by Headlee, Kim
Logic ceased as he rushed into the fray.
AS THE Brædan leader plunged toward Ælferd, he realized he faced a woman screeching some weird battle cry as she hacked down Saxon after Saxon. Camilla’s face flashed to mind, but he pushed the beloved vision aside. The woman bearing down upon him, face contorted with fury, bore no resemblance to the princess. And this warrior had already killed or maimed a score of his men.
Ælferd dodged from her path and leaped to thrust behind her shield as she flashed by. With a dull clank, his seax deflected off a wide metal belt, but the blow’s force knocked her from the saddle. Her stallion bolted. Swinging his seax in a deadly arc as she tried to roll to her feet, Ælferd closed in for the kill.
ANGUSEL SAW Gyan disappear into a knot of Sasunaich and spurred his stallion with redoubled urgency. She could rebuke his disobedience later, and he’d gladly bear any punishment, if she survived.
If. The word powered his sword arm with fatal precision, fatigue and pain imprisoned in a remote corner of his mind.
Crossing the distance seemed to take a gods-cursed eternity.
He found her grappling with a richly armored Sasun, who had her pinned. Her helmet was gone. Gritting her teeth, she struggled to hold her attacker’s war-knife from her throat. Her neck oozed blood where the Sasun had grazed it.
Angusel shed his shock and fear, kicked Stonn closer, scrambled to a crouch in the saddle, and jumped.
GAWAIN LOST his spear in the charge, buried in a Saxon belly. His enemy, shrieking, gripped the shaft, and it snapped when Gawain tried to yank it free. Another Saxon lost an eye to the broken spear’s iron-capped butt. Gawain flung the shaft aside and drew his sword. Catching the torchlight, the blade seemed to writhe with an inner fire. For an instant, he stared agape at its uncanny beauty.
The blond onslaught began anew. Three screaming Saxons tried to overwhelm him by a concerted attack.
He hewed through them in time to see a Dhoo-Glass horseman leap from his mount to knock a Saxon off a companion.
Gyan! And that ill-begotten Angusel, both just moments from slaughter.
Not if he, Gawain map Loth, had any say!
The former heir of Clan Lothian called members of his unit to his side and grimly applied himself to his work.
ANGUSEL HIT the Sasun with bone-rattling force, and they rolled away from Gyan. Before the stunned warrior could recover, he tore off the man’s helmet, grabbed two fistfuls of flaxen hair, and slammed his head repeatedly into the ground. The Sasun went limp.
As he reached for his sword, fingers dug into his shoulder and dragged him back. Angrily, he whipped his head around to find emerald eyes that blazed like a monster from his worst Otherworldly nightmares. Sweat cut through the blood and grime on her fury-contorted face. Her blood-streaked sword was leveled at Angusel.
Choking back despair, he deferred, head bowed, to the Hag of Death incarnate.
AS TIME seemed to freeze, Gyan glared at Angusel. Rather, at the scar on his neck she couldn’t see but knew all too well, the scar that signified his defunct Oath of Fealty. The scar that mocked her, reminding her of the son she never would see again because of the ineptitude of the scar’s bearer. The scar she ached to obliterate.
Love or hatred: choose.
At her feet, the Sasunach commander moaned. Angusel stood beside him, bleeding from a dozen minor wounds, chest heaving, sword lowered, head bowed. The battle eddied around them as a knot of Manx Cohort warriors prevented Sasunaich from rescuing their fallen leader. Gawain led them, she realized dimly, which meant that Per’s troops had arrived, freeing her to concentrate on her immediate threat.
She gazed at Angusel’s scar.
Me or the Adversary. Choose.
Her neck burned as if branded with a fealty-mark. She removed her glove to touch the spot, not surprised to find it hot and sticky. A hair’s breadth deeper and the wound might have been her last. Should have been her last! Rage welled at the thought that Angusel had thwarted her escape into eternity.
She smeared her blood between her fingers, replaced the glove, and gripped her sword in both fists.
Mine is vengeance, daughter. Mankind’s is revenge. Choose!
This Sasun had invaded Maun without provocation, giving Gyan a wound that would bind her to Angusel and torture her to the grave with the very thing she’d hoped to avoid. Angusel’s intervention violated honor. He’d had no right to affect the duel’s outcome.
