by Headlee, Kim
He covered her mouth with his and found it pliant yet…reserved. “My love,” he whispered, “I will stay with you for as long as I can. If that’s what you want.”
She reached up with both hands and pulled his head to hers. Their lips met in an explosion of ravenous passion. Working her hands toward his hips, she arched her body against his and delivered a silent invitation he was altogether delighted to accept.
Chapter 13
TRENCHER BALANCED ACROSS his good forearm, Dwras map Gwyn returned to the eating area of Dunpeldyr’s Great Hall to find another man seated on his bench. Empty seats abounded, but Dwras was sick unto death of having things stolen from him, especially by arrogant warriors who wielded their status as an excuse to abuse decent, honest, hardworking folk.
He jabbed the offending warrior on the shoulder. With a grunt, the man swung his head around to fix narrow eyes upon him.
“What d’ye want?”
“My seat. I want it back.” Dwras lowered his eyebrows. “Now!”
“You—what?” The Lothian warrior’s laughter nearly made him choke. A grinning companion slapped his back.
“Oho, Farmer Dwras thinks he’s one of us, lads,” chortled another warrior, making a shooing motion. “Be off with you! Back to your pigs, farmer boy.”
They burst into cackles, hoots, and hog calls. Dwras felt his cheeks flush.
The warrior in Dwras’s seat found himself buried under sops and ale.
“My mistake, sir.” He grinned devilishly. “I thought this was the sty.”
Bellowing, the warrior shot to his feet. Soggy bread flew everywhere. Dwras ducked the blow. Upon connecting with a bony chin, he sent the man sprawling across the cluttered table. The warrior’s humiliation more than balanced the pain lancing Dwras’s healing shoulder. The audience’s jeers redoubled with vicious glee.
The warrior stood, ale-streaked face darkened with rage and fist cocked. “You filthy whore’s son, I’ll—”
“Halt! Everyone!”
Trailed by a detachment of guards, Chieftain Loth strode across the hall, toppling benches and shoving servants from his path. Fists lowering, the adversaries stepped apart.
Dwras bowed his head to accept the chieftain’s harsh judgment. From the corner of his eye, he saw the warrior reacting in much the same manner, and it gave him a perverse surge of satisfaction.
“You.” Loth thrust a finger close to Dwras’s face. “Your doing?”
The truth died in his throat. Surely Chieftain Loth would believe his own warrior over a mere farmer.
He sighed. “Aye, my lord.” Perchance the end would come quick and painless. On the other hand, he’d never been that lucky.
“Hmph.” The chieftain turned to address someone behind him. “This is the farmer who brought me word of the raid. I told you he’s too much trouble to keep here.”
Here it comes, Dwras mused, banishment. Mayhap the chance to join his wife and son sooner, a fate for which he dared not hope. He certainly had nothing left on this side of eternity.
The man Chieftain Loth had addressed stepped to the forefront of the gathering. Dwras felt his jaw go slack.
If any woman’s son had ever claimed divine descent, this one ought. To call him fair of face would be a gross injustice when his countenance radiated strength, confidence, and intelligence in equally great measures. His face seemed both young and old at once, accustomed to receiving instant respect and obedience: the face of a god.
“I think he has more to tell.” Even the man’s voice resounded godlike in its commanding yet compassionate authority. Profound sympathy shone from his intense blue eyes. “Don’t you, lad?”
“What’s to tell, Arthur? Dwras was causing trouble.” Loth nailed Dwras with his stare. “Again.”
“I want his story.”
As he loosened his tongue to describe the brawl, his head reeled like a drunkard’s. What name had Chieftain Loth given this man? Arthur? Loth’s brother-by-marriage, the Pendragon himself, here in remote Dunpeldyr? In the dead of winter?
Impossible!
This warrior came dressed for the part, aye, sporting more finely spun linen, well-tooled leather, and freshly polished bronze than Dwras had seen in his entire score of years. Scars adorned those hard-muscled arms and legs, too, thin white ribbons left by only the sharpest blades.
The Pendragon, indeed.
