by Headlee, Kim
She alerted another messenger to prepare for the ride to the Mount Snaefell signal beacon to send word to Arthur upon confirmation of the Shasunaich presence. Her consort had left the staging area to inspect recovering troops at headquarters, which she viewed as a mixed blessing. Her message would be delivered sooner, but the last thing she needed was Arthur’s rebuke for assembling the legion needlessly should this fleet prove to be the phantom of an overtired imagination.
ANGUSEL LET Stonn pick his way through the hills south of Dhoo-Glass but balked at the pace, itching to put as much distance between himself and Gyan as possible.
She expected him to fail. Again. His face burned; sweat trickled down his neck.
He dashed moisture from his eyes, upbraiding himself for succumbing to her doubts. Succeed he must! Or die in the attempt.
Death seemed far better than suffering her scorn.
The brush rustled. Twigs snapped. Stonn’s head jerked. Murmuring soothing words and stroking his stallion’s neck, Angusel fixed his gaze to the path. A small creature ran squealing into the night. With the reins wrapped around one hand, Angusel dropped the other to his sword hilt.
He dared not push Stonn any faster and risk injury to either of them. Injury bred failure.
Near the top of the southernmost rise but far enough down the hill to hide their silhouettes, he halted Stonn, dismounted, and threw the reins over a limb. He squirmed on his belly over rocks, roots, grass, and sand to an outcropping.
The lowlands spread out before him like a great sable blanket, sprinkled with dozens of points of light that didn’t belong. He puffed out his cheeks, releasing a breath. Gods!
His heart thudding, he squinted at the advancing army, yet several miles to the south. They appeared to be marching with just enough light to keep out of rodent burrows, snake dens, and cow dung, maybe one torch for ten men. He estimated the size of the force at close to fifteen hundred.
He chewed his lip, salty from sweat and sea spray. Four-to-one odds…five-to-two, if Tanroc’s troops arrived in time. Ignoring the “if,” it didn’t sound too bad. The invaders might have the numbers, but the Manx Cohort knew the land, with or without light.
What a battle this would be!
Movement at the bottom of the ridge caught his eye. Instinct brayed a silent alarm. An enemy scout? He strained his senses, but the pounding breakers drowned all other sounds.
A sharp crack and a yelp of pain pierced the waves’ thunder. Two voices exchanged a few guttural Sasunaiche words directly below him. Angusel grinned. Surprising them would be pathetically easy.
He freed his sword and crouched.
The memory of his time-devouring encounter with the one-eyed Dailriatanach traitor flooded back. Gyan needed time more desperately than numbers. He sheathed his sword and crept back to Stonn, thankful for the surf crashing against the cliffs to mask his departure. Surely, she would be pleased! He urged his stallion toward Dhoo-Glass.
OF THE duties around the fort assigned to those of his rank—one step above raw recruit, his choice and damned proud of it—Gawain map Loth rated nightwatch lower than stable mucking. Officers often congregated at the stables with news to share. Even if half of it proved false, it made for a far more exciting shift than tromping back and forth along the palisade beneath the mute stars.
Gazing northeastward, his thoughts turned toward Dunpeldyr. Worry gnawed at him for his mother, brothers, and baby sister. Even for his father.
At leave-taking this past summer, Loth didn’t even grant him a farewell, which wounded far deeper than Gawain had expected. He couldn’t help the fact that becoming Chieftain of Clan Lothian ranked lower in his mind than nightwatch duty.
His elbow tingled where it contacted the cold stone. Realizing he’d been standing too long in one place, he shouldered his spear and continued his rounds.
Gawain couldn’t help the fact that his father chose to punish him for failing to live up to archaic notions of filial duty.
He had enjoyed the time spent with his younger siblings between the cattle raids, thankful that Loth’s attitude toward him hadn’t tainted theirs, and his mother had gone out of her way to smother him with love and kindness, as if her efforts could compensate for Loth’s lack. For their sakes, Gawain regretted his decision to return to Maun with Aunt Gyan. If the Angli believed that Arthur and Loth could attack at any time, God alone knew what those foreign bastards might do as a preemptive measure…and Gawain wouldn’t learn about it here until it was too late to attend the funerals.
