painfully close to your sword hilt.’ Hesitantly, Gareth reached out to touch his master’s shoulder. Normally, Arthur would have shrugged off the small gesture of comfort, but this time he accepted the sign of affection and concern. ‘What do you know that we don’t?’
‘I don’t know anything, Gareth, but I can sense that danger is very close to us. If anything should happen to me, I want you to protect the women. Promise me.’
‘Of course, Arthur, but I don’t understand.’
‘I do,’ Eamonn muttered as he loomed out of the darkness from the direction of the picket lines. ‘It’s that voice in your head, isn’t it? It tells you that something dangerous lies in the hills ahead of us.’
‘Yes, but I can’t for the life of me understand what it is. Our path through the North has been unremarkable, so I’m at a loss to understand how anyone could have divined who we are or where we’re going. All these weeks on the road have made us a ragged lot.’
Eamonn grimaced in agreement. Their clothing had lost their sharp, vegetable-dyed colours in the summer sun and even the simple act of washing it in the river water had weakened the fabric in places so that many of Arthur’s tunics had split along the seams.
‘I won’t be happy until we reach those mountains. They’ll provide some protective cover that we don’t have here. We’re exposed in this flat country.’ Arthur thought for a moment. ‘Tell the girls to rest well tonight, for we’ll be riding hard and fast tomorrow until we reach the foothills. We’ll only take enough rest to keep the horses alive. I know it will be hard going, especially for the women, but needs must. We’ll sleep easier when we reach the mountains.’
Mareddyd was drunk and belligerent. He had kept to his room, taking his food there and keeping out of sight from the time he had heard from one of his warriors who had been tasked to watch the gates of Vinovia and warn him of the arrival of the Dumnonii party. Mareddyd k
new he must not be seen by Arthur or his friends.
He never went anywhere without a troop of ten armed guards. One man had been executed by the Dene at the cross-roads, but the other nine were ordered to remain in their quarters until such time as Arthur and his travelling companions had left the town. Once they had gone, everyone heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Innkeeper,’ Mareddyd shouted over the hubbub in the small bar. ‘Hoi! I want to talk to you.’
Alarmed by his tone, and eager to lessen his belligerence, the innkeeper left his accustomed place at the bar to personally serve his noble guest.
‘Sit down with me, innkeeper,’ Mareddyd demanded in a voice that was just a little too loud because of his fuddled wits. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Of course, sir,’ the innkeeper replied soothingly as he eased himself down onto a bench seat. ‘My name is Ossian, son of Ottar, and you know my daughter Myfanwy, who has served you many times.’ The innkeeper kept his face servile and pleasant, but his heart surged with resentment.
‘Little deer!’ Mareddyd scoffed, choosing to sneer at the meaning of the girl’s name. He had never possessed an understanding of other people and had never exerted himself enough to try. Had he bothered, he would have wondered why the father of a ravaged daughter could sit so easily with the man who had assaulted her.
‘Yes, my lord, it is an unfortunate name. How may I help you?’
‘Who and what are the Dene? I’ve never heard of them until I met one today. I’m curious.’
Ossian paled a little. Enough Jutes passed through this northern town to give him some familiarity with a race that even they feared.
‘I’ve heard that the Dene came to Jutland from places even further north. It’s said that their homeland is a place where half the year is dark with no dawning, and the remaining half of the year is light with no sunset. Perhaps these tales are lies, because I can’t imagine such a place, but the Jutes swear it exists.’
Mareddyd mumbled drunkenly and nodded his head like a man on the verge of unconsciousness.
He won’t remember a word of what I’m saying in the morning, Ossian thought sullenly. I wish I was a braver man. I’d cut this animal’s throat for Myfanwy’s sake. This brute seems to enjoy inflicting pain on the powerless.
‘The Dene invaded Jutland some hundred years ago and, mile by mile, they’ve taken all the decent land. They’re great sailors and fierce fighters. Their excessive height makes them almost impossible to defeat in combat and they worship Ice Dragons and northern gods that are very much like those revered by the Saxons. The Dene and the Saxons are distant relatives, although the Saxons are shorter.’
‘Shite!’ Mareddyd focused on the innkeeper’s face. ‘They value dragons, do they? Let’s hope that admiration doesn’t extend to the human variety.’
‘I don’t understand, my lord.’ Ossian’s confusion was written clearly on his face.
‘Don’t worry, Ossian.’ Mareddyd drained his mug and struggled to his feet, patting Ossian’s head as he weaved towards his upstairs room. ‘You serve good beer!’ He leered across at his landlord. ‘My thanks for the information, Ossian. Oh, and you can send Myfanwy to my room, right now.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ Ossian replied, his voice both servile and sullen.
As usual, Mareddyd didn’t notice.
The next morning, as Arthur’s troop rode at a steady trot along the straight road through the late-summer countryside, Eamonn spurred his horse to join Arthur at its head with a raw-boned warrior at his side.
‘Arthur, I have just gleaned some information that makes me distinctly nervous. Trefor here saw something in Vinovia that could be the source of your nervousness.’
Arthur glanced up from under his leonine brows and Eamonn noticed that his friend’s eyes were very pale today. They were almost wholly grey, while the whites were red from lack of sleep.
‘Trefor, my good fellow, tell us what you saw.’