He couldn’t believe his fortune. Rather, his misfortune, for he felt utterly foolish for boring Arthur with such a trivial matter. He dropped his gaze to the floor rushes.
“Dwras, I commend your courage for alerting Chieftain Loth, as badly wounded as you were.” Arthur’s hand rested lightly upon Dwras’s uninjured shoulder. “This may be cold comfort, but you helped spare many more villages. And I like your spirit. Even if it’s a bit—misdirected.” Dwras dared to meet those unwavering eyes. Their fire branded his soul. “I would like to put that spirit to better use.”
For the second time in as many minutes, he thanked God that his jaw was hinged to his head, else it surely would have hit the floor. Had he heard aright? Was the Pendragon asking him to trade his pitchfork for a spear? Giving him a chance to avenge his loved ones? A chance his own chieftain had denied him?
More to the point, was he, Dwras map Gwyn, a simple son of the earth, truly capable of doing such a thing?
If grief for his family and friends had begun to ebb, hatred for their Angli murderers would smolder as long as blood flooded his veins. Now, icy conviction tempered the molten hatred.
Thrusting out his chin, he raked the astounded Clan Lothian warriors with a defiant glare.
“When do we leave, Lord Pendragon?”
“Can you ride?” Arthur asked.
Placid farm beasts, aye, not the fearsome dervishes warriors favored, but no power in heaven or on earth could force him to confess that to Arthur. “Aye, my lord.”
Arthur nodded slowly, as if pondering the truth of the claim. For one terrifying moment, he believed the Pendragon could read his thoughts and discover the lie.
“Pack your gear. We depart at dawn.”
Dwras felt smitten by an intense wave of unworthiness. Who was he that the mighty Pendragon would take a personal interest in him?
One glance into those intense yet compassionate eyes told him all he needed to know. Mimicking the Pendragon’s warriors, he squared his shoulders and raised his fist to his chest in an unspoken pledge to devote himself to Arthur’s service to the very best of his ability.
ANGUSEL WOKE to a familiar pressure in his vitals and sat up. His wolfskin wrap slid off, and cold smote his shoulders. He pushed aside the tent flap to discover what else had invaded the camp.
Trees, ground, tents, supply packs, nothing had escaped winter’s snowy touch. Even the stars had vanished behind a vast shroud.
An icy wind prickled his bare arms and echoed down his spine. Taking care not to disturb his tentmate, he tugged on his long-sleeved undertunic and boots and shrugged into his battle-tunic. He retrieved his cloak and gloves, parted the tent flap as little as possible, and crawled outside.
After standing, he pinned his cloak in place, donned the gloves, and dusted snow from his leggings. The Pendragon had ordered half the men to stand watch while the others slept, and the four at the firepit belonged to the second watch. Angusel gazed eastward but couldn’t discern any lightening of the sky.
This sojourn boded ill for getting any more sleep.
The central campfire had been built within a three-course-high ring of stones designed more to contain the light than the flames. This meant less heat for the occupants of the tents ranged around the firepit like a wheel’s spokes, obliging everyone to double up. The cold made it foolhardy to risk doing without fire, but being this close to Angalaranach territory carried its own deadly risks. Shielding the light also helped reduce night blindness.
Thus, his eyes adjusted quickly in the half gloom, and he noticed that the Pendragon, who with Gyan had taken first inner-perimeter watch,
was already awake. He sat hunkered and silent under his heavy black cloak with his back to the fire beside one of the soldiers. Both men faced the narrow path that connected the thicket to the stream.
The only other access into the camp’s center—unless an enemy wished to alert every soul within half a league by hacking through dense brambles—was by way of the logs where the company had tethered the horses, on the opposite side of the camp from the burn that provided their water supply. The Pendragon had divided the watch between the horses, the burn, and the outer and inner perimeters.
During his watch, which had begun at sundown and seemed to end half a lifetime later, Angusel had been posted to the inner perimeter. He thought it odd that Arthur would go to such lengths to defend a traveling camp; they were twoscore and three of the legion’s finest horse-warriors and likely to defeat a force five times their number.
However, he knew his place was not to argue but to serve the Pendragon and Gyan to his utmost. Especially Gyan.
