Leola took the underside of her apron and wiped the knife. She couldn’t very well throw it away for she knew now how handy a knife was, and yet she would not let Ardith see the dark black stain.
I killed a warrior.
What a strange thought that was. Strange and horrifying, and perhaps a little gratifying.
Leola shoved the idea from her head and focused on the younger woman by her side.
Owain went, sword in hand and voice loud with the cries of war. The soldiers around him, following his lead, plunged into the grouping Gewissae warriors. The Gewissae were no strangers to war, but it was clear to Owain that for this battle, they were not yet prepared.
Owain came on each warrior and cut him down with clean simple strikes, until his armor was splattered with blood and his painted face wet with perspiration. His mind was on the task before him, and how to most efficiently complete it. He would not stop until the enemy was completely annihilated. He could not even pause for a moment. For if he did, he felt he would have failed his mother once more.
His pulse beat loudly in his temples and his eyes stung from dirt and salty sweat. His fingertips trembled with every new step he took. Yet he pressed on, dodging the heavy war hammers and long swords of the Saxon men and bringing his swift strikes hard onto their chain-mail covered bodies. He heard their battle cries ringing in his ears at their initial clash and then their agonizing screams of pain as he crushed their collar bones and sliced through their forearms.
“Owain! Owain! Owain!”
He suddenly realized that those left standing around him were his own soldiers, and the Gewissae lay dead at his feet.
“Go on, Men!” Owain cried to his soldiers. “Take the houses apart. Any man you find, kill him!”
Owain looked over to see a young Gewissae, blinking and staring up at him. The man was bleeding heavily from his abdomen and held a bleeding socket where his right arm should have been. He was younger then Owain, perhaps twenty, but Owain did not take the moment to suppose.
The man was an adversary to be extinguished.
Owain placed his sword into the young man’s open throat and drove it deep within. The man’s eyes bulged and blood spewed from his mouth.
In the distance, Owain heard the high and panicked voice of Annon, whom he had left but a half an hour before.
“Prince Owain!” the boy cried.
“What!” Owain replied, rubbing his painted forehead with the back of his hand.
“Prince Owain!”
Owain turned from the ending skirmish and with backwards glances, went to the spot where his soldiers had first lined up for battle. He found Annon standing on a bounded pile of hay, exactly where Owain had left him at the start of the battle, so the boy could watch what happened.
“What is wrong?” Owain asked.
“It is dark,” Annon said, relieved. “I could not see you.”
“This is war, Boy,” Owain said, amused.
He took Annon down from his designated high point and started messing up his long hair.
“Ow!” the boy cried. “Stop!”
Owain laughed. “Let us go.”
“Shall I fight?” Annon asked, his eyes brightening at the thought.
“No. I shall fight, and you shall stay close to me. It is nearly over. Let us find Prince Britu.”
He went into the town to find the last remnants of the battle which had fled therein, and Annon followed close behind him.
One by one the scattered Gewissae warriors would run up to strike them, but Owain's quick movement would not let a blow find its mark. He then sliced through their necks or arms and left them dead.
“You are the most amazing warrior in the world,” Annon said, his awe clear from his voice.
“Not as amazing as the Pendragons of old,” Owain replied. “Now they were great men.”
His thoughts traveled to his grandmother and what she used to say about the Pendragons and their daring feats.
“A little of their souls live in us, Annon,” Owain continued. “If we can touch it, we too shall be great.”
“I think you already are,” the boy replied.
Owain smiled, laughing at the idea, for he had to agree with it. As long as the battle raged and his body was high with energy and anticipation, he felt as though he too was great.
The darkness of the mead hall felt heavy around them, as if they breathed some invisible weight instead of air.
“Do you hear that?” one woman asked.
They listened.
“There is no sound,” Ardith said, with an annoyed frown.
“Yea,” the woman said, and her voice became sharp. “There is no sound.”
Leola understood what the woman meant, and her heart panged inside her from the knowledge.
“What does that mean?” Ardith asked.
Leola lowered her head and looked away, unsure of how to explain it to her young friend.
“What does that mean?” Ardith said again.
“If the men had won, they would now be returning, singing the songs of victory and praising their champions all the way back here to the mead hall,” Leola replied.
“They have lost,” said another woman.
“No!” Ardith screamed and began to weep. “No! No!”
Leola clasped her tightly and rocked her back and forth.
What happens now? What do we do?
There was nothing to do but sit and wait. This would not be too hard for her as she was still tired from a sleepless night. She only wished that she was not so damp and cold from the stream water. The cold air in the mead hall had given her clothing no opportunity to dry.
“What of my father?” Ardith cried. “Where is he?”
“Shh,” Leola replied. “Perhaps he has escaped the battle. Do not think on it.”
But her own thoughts traveled to her uncle, Fensalir, and the uncertainty of his fate.
Is he dead? Are they all dead? What has happened?
Leola squinted her eyes, as if by trying to see better in the dark, she might hear more clearly. Then the faint cheers and songs of wars consumed her ears.
“What is it?” Ardith whispered.