Angusel hadn’t saved Loholt’s life…but he had saved hers. Again.
A swift glance at the mangled corpses convinced her she wasn’t ready to accept that fate.
But Loholt’s loss and Angusel’s role in it shrouded her heart. Grief demanded retribution. Honor demanded reward. Death for death; life for life. The misery emanating from Angusel’s stance suggested a more prolonged retribution: life for death.
My Way is death for life; choose.
“Leave me alone! Your Way is impossible to understand!” she shouted in Caledonaiche at the murky heavens. “Where were You when Loholt needed You? When I needed You?” She pummeled her thigh, heedless of the pain. “Why didn’t You answer me?”
Were you listening?
A flush heated her face. Sweat chilled her spine. Her fist stilled. She licked her lips.
Were you?
Ignoring Angusel’s confused stare, she whispered, “I am now.”
Then choose.
She raised her sword, clenched her teeth, and chose.
THE SASUNACH commander’s head rolled across the blood-slick ground.
Up jerked Angusel’s head. He half feared he’d be next and half wished he would be. Oblivion never had seemed more appealing.
He met Gyan’s gaze, praying for a sign of forgiveness. She bent to grab the Shasunach head and shouldered past him.
Her newest trophy tied by the hair to her sword belt, spattering blood as it bounced against her thigh, she lunged into the fray without a backward glance, a soul-freezing battle cry on her lips and steel death in her fist.
Through tear-blurred eyes, he watched her disappear, guarded closely by Gawain and other Tanroc soldiers, wishing she’d taken his own head. It would have hurt far less.
Grief collided with anger in his soul, igniting his battle frenzy with lightning-bolt force and searing away the tears. Screaming and brandishing his sword, he charged the Sasunach line.
He had nothing left to lose.
“BEDWYR!”
The son of Bann swatted at the offending hand. Like a hungry horsefly, it refused to go away.
“Bedwyr, wake up,” buzzed the persistent voice. “I need the fleet. Now!” A shove rocked his shoulder.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back. His sleep-crusted eyes gradually focused upon the apparition looming over him. Arthur? At Caerglas? With no advance word? Surely not. He must be dreaming.
No, he wasn’t. Nor was this Caerglas, he recalled. His patrol had docked at Caer Lugubalion the day before to enjoy a brief shore leave.
All too brief, apparently.
He glanced at the window. “Gods, Arthur, it’s nowhere near daybreak.” He pulled the woolen blanket to his ears and turned away from the annoyance he usually was happy to call friend. “Can’t a man get any sleep?”
“Not with an invasion in progress.”
“Invasion?” He sat up. Hair cascaded into his face. From the bedside table, he snatched a leather thong. “Here?”
“Maun.” Bedwyr didn’t miss the concern hiding beneath the hard edge of Arthur’s voice.
“Again?” As his sleep-numbed hands fumbled behind his head, surprise stopped him midknot. “Cuchullain can’t possibly be strong enough yet.”
“Not Cuchullain. Saxons.”
“Saxons? On Maun?” The knot secure at last, he flexed his fingers and stared at Arthur. “Are you certain?”
The oil lamp wavered as Arthur set it upon the table. Light glinted off the bronze rivets of his battle-kilt and baldric.
“At least fifteen hund
red in twenty-five ships, according to the signal-beacon report. That’s all I know.” Arthur dug his knuckles into his palm.
“A journey like that would be…” Bedwyr squinted, wrestling with the calculation. “Six hundred miles. A lot more if they follow the coastline to avoid my patrols. That’s a fortnight of sailing at the very least. Weeks to plan the affair, months more to gather men and weapons and provisions and—”
“I know.”
“Why go to such trouble for that tiny spit of land?”
“It seems, my friend, that the Saxons have discovered its strategic value, like Cuchullain before them.” Arthur’s gaze intensified. “They must be trying a night attack on Dhoo-Glass.”
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Bedwyr swore.
“Dress quickly.” Arthur started for the door. “There’s much to be done yet before we sail.”
“I can handle the fleet, Arthur, and the men.” He reached for his undertunic. “You don’t need to suspend the Angli campaign.”
“Yes. I do.” Stark lines of worry creased his friend’s brow.