A latrine trench had been dug between the inner perimeter and the horses. As Angusel exchanged a whispered greeting with the Pendragon and the guard, Gyan emerged from the tent she and her consort shared. Clutching her cloak to her chest, she hurried for the latrine. Angusel would have stayed until her return if his own needs hadn’t been so acute. The trench was long enough to accommodate half the camp. But as he moved to follow her, Arthur stopped him.
“Give her a few moments alone,” whispered the Pendragon.
Angusel gritted his teeth. “But, my lord, I—” The unmistakable sound of retching cut off his protest. He squatted to meet Arthur’s gaze. He couldn’t be sure in the fickle light, but he thought Gyan’s consort looked concerned. “Is she all right?”
The Pendragon lifted a shoulder noncommittally. From beneath his cloak came the creak of leather and scrape of metal. “It’s a female matter.”
When Angusel would have voiced his next question, Gyan returned. Her stride, as purposeful as ever, displayed none of the urgency she’d shown only a few minutes before. She thrust a hand toward her consort, who gave her a wine skin he and the guard had been sharing. She swilled a mouthful, turned her head, spat, and swallowed several gulps.
Satisfied that she seemed no worse for her bout of the flux, Angusel excused himself and headed for the latrine.
In spite of the snow, saddle sores, stiff muscles, and lack of sleep, life looked far better after he’d finished the task at hand.
As he tied his breeches and smoothed his tunic, he studied the horses. They seemed more restless than they ought: tossing their heads, whickering uneasily, stamping, and snorting. The loudest noises, he realized with alarm, were coming from his own mount.
Angusel hurdled the smelly trench and landed lightly on the other side. Slowly, he approached the limb attached to the log where Stonn’s reins were tied, offering pats to other horses along the way.
The area had been selected for being relatively clear of brambles, stumps, roots, holes, and anything else that might harm the horses. The march of trees resumed another ten paces beyond, where the outer perimeter guards had been posted.
Angusel found his stallion standing with all four hooves stiffly planted, ears pinned back, and tugging at the reins.
“Steady, boy.” The tugging stopped, but when he reached for Stonn’s cheek, the horse jerked away. He persisted and finally was able to lay a hand on Stonn’s neck. “What is it, Stonn?”
As if in answer, the stallion blew a loud snort and was answered by other horses in the line. Angusel strained his ears and squinted at the tree line but couldn’t sense any predators.
The cloud cover thinned enough to let the half-moon illuminate what appeared to be a fallen log beyond the first line of trees, which in itself wasn’t unusual. But the company had spent the waning twilight scouring the woods for deadfall to use for the horses’ tethers as well as the fire, and he suspected that the log—or whatever it was, for its shape didn’t look right—hadn’t been there before.
Ignoring the warning prickle and wishing he’d brought his dagger, he gave Stonn a final pat and set off to investigate.
Clouds shrouded the moon, and the path dimmed. Cautiously, he crept forward and toed the log. It felt far too soft for wood.
An arm flopped onto the snow.
In a burst of moonlight, he saw blood beneath the body.
One of the sentries! His throat had been slashed. He was armed, but only because he’d trapped his sword between his body and the ground when he fell. Who had killed him—raiders or an Angalaranach patrol or bandits—Angusel couldn’t begin to guess. Nor did it matter.
He whirled, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and blew a shrill blast. An arrow grazed his shield-side shoulder as he rolled the sentry’s body and stooped to snatch the sword.
More arrows arced over his head and sped toward the firepit.
The forest erupted with unholy whoops and screams, as though all the Otherworld’s ifrinnaich were invading the camp.
Swift as lightning, he felt his battle frenzy ignite. He ran at Stonn, wrenched the reins free, and scrambled onto his back, brandishing the sword and yelling his challenge at the enemy.
ARTHUR HEARD the whistle and dived away from the fire. Gyan followed—not a heartbeat too soon; arrows riddled the ground where they’d been sitting. One caught their guard in the throat. He fell with a wet gurgle. Someone across the camp gave an agonized cry, but whether his wound was mortal, Arthur had no time to assess.