One of the women wailed aloud.
“What is it!” Ardith screamed. “What is it!”
“Shh,” Leola said, trying to calm her.
“It is an unknown song in some other language,” another woman replied. “The Britisc have won, and we are doomed.”
A strange odor crept into the hall, and although from a distance, it was strong and putrid.
“What is that smell!” one woman cried.
They’re burning the bodies of our men!
Leola gagged.
“I cannot stay here!” one woman cried. “I shall go mad!”
She went to a large basket that was by the door and pulled out a short spear from it.
“Are you going to sit there and cower?” she yelled.
Ardith wept until her slender shoulders trembled.
“We are not all shield-maidens,” Leola said, in reproach.
“Either way, we shall die,” the woman replied. “Open the door!”
Others came forward, lifted the bar off, and set it down on the floor. The woman with the spear pulled the heavy door open and went out. Some of the other women went after her, but those with small children by them did not budge.
Leola glanced down at the younger woman she still held tight in her arm.
“Do you want to go or stay?” she asked.
“Go!” Ardith cried between her sobs. “We must go!”
Leola braced herself for what she was sure would be a dangerous undertaking, and rose to her feet.
“Come then, Ardith,” she said, helping the younger woman up. “We shall go.”
Without another word, they went to the open door and stepped out into the dreary night.
Chapter Ten: No Chance to Escape
The sky was a dark gray and the air felt heavy with dust and ash. The bright blaze
of the fires cast a red hue on the knights’ faces.
The knights were glad for a close of the battle and eager to be finished with their work. A cup of wine was waiting for each of them at camp as a reward for their victory. They would not likely get prisoners unless they had funds to purchase one at auction, for their status was far below the princes and therefore did not grant them such liberties. But an expensive drink that they did not normally have chance to consume was a fitting bonus for the battle.
Owain stood away from the cinders and gazed on the captured Saxons. The enemy warriors had been forced down on both knees and await Owain's judgment. Some were still, while others twisted at the bindings that secured their wrists.
“Dominae,” one of his knights said.
“What is it, Sir-Knight?” Owain replied, not taking his eyes off of the enemy.
“We have found a body dressed in wolf's fur, Dominae,”
“What age is he?” Owain asked.
“About fifty, I would guess,” the knight replied.
“Giwis King of Tiw,” Owain said. “Congratulations, Sir-Knight.”
One of the Saxon warriors gasped in horror, and Owain realized at once that he understood Latin.
“And also Sir Vesanus has identified the body of Earlmann Wigmund,” the knight continued.
“Good,” Owain said. “See that their bodies are burned and scatter the ashes.”
The knight went on the errand, and Owain spoke to another knight who was standing by.
“That boy there,” he said, pointing to the bound Saxon who had gasped. “Take him to Venta to King Gourthigern.”
“Dominae,” the knight said, bowing.
He went to where the Saxons sat on the cold spring ground and seized the young man.
“No! Unhand me!” the prisoner cried, in perfect Latin. “Let go of me!”
“Silence!” the knight cried.
He dragged the young man off with much difficulty, and Owain continued his business.
“Bring me that one there,” he said, indicating Earlmann Sigbert in the group.
The soldiers grabbed the ruler of Hol and took him to where Owain stood. The earlmann was silent and looked up at Owain with disdainful eyes.
“Do you have anything to say?” Owain asked.
“Abrieteest tha Britisc,” the earlmann replied. “Kill the Britannae.”
Owain did not bother to reply to these words.
“In the name of the Emperor of Albion,” he said, “I execute you for rebellion against King Gourthigern.”
Owain had executed many men since he had been made a dominae over six years before. Some for ordinary crimes, such as murder, but others were for rebellion and treason. And those always opened up painful memories of his mother’s death.
Earlmann Sigbert had committed treason and therefore deserved to die, just like the upstart who had taken the precious life of Owain's mother.
Owain did not flinch or hesitate as he sliced the earlmann’s head from his shoulders. His heartbeat was steady even as the blood splattered, and his eyes never wavered, gazing on the head as it rolled aside.
The soldiers took the head away and dragged the body in the flames.
“Bring me Earlmann Eadric,” Owain said to them.
The soldiers searched among the prisoners.
“He is not here, Dominae,” said the knight who stood by.
“Very well,” Owain replied. “Are there any other earlmann?”
But as his eyes fell over the captives once more, he knew by their clothing that none of them were rulers.
“No, Dominae,” came the answer tha the expected.
“Good,” Owain said. “As for the rest of these, cut their heads off and burn the bodies.”
The soldiers did as they were ordered, and Owain left them to their work.
Owain was weary from the battle, but as he returned to a calm state, the hurt, not of any physical injury but of memories, crept up his stomach and filled his heart with pain. He sought out his friends in some hope that their presence would put a balm on his wounds.
Owain found Britu, Swale, and Annon in the meeting tent, sitting around the table, eating a simple feast after the carnage.
“Owain,” Britu said, “now that was a victory.”