Trefor was thin and dark. Not overly tall for his people, he probably owed much of his ancestry to the Picts who had been driven out from the tribal lands many generations before the arrival of the Romans. During their long journey, Eamonn had come to respect the warrior for his obedience, flexibility and observational powers. If Trefor saw something that caused him some concern, it was worth repeating the tale to his leader.
‘When we rode into Vinovia from the south and passed through the gateway, I thought I saw a man whose homespun cloak was lined with the Dobunni squares. They’re distinctive in colour, as Leodegran chose the closest colour to purple he could make from vegetable dyes and mixed them with squares of a rusty red. I’m sure it wasn’t my imagination, and I’ve thought and thought about a reason for a Dobunni warrior to have travelled so far north. I know they trade widely, but this man was not a trader, although I only caught a glimpse of him. I should have told Lord Eamonn earlier, but I wasn’t sure. I hope I’ve caused no harm by keeping silent.’
‘That can’t be helped now, so I thank you, Trefor. If you see any more of that distinctive check, let me know at once. Let all the men know, for that matter. And the girls, because forewarned is forearmed. You can resume your position in the line now.’
‘You’re not angry with me, my lord?’ Trefor asked nervously.
Arthur smiled and shook his head, so Trefor drew rein and retraced his steps back through the line of travellers, passing the message as he went.
‘You don’t think Mareddyd’s around here somewhere, do you, Arthur?’ Eamonn asked, a line creasing the skin between his brows.
‘I can’t think of any reason for his venturing this far north, but I can’t discount it. That man wants both our heads. Meanwhile, there’s a knoll ahead of us that’s a perfect spot to rest the horses and have a meal. We’ll stop there for a few hours.’
The horses were urged into a brisk canter. The trees grew much more thickly along this part of the road and some spreading branches met overhead, turning the light of noon as green as grass, or the skin of a dead man. Then, suddenly, the hum in Arthur’s skull began to keen and a sense of urgency exploded through every vein in his body.
‘Ride! Ride! Ride! There are enemies here somewhere! Keep tightly together and ride like hell for the top of the knoll.’
Obedient and disciplined, the warriors obeyed. The girls’ faces whitened at the unaccustomed speed they were forced to maintain as they raced along the rough track. The knoll was close and they had almost cleared the thickly encroaching tree line when a section of rope netting sprang up across the track, directly in front of Arthur and Eamonn who were leading the troop. The web-like obstruction swept both warriors from their saddles and brought their horses down in a tangle of legs and screaming, open mouths.
Huge bearded men swinging long-handled axes sprang out from their hiding places and felled the horses of the warriors at the rear of the column with the same stroke that women used when wielding twig brooms. Shaking his head to clear it as he struggled to his feet, Arthur’s last view of the brief battle was seeing Trefor suddenly beheaded. The warrior who performed the execution stood at Arthur’s height and used his single-bladed weapon with exquisite economy of movement. Arthur was still staring in surprise when Trefor’s head sprang from his shoulders and rolled away into the brambles beside the road.
Then something struck Arthur on the side of the head and he felt his senses start to slide away. The screaming in his head was so loud that it seemed to fill the whole world as Gareth sprang over the tangle of horses and gutted the man who had struck Arthur with the blunt hilt of his sword.
‘Ride, Gareth, and find help,’ Arthur ordered with the last of his wits. ‘God damn you, Gareth! Ride – and ride fast! We’re done here, so go.’
Then the darkness embraced him with sounds that were full of raucous noise and a voice that cried and cried.
‘Stay alive, Arthur! No matter what happens, you must stay alive. Stay alive!’
In Vinovia, Mareddyd awoke with a vile headache and a tast
e in his mouth of bile, vomit and something rotten. He gagged as he sat upright, because the pain in his head from the ale he had drunk seemed to fill the universe with its sharp, blinding totality.
To avoid disgracing himself, he quickly found the pot that was kept under the bed for guests to use during the night. Then, embarrassed, he vomited into the malodorous receptacle, whose reek caused him to sicken still further until he felt raw inside and out. His stomach was completely voided.
An uncontrollable thirst claimed him.
Mareddyd sought out the jug of water for washing that sat on a rickety table in his room, but the ewer was almost empty. He drained the lukewarm water in it at a single draught and then bellowed for more.
‘What happened last night?’ he asked himself aloud. He was sick, dazed and unable to remember anything after his conversation with the innkeeper. ‘Just my luck to pick the one group of cut-throats who are likely to admire Artor and Arthur because of their links with dragons.’
The afternoon had the steady heat of an unusually settled summer’s day. The bedding stuck to Mareddyd’s naked back and sweat pooled in his armpits, his groin and the hollows behind his knees, while the reek of vomit made him dizzy. His head ached sullenly and his thirst was unbearable.
‘I need water!’ he bellowed again, careless of the hour and the display he was making in front of other guests staying at the inn. ‘Myfanwy, you bitch, get your lazy arse moving and get me some water. Now!’
The simple latch opened and the door swung gently inwards. Myfanwy was standing tentatively on the threshold with a jug of water in her left hand. Her right arm was splinted and bandaged.
‘What did you do to your arm?’ Mareddyd asked casually as he snatched the jug from her and began to drink.
‘You broke it, my lord. I was a little slow to undress you.’ The girl’s expression was flat and colourless. Mareddyd decided that she looked half witted.
‘Get me another jug, woman. This one’s empty.’
In obvious pain, she padded away on silent feet.