“Oh, no,” Bedwyr whispered. “Gyan…”
“Exactly.” Arthur resumed his course. “Meet me at the docks.”
“Lucky thing my patrol was in port tonight.” The undertunic slid over his chest, a welcome shield against the chill. “And that you were here inspecting the troops.” He stood and paced to his armor chest.
Arthur paused with a hand on the door handle. “You know I don’t believe in luck.” The worry yielded to grim determination. “Or coincidence.”
“Come on, Arthur. You have to believe in luck.” Arthur shot him a look that, for all its impatience, invited him to explain. Bedwyr grinned. “How else can you explain the success of your enemies?”
The Pendragon snorted and left.
BELLOWED ORDERS and pounding feet splintered Cynda’s dreams. She sat up, gasping, and peered about the darkened chamber. Seumas, who had escorted her from Arbroch in response to Dafydd’s urgent message, had also awakened and was struggling with the thongs of his battle-tunic. She rose and hurried over to help him.
Bitterly, she had protested Ogryvan’s decision to send her to Maun. Gyan’s accusatory words had branded her heart with guilt and shame. Cynda feared her reception would be nothing like the one she’d received from Lord Artyr the day before.
Seumas girded on his sword, lit a lamp, and inched forward as stealthily as leather and metal would allow. Voices sounded in the corridor, and he cocked his ear toward the door.
Cynda shrugged into her overdress, laced on her shoes, and joined him, gripping his arm. “Is this place under attack?” She hoped the whisper hid the tremor in her voice.
Ogryvan’s best warrior lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “I cannot make out what is being said.” The voices moved on. Seumas straightened and gazed at the ceiling, creaking under the passage of many feet. “They’re aye preparing for something.”
She fetched her cloak, flung it about her shoulders, and strode back to the door. Seumas, arms folded and countenance stern, barred her way. “What are you doing, Seumas? Please step aside.”
“Carrying out my orders,” he replied gruffly. “If we’re under attack, you should not be in the midst of it.”
Hands on hips, Cynda rolled her eyes. “But we might not be. I must know. Lord Artyr promised to secure my passage to Maun. I—” She heaved a breath, suppressing her doubts and fears. “I would rather be at Gyan’s side.” If she’ll have me. “Not stranded here, waiting for her consort’s return while he runs off on some mission.”
“Nay.”
“Seumas,” she said, fighting to keep the exasperation to a reasonable level. “I birthed you and taught your mother how to change your swaddling. I also taught her to swat your arse when you misbehaved. If you don’t want me to demonstrate that lesson—”
A sharp pounding cut her off. Seumas drew his sword, lifted the bolt, and eased the door open a crack. Cynda stood on tiptoe but couldn’t see past the warrior’s bulk. He sheathed his sword and opened the door wider, stepping aside.
Lord Artyr stood in the corridor, arrayed in Ròmanach battle-gear, his red-crested bronze helmet tucked under one arm and his short scarlet cloak replaced by the long, hooded black one that Gyan liked to wear. He greeted her with a terse nod. “Gather your gear and meet me at the docks. You’re coming to Maun with me.”
She glanced out the window, consternation and confusion furrowing her brow. “Now, my lord?” Then the greater implication hit. Her heart twisted. “Gyan—is she all right?”
“I don’t know.” Frustration bled through his tone. He said to Seumas, “Your duty to Cynda is discharged. I assume responsibility for her safety. Return to Ogryvan with the report that Maun is under attack, status of residents unknown. I will send word when I can.” He began to turn away, stopped himself, and faced them, smiling faintly. “And thank him for the use of his pigeons. I plan to develop a flock for myself.”
CONFRONTED WITH the death of their leader, the Shasunaich resolve began to waver. The arrival of Per’s troops shattered it. By tens and scores and hundreds, the enemy fled into the predawn gloom.
Gyan stared at her reddened sword. Braonshaffir had served her much better, she thought with a wry smile, than Arthur’s other gift. The One God alone knew where that bedeviled horse had bolted. She stooped to wipe Braonshaffir on the tunic of the nearest corpse. The search for Macmuir would have to wait. With a solemn nod to Braonshaffir’s dead benefactor—whether Caledonach, Breatanach or Sasunach, it remained too dark to tell—she sheathed the sword and shouted to her men to break off pursuit and regroup.