But his aunt’s anguish still wrenched his heart, causing fresh hatred for Angusel to gust through his soul.
He wondered where that vehemence came from. He loved Aunt Gyan—Commander Gyan—as kin, but there had to be something more. Like, maybe, by watching her devastation, it was like watching his own emotions regarding his father’s choices being paraded for everyone.
But his father wasn’t dead. He couldn’t stop the thought before adding the damnable, inevitable yet.
Feeling a chill not entirely due to the night’s breeze, he stepped into the guard tower to warm up and found Claudius adjusting his helmet. They exchanged grunts of greeting. The striped candle showed one ring, marking the last hour in their duty shift. Claudius retrieved his spear and left the tower.
As Gawain rubbed his hands over the brazier, he glanced through an eastern bow-slit. A distant flash caught his eye. He blinked hard and looked again. The apparition didn’t vanish. He snatched his spear and stuck his head through the door.
“Claudius!” He restrained his voice to a loud whisper. “Someone’s coming!”
Claudius whirled and ran back to the guard tower. “Where?”
Gawain pulled him onto the east wall and scanned the rolling hills. The bobbing light flickered through a clearing. He pointed.
The shadows resolved into a rapidly traveling horse and rider. Now, Gawain could hear the approaching hoofbeats and crackling twigs.
Claudius studied the horseman for several seconds. “I can’t tell who it is. Better report this to Conall.”
“Of course!” Gawain slapped the wall for not thinking of it himself.
Arms pumping, he pelted to the main gate tower. At his shout, Guard Captain Conall sat bolt upright on the cot, fully dressed save cloak and boots.
Gawain thumped fist to chest in salute, drawing a breath to steady his voice. “Sir, a horseman approaches from the east.”
“A loner? How far?”
“At his pace, sir, he’ll be at the hedge at any—”
“Hail, Tanroc!” called the Brytoni voice.
Conall strode to the window slit and shouted, “Suilean?” The signs and countersigns were Caledonian. This one meant “eyes.”
“Suil a mhàin,” the courier answered, confirming that he carried an “only one eye” dispatch—and that one eye belonged to the man in charge. Gawain’s pulse quickened.
“Get Commander Peredur out here!” Conall ordered.
The troops were roused and ready before another candle-ring had vanished. Gawain, on the grounds that Commander Gyan was kin, talked his way out of guard duty to join them. His elation convinced him he could handle the entire enemy force by himself.
To say nothing of the chance to be on hand in case that whore-spawned Angusel failed her again.
ANGUSEL KNEED Stonn into a trot, hoping to stay ahead of the Sasunach scouts. He held his stallion to the valley’s tree line to maximize speed yet minimize detection.
It didn’t work.
At the foot of the ridge, he heard the unmistakable scrape of a sword being drawn. “Caraid!” he rasped, halting Stonn. Friend. The watchword applied to him, but only just. He subtly freed his sword hand from the reins in case he’d guessed wrong.
“Ainm,” stated the soldier as he appeared from the brush, flanked by several companions. None carried torches, but Angusel needed no light to show him their readied weapons.
They wanted his name; standard protocol, conducting the exchange
in Caledonaiche, since Gyan had deemed it unlikely their foes would know the language well enough to decrypt her signs and countersigns. He sucked in a breath, quelling the stab of remorse, and whispered the appropriate response: “Optio Aonar, Third Turma, Manx Cohort.”
The lead soldier sheathed his sword, saluted, and motioned Angusel forward. As he complied, he noticed many men lugged bulging water skins. Stranger still, they began dousing the brush.
He knew better than to waste time asking but warned them about the enemy scouts. The men exchanged a glance, thanked him with their nods, and signaled the entire unit to slip back into cover.
That seemed like a fine idea. He pointed Stonn toward the trees, and they crossed the remaining ridge and valley to Port Dhoo-Glass.