“Sentries, report!” he shouted in Latin, as the men who’d been asleep began bursting from the tents, swords drawn.
Only four of the eight outer-perimeter sentries responded. The men posted nearest the horses and the stream were either dead or too close to the enemy to reveal themselves. Either way, it told Arthur that the enemy forces were arrayed to attack both access points.
A smart ploy, he grudgingly conceded.
Thankful for having divided the men into just two watches, Arthur sent the second watch to the horses, where Angusel had freed and mounted his stallion and was engaged in close combat with one of the raiders. Arthur sent the men of the first watch to reinforce those already fending off the attack from the stream side. He regretted having no way to direct the surviving outer-perimeter sentries but trusted them to join the battle wherever they might.
When Gyan drew her sword and moved toward the horses, Arthur caught her wrist. “You’re with me. To the stream.”
Her eyes glittered fiercely in the flickering light. “So I can hide behind your sword?” She wrenched her arm free. The crimson flush that signaled her battle frenzy began staining her cheeks. She drew a deep breath. “I think not. They’re after the horses.”
“I know. But, Gyan, it’s too—” He stopped himself, suspecting how she’d perceive his protest.
“Too dangerous?” she finished for him. “Ha.” She shook her head and pointed with her sword toward the stream, where the enemy was hacking through the brambles to widen the line of attack. “Here comes the biggest threat. I will secure the horses and lead the men back to reinforce you.”
Without waiting for his agreement—or argument—she bounded off, cocking her sword overhead and adding her Caledonian battle cry to the din, leaving no time to be furious with her as the raiders broke through the thicket and his battle began.
GYAN JERKED her sword from the man she’d gutted and glanced up to watch in horror as one of the raiders pulled Angusel from Stonn’s back. She whipped her head around. The rest of her men lay dead, injured, or were putting other raiders to flight.
“A’mi!” she called in Caledonaiche, and in Ròmanaiche, “To me!”
The fighting had spooked the horses, and most were trying to free themselves, rocking the tether logs violently.
Angusel and his assailant disappeared behind a log. A yelp of pain rang out. No time to wait for the other men to return. Gyan gauged the distance around the log: too far. She sheathed her sword, ran toward Angusel’s last known positio
n, jumped on top of the log, and vaulted onto the raider’s back. Together they tumbled, one over the other, across the hard-packed dirt toward the trees.
As she grappled with the raider, he worked his dagger free. She rolled before he struck, but not far enough to avoid a hard blow in the stomach. The dragon on her wide bronze belt deflected it, but pain bolted through her midsection.
My bairn!
Grimly, she thrust aside concern for her unborn child to concentrate on her own survival.
She gathered her feet to her chest and shoved with all her strength. The enemy warrior stumbled backward, giving her time to scramble to her feet, doubled over and panting heavily. The man had to be twice her size. Her arms felt like deadweights; she could scarcely hold her sword, never mind using it with deadly force.
Muscles quivering, she gripped it with both hands and braced herself for the raider’s assault. Sword lowered, he charged.
A dark blur slammed into him from the side. Bellowing, the raider lost his balance and fell with a heavy thud. Gyan hurried over to finish what her benefactor had started. She thrust Braonshaffir through the enemy’s neck, and he drowned in his own blood.
The horses seemed safe, but by the shouts and clamor of steel on steel, she knew Arthur’s battle at the burn was far from over.
“A’mi!” she cried as the first of her men emerged from the trees.
Of the fifteen that returned, one was clutching a bloody sword arm to his chest and another was limping badly. She glanced around in the graying dawn and saw a shape crumpled nearby, groaning. As she approached, the shape rolled and sat up, hand to head.
“Angusel!” Gyan dropped to her knees beside him. He had several wounds, though none looked mortal. “Are you all right?” she asked in Caledonaiche.
A bewildered expression crossed his face, and he shook his head, apparently less in answer to her question than to collect his wits. “Where is the hellion? Did I get him?”
She grinned at his choice of epithets, ifrinnach. “Hellion, indeed.” She stood and offered her hand, and he hauled himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “You saved my life, Angus. I”—and my bairn—“thank you. But we must help Artyr. Can you fight?”