Let the michaoduin run tuck-tailed to their ships, she decided. If they left the island, so be it. If not, she’d deal with them later. Now was the time for assessment and desperately needed rest.
She found the nearest tree and braced a hand against its rough steadiness. Pain flared in every muscle. Her ebbing battle frenzy gave her a fair idea of how an empty nutshell must feel.
Even her grief had retreated. Though she seemed no closer to possessing answers about what had happened to Loholt or why, the questions had stopped tormenting her, for which she felt profound gratitude. Too much of the future lay ahead to expend too much emotional energy on the past.
Closing her eyes, she bowed her head in silent thanksgiving.
A hand gripped her shoulder. “You all right, Commander Gyan?”
She straightened to meet Rhys’s gaze. Blood splotched his battle-gear, face, and hair. He clutched the cohort’s banner. Though its edges were tattered, its emblem of three bent legs arrayed like spokes of a wheel remained intact, and no damage had befallen the staff’s solid bronze Dragon Legion crest.
The signifer’s fate, the One God alone knew.
“I—I think so, Rhys.” She swallowed to banish the hoarseness, but it did little to help. “You?”
“Not a scratch, my lady.” He grinned, released her shoulder, and planted the standard.
She could manage no more than a single nod. Rhys stepped closer and wrapped both arms around her, a gesture Arthur might have offered. Her heart ached. God, how she missed him! His smile, his laugh, his gaze, his touch—the intensity of her longing astounded her but gladdened her, too. Her emotions finally had escaped their grief-walled prison. She pressed her face against the cool bronze of Rhys’s cheek guard, willing herself not to cry—and not succeeding—as the battle’s clamor died around them.
Composure returning, she backed away to survey the field as the last Sasunaich stumbled over the ridge. Her soldiers approached, stepping around the scores of tiny fires spluttering across the valley, scattered among countless shadowy mounds. Some mounds moved feebly in the fickle light. Most did not.
“So many of our own…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.
“But you held the Sasunaich off,” Rhys said with undisguised pride.
Only with the One God’s help, though she couldn’t admit that to Rhys. “T
oo many got away.”
“With such short warning, in the dark, against those odds—my dear sister, what did you expect?”
She whirled toward Per’s voice. He stood between a pair of horses, a white and a bay, his cheek smeared with blood but looking otherwise unharmed. Mentally thanking the One God and forgetting her fatigue, she ran to greet him. She didn’t bother to fight these tears as she laid her cheek against his breastplate, reassured by his heart’s steady rhythm. Per dropped Rukh’s and Macmuir’s reins to hold her tightly, as though loath to release her. She squeezed him even harder.
As they parted, Per pointed to her battle trophy with its circlet of bronze. “Their war-leader?”
She nodded, unwilling to risk unleashing her grief. “I’ll tell you about it later.” He cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “I promise.”
Murmuring to Macmuir, she untied the trophy from her belt and fastened it to his chest-harness. Nostrils flared and muscles quivering, the stallion whinnied and snorted lustily. As she stroked his nose, his eyes lost their wild look, and he quieted again. A quick examination proved Macmuir had taken no injury. She took the reins from Per, and he mounted Rukh.
With Rhys’s help, she climbed into the saddle. Too tired to ask where Macmuir had been found, she simply thanked Per for her stallion’s safe return and extended a hand to Rhys. “Come. We can look for your mare.”
“No need, Commander.”
Rhys cupped hands to mouth and blew a long, wavering whistle. A tall black shape resolved out of the purple twilight. The mare trotted toward them, stepping neatly over the bodies. Rhys patted her flank and mounted.
Gyan’s bone-deep fatigue couldn’t suppress her laugh. “Nice trick, Rhys. You must teach me sometime.” She rubbed Macmuir’s sweat-streaked neck. “In case this demon-spawn decides to desert me again.”
After the last men returned, Rhys called the roll from memory. One in five didn’t answer. Gyan regarded the ragged ranks. Many leaned on whatever was available: swords, spears, shields, each other—Breatanaich and Caledonaich alike. Few seemed able to hold themselves upright. Far too few for what lay ahead, if her attempt to contact Arthur failed.