The fortress, guarding the harbor from atop the promontory, looked dark and quiet. Too dark and quiet. His puzzlement mounted as he guided Stonn toward a portal near the closest harbor-defense tower. After identifying himself and gaining admittance, he posed his question. The porter relayed a message Rhys had left, directing him to report to the north infantry drilling fields. Angusel couldn’t prevent the chorus of yaps as he spurred Stonn through the town toward the far wall, but he prayed the dogs’ noise wouldn’t destroy whatever surprise Gyan had devised for their unwelcome Sasunach guests.
He exited the opposite portal to find the infantry standing four abreast, paralleling the wall. Behind the signifer, who gripped the languidly fluttering cohort banner, the cavalry turmae headed the column, followed by units of archers and armed torchbearers.
Gyan, Rhys, and the other officers reined their mounts a few paces from the column to gaze pensively upward. As Angusel neared, a series of muffled hoots drifted over the wall. Gyan eyed him stonily.
“Optio, report,” she demanded.
Rebuking himself for expecting a miracle, he delivered his estimate about the size and speed of the enemy force, as well as his sighting of the Sasunach scouts. The words marched out briskly to shield his hurt. She gave no reaction save a curt nod, which wasn’t directed at him but at another courier mounted beside her. As that man galloped away and Gyan again cocked her head, more owl screeches split the night.
He couldn’t hope to win her respect if he couldn’t even claim her attention. “Commander, I—”
“Silence, soldier!” she snapped. “If Stonn is rested enough to fight, rejoin your turma. If not, stay to help guard the fort.”
Some choice. He’d sooner die than relive the uselessness he’d felt atop Senaudon’s walls while his clansmen’s blood reddened the firth at Abar-Gleann. Stonn shook his head, snorting and wrestling with the bit as if in agreement. He calmed him with a pat, straightened in the saddle, and captured Gyan’s gaze. “We fight, Commander.”
She dismissed him to his assigned place, far too many paces behind the one he yearned to reclaim.
At a third set of hoots, she cantered Macsen to the column’s head, the officers trailing behind her. Flanked by torchbearers, she wheeled her stallion to face the troops, her lips split in a grin made feral by the wild light. “The scouts are gone. We shall learn soon enough whether we have duped them. To arms, for Maun and honor!”
Her upraised fist set the column in motion.
THOUGH MIDWAY through nightwatch, Ælferd felt no fatigue as he marched among his bodyguards near the head of the army, buoyed by excitement over his imminent victory. The scouts’ report described a minimal force guarding the port’s walls. Clearly, the Brædeas expected no danger.
So much the worse for them!
He wished Camilla could help him eradicate this nest of Brædan vermin, but her father had refused to let her join Ælferd’s Manx expedition. Ælferd couldn’t fault him. The King of the South Saxons didn’t want his daughter to be so far from home with the man who loved her more than life itself.
He led his men to the first of three ridges separating them from their goal and signaled a slower pace. Only a fool would attack with warriors half-dead from the march.
The army topped the second ridge and poured into the valley. Ælferd had ordered silence, but he sensed the eagerness of his men, who surged like questing hounds against the leash. One more ridge separated them from their quarry.
As the first rank began to climb, an owl’s haunting cry pierced the night. After several heartbeats, a second, fainter owl answered.
Arrows whined, drawing fiery arcs across the sky. The first flight fell into brush near the column’s right flank. The twigs exploded into fireballs.
Oil-soaked brush!
As light flooded the valley, more deadly swarms followed. Too many good warriors fell under the steel-barbed onslaught.
Ælferd’s standard-bearer took an arrow in the throat. His cry drowned in a bloody gurgle. Another soldier rushed forward to catch the Green Griffin, but a corner of the cloth dragged through a torch. As flames devoured it, Ælferd’s men began to panic. Fear gripped his gut and loosened his bowels. Grimly, he ignored it and shouted more orders to the men. With his exhortations ringing in their ears, they regrouped and renewed the attack.
AS ARROWS rained fire upon the valley floor, Angusel steadied Stonn, his blood beating its anxious tattoo in his ears.
Gyan had rejected him again.
He leaned over to stroke Stonn’s neck, drawing comfort from its sleek warmth. The stallion answered with a toss of his head and a soft snort. Angusel sighed, wishing he hadn’t been relegated to the turma fighting the farthest from Gyan’s side.