“Owain! Owain! Owain!” Annon chanted, his face still flushed with excitement.
He sat down with them and took some bread, for their jollity lifted his sorry face.
“It was a great success,” Swale said, cautiously. “But many Saxons have fled back to Tiw. We cannot cheer too long and then be vulnerable to an attack.”
“They are fleeing,” Owain replied. “They shall not start a war again for some time.”
“Let them fly,” Britu said. “We shall get them all, for there is no place to hide.”
“True, but we cannot harry every village from here to Glouia,” Swale said. “We must act rationally.”
“Why?” Britu said. “What better way to be rid of them than to kill them all?”
“Let us not be blood thirsty, Clansman,” Swale said. “We are civilized men.”
“We are,” Owain said. “Let them fly as you said. King Gourthigern and the Venta Capital of Atrebat are safe. King Giwis and Earlmann Sigbert are both dead.”
They applauded at the news.
“To peace,” Swale said, raising his cup.
“To war,” Britu said.
“To victory,” Owain said.
They drank then.
“Prince Owain was unbelievable,” Annon said. “He’s killed a hundred Gewissae warriors!”
“Of course he has!” Britu said, with a laugh. “Do you not know he has Mascen’s soul?”
“Really?” and the boy’s eyes grew wide with awe.
“Their grandfather the Emperor Mascen died on the same night that Owain was born,” Swale said. “His soul was granted to Owain.”
“I didn’t know that,” Annon said, gaping at Owain.
“That is what my grandmother said, Annon,” Owain replied.
“Then you must become the emperor!” Annon cried. “You have the emperor's soul! It is fate!”
“Really, Annon!” Owain said, too tired to be amused. “The only way I shall ever be emperor is if the kings elect me. Properly, legally, respectfully. I am not my grandfather.”
“I know, Prince,” the boy replied.
“I do wonder on the Gewissae's daring,” Owain said. “They did not have enough men here to attack Venta. Why would they risk it?”
“The Gewissae love war,” Britu replied. “They only wish to kill and do not think on the consequences of it.”
Owain doubted that the truth was so simple.
“Perhaps they had another more elaborate plan that was yet uncompleted,” Swale said.
“You have interrupted their schemes and prevented a disaster!” Annon said.
“Perhaps,” Owain replied.
He thought as much yet still wondered greatly what that original plot might have been.
“The Saxon great hall is filled with people,” Swale said, as if suddenly remembering business matters.
“How many?” Owain asked.
“Over two hundred women, I should think,” Swale said. “I'll have them counted later tonight. I can send them to Lerion for auction.”
“We’ll draw lots in the afternoon,” Owain said, “and then you can send the rest. There is nothing else of value in Gewisland but the Saxon horses, and most of them have escaped.”
“Not that Gewissae slaves are of any value,” Britu said.
“I will have an accurate count by noon,” Swale said. “Shall I put Annon down to draw lot?”
“What?” Owain said, looked at Annon with raised eyebrows. “Give the boy a prisoner?”
“His mother would have our heads,” Britu said.
“Annon may have a prisoner when he fights, and he may fight when he is ready to.”
“Very well,” Swale replied.
“Eat, Prince Owain
,” said Annon passing him a platter of small round cakes and purposefully changing the conversation. “More meat for the dominae!”
Before the servants could go, Owain stopped them with an uplifted hand.
“No, no,” he said. “It is too late to eat. Too late or too early. The camp is set. I am going to sleep. Swale, will you see that Prince Annon gets to bed?”
“Ie, to be sure,” Swale replied.
“Good. God keep you.”
“God keep you,” they said to him.
And he took his weary heart to his own bed.
The night air was dry and harsh, and the whole sky was gray. The horrible smell of burning bodies filled their nostrils. Leola and Ardith stopped in the large doorway of the mead hall and covered their noses and mouths to the stench.
“Oh!” Ardith gave a muffled cry. “Look!”
Leola’s eyes followed her outstretched finger.
The village down below them was up in flames and glowing yellow from the heat. The piteous complains of man and animal could be heard in the distance. Surely the Britisc had won and were now destroying the whole town.
Twenty years of life, crops, houses, market. All of it gone.
A piercing scream shook Leola from her thoughts.
The women ahead of them had walked into the advancing Britisc ridends.
The woman with the spear made good her mark, throwing the long weapon into one of the ridends’ head. Another ridend took up his bow and shot an arrow through her heart.
Leola gasped in horror, as the brave woman fell down onto the dirt road and was still.
The other women fled, screaming for their lives. Some ran south toward the woods and others north to the burning town.
Leola took a quick step.
Ugh!
A biting pain shook within her ankle and up her leg. Leola crumbled into a heap on the steps, gasping in horror of the agony.
“Ardith,” she whispered, through her gritted teeth. “Run. That way.”
Leola's pointed hand directed the younger woman to the wood at their right.
“Go. Quickly,” Leola gasped.
She tried to rise but her foot would take no pressure and the seething hurt would give her no rest.
“I can’t,” whispered Ardith.
The Beast of Caer Baddan Page 7