Stonn’s ears swiveled forward, and he impatiently chewed the bit. Angusel saw the turma’s commander’s signal and readied his first javelin. Tightening his grip with knees and hands, he cast a swift glance toward Gyan.
Looking like the warrior-goddess Nemetona in the flesh, the torchlit Braonshaffir a fiery beacon aloft in her fist, she sat proudly astride Macmuir, shouting encouragement.
Her words seemed to embrace everyone but him.
He couldn’t hate her. Not while he despised himself.
As the turma decurion’s arm dropped and Stonn surged forward, Angusel begged Nemetona for extra measures of courage, strength, and skill so he could do something—anything—to earn Gyan’s favor.
Plummeting down the hillside, he banished his anxiety. Yelling helped. So did watching the Sasunach faces in the whipping torchlight twist into expressions of surprise and terror. The heat of answered prayer flooded his veins and braced his heart.
GAWAIN MARCHED as he’d been drilled again and yet again, with his gaze riveted to the helmet of the soldier in front of him. The bouncing torchlight challenged that directive but didn’t prevent him from straining to catch the first sounds of the battle that surely must be taking place at Port Dhoo-Glass.
What he heard were the hoofbeats, snorts, and whinnies of the fifty horses at the head of the column, the crunching of two hundred pairs of booted feet upon dry grass and twigs, the creak of leather, the clink of metal, the rustling of branches, the sigh of the sea. Everything except what he sought.
What on earth had he been thinking when he’d asked Arthur for this assignment? He should have requested a turma posting. The view from horseback always furnished a definite improvement.
What if there was no battle? As disappointing as that would be, a night’s reprieve from guard duty was worth the cost in blistered feet of the twenty-mile hike to Dhoo-Glass and back.
Perhaps Gyan’s forces hadn’t yet engaged the enemy. Ha! Against the entire Manx Cohort, they wouldn’t have a prayer. Why, she could defeat them all by herself, according to the tales.
What if…what if they were too late?
Gawain spat out the fear on a rising tide of bile and continued stumping through the endless night.
BEFORE ÆLFERD could press his advantage, javelin-casting horsemen came screaming down from the pine-shrouded ridge crest, followed by waves of foot soldiers.
He had no time to wonder how the Brædeas had been alerted. Shouting over the tumult, he commanded his men to fall back onto the
valley floor, where the improved footing allowed the enemy horsemen to be more easily cut down. About the archers he could nothing except hope they ran out of arrows before he ran out of men.
He eyed a warrior astride a white stallion, the leader of the charge and his only chance to salvage success from this disaster. He readied his seax for the killing blow.
Chapter 28
STONN’S MOMENTUM CARRIED Angusel deep into enemy ranks. The cavalry had been ordered to break off and circle to the Shasunaich left flank upon reaching the valley, to let the foot troops engage the front ranks. Angusel was in danger of being overwhelmed.
If the Sasunaich didn’t kill him for failing to follow orders, Gyan would.
He wheeled Stonn around to fight his way out. Men rushed at him, screaming obscenities and brandishing war-knives, swords, spears, and torches. He cared naught. His sword reaped a bloody harvest, fires marking his trail as dropped torches ignited leaves and clothing. Sasunaich ran from him, and he quested for other targets. To his battle-frenzied delight, he discovered a plentiful supply.
During a lull, he searched for Gyan and the rest of the cavalry. Several dozen paces away, she bestrode Macmuir, towering over the writhing Sasunach sea, felling a foe with each stroke. Angusel’s gut clenched. The charge had carried her too far too!
Heedless of how she might react, he urged Stonn toward her.
JUST WHEN Gawain thought the anticipation would drive him mad, a dull ringing arose, faint but clear. His body reflexively obeyed the command to double the pace, and the noise intensified into a din of heroic proportions.
He labored with the rest of his rank to the top of the ridge and its unobstructed view. His stomach lurched.
Scores of bodies littered the ground. Yet the enemy kept pressing forward, trampling the fallen to batter the Brytoni line, which was buckling in too many places. He spotted Gyan near the center of the conflict. Bitter dismay threatened to choke him as he watched Saxons close in. Orders be damned, he had to reach her side!