“A union, eh?” Etern smirked. “Just to be clear, we are talking about your eldest son, am I right? I know that you have two and trickery is rife these days…”
“My word is as good as my husband’s and he holds the honour of the Red Dragon higher than anything,” Meddyf said firmly. “I speak of Maelcon, our eldest and heir to the throne.”
“I’ll want your husband’s final word on this. No offence, Lady Meddyf, but this is men’s talk. I don’t know why he didn’t come here himself…”
Meddyf smiled. “As you said, trickery is rife these days.”
Arthur
On the eastern banks of the Afon Conui Arthur and his companions waited, screened by the reeds that grew close to the water’s edge. The moon was bright and the sky clear. Despite the warm summer night, Arthur felt a chill penetrating deep into his bones. It may have been the recent swim across the Conui that had soaked them all followed by several hours lying on its muddy banks amidst the wavering reeds but Arthur knew better. Up there, within the spiked walls of Cair Dugannu, many things waited for them. The end of this war. The cauldron. My sister.
“What if Guihir has been captured?” asked Gualchmei. “Or killed? Will we still press the attack?”
Arthur shook his head. “We’d be slaughtered before we made a dent in those gates.” He sighed. “No, our entire plan rests on our master of tongues gaining us entry.”
“He’ll think of something,” said Beduir. “He hasn’t let us down yet.”
“There’s always a first for everything,” Guenhuifar muttered as she rubbed Gualchmei’s bow with an oiled cloth. Gualchmei’s shoulder had healed enough to hold a blade and so he had loaned the Persian weapon to her. Her deadly aim would be needed in the fight ahead.
The white foal Arthur had rescued grazed nearby. It had followed them without being asked and had even crossed the Conui, proving itself to be a fine swimmer at low tide. Arthur knew it could not come with them up to the gates of Cair Dugannu but he had not the heart to hobble it. It was so wild and pure and untainted by the hand of man that he would hate to be the one to bridle or saddle it.
“Look!” hissed Cei. “There is the signal!”
Up ahead they could see one of the torches on the west gatehouse winking as something obscured it once… twice… three times; the signal that Guihir had succeeded and the gate was open to them.
“Stay, boy,” Arthur whispered to the white foal. “I will be back for you, I promise.”
The foal blinked and turned his head away from Arthur, almost as if in understanding. As they made to leave, the horse remained and gazed at the river.
They hurried up the grassy slope like phantoms, keeping to the shadows of the trees. When they reached the palisade they slipped in through the open gate. Guihir climbed down from the rampart to greet them.
“Well done,” Arthur said, clapping him on his shoulder. “What did you tell them?”
“That I had come from the great army further south with news that the engagement had gone well but some of Cadwallon’s riders had been spotted heading up the Conui Valley and that they should be prepared for a minor counterattack on the fortress.”
“True, funnily enough,” said Beduir with a grin. “But not in the manner you described!”
“I spun them some war stories and they gave me meat and mead and a place to sleep in the Great Hall,” Guihir continued. “I left as soon as I was sure everybody was snoring. There are a few more guards on the palisades so we don’t have much time before the western watch’s absence is noticed.”
“Any news of Anna and the cauldron?” Cei asked.
“Aye, it’s here,” Guihir replied. “This lot are terrified of it. They don’t like having it in the fortress and are happy that it’s to be carried south tomorrow.”
“Where are they taking it?”
“The Pass of Kings is what I heard. Apparently Meriaun is massing his forces there to hold off Cadwallon and his allies. It is set to be a bloodbath.”
“Where is the cauldron kept?” Arthur asked.
“Somewhere in the royal chambers behind the Great Hall.”
“We’ll need to master the fortress before we start poking about for it,” said Menw. “Who is in charge?”
“It’s Diugurnach. He’s sleeping up at the hall with a few of his captains. There are only a couple of guards at its doors.”
“This should be easy,” said Cei.
“Not so fast,” said Arthur. “This whole plan rests on us killing Diugurnach before anybody else in the fortress is alerted to our presence. If we don’t make it into the Great Hall without being spotted then all is lost.”
“It’s your plan,” said Cei with a shrug. “Just let me at the bastard.”
They snaked their way through the settlement that lay between the twin hills. Some attempt had been made to rebuild the roundhouses that had been torched during the initial attack. They were unfinished and eerily silent; monuments to the people who had been slain by Meriaun’s foul treachery. Arthur swore that the shades of those who had inhabited those charred ruins would be avenged that night.
The shattered gate to the north hill was unguarded. The eight companions hurried up the trackway and around to the side of the Great Hall. A pair of torchlights illuminated the entrance, bouncing light off the iron helms and mail coats of the two guards.
Arthur glanced up at the palisades. There was a guard making his leisurely way along the ramparts, easily visible by the moonlight. That same moonlight would make them just as visible to him if they tried to rush the entrance to the hall. He turned to Guenhuifar.
“An arrow please. Right in the gullet of that bastard up there.”
Guenhuifar nodded and drew a shaft from her quiver and nocked it to her string.
“The rest of you,” Arthur said. “Follow me. We make our move as soon as that guard falls.”
Their heads nodded in the gloom. Guenhuifar’s bowstring creaked as she drew the fletching of her arrow back to her ear. She waited a couple of heartbeats and then let it fly. They all watched the deadly barb sail through the night and strike the guard in the neck, as fine a shot as ever. If he cried out at all they did not hear it and were confident that nobody else in the fortress did either. The man sank to his knees and fell face first onto the walkway, rolling off it to land heavily on the ground below.
“Now!” Arthur hissed.
They drew their blades and charged the guards at the doors to the hall. They were spotted immediately but, by the pale, shocked faces of the guards, Arthur assumed they looked like spectres emerging suddenly from the gloom. Spears were lowered but Arthur and his company hacked through the shafts and drove in upon the Gaels, sinking their blades into throats and groins, slaying the unfortunate men almost immediately.
They paused at the entrance to the hall to clean their blades.
“There are perhaps a dozen warriors sleeping by the hearth,” Guihir said. “Diugurnach has made his quarters in the chamber behind the dais. What do we do – kill the warriors first or try to sneak past them to get at Diugurnach?”
“We’ll have to dispose of the warriors first,” said Arthur. “But quietly! We must make damn sure Diugurnach doesn’t escape.”
“Nice and slowly then,” said Beduir, placing his hand on the iron handles of the great carven doors.
They eased the doors open as silently as they could but Arthur pined for a measure of oil to silence their complaining hinges. Within the hall the glowing embers of the hearth and the moonlight from the smoke hole illuminated the slumbering forms of several warriors on their furs, chests rising and falling with slow snores.
They crept into the hall, weaving a path around the sleeping warriors. Arthur motioned to his companions to pick a target each. It was a dirty way to win a fight but this war had not been of their choosing. All they had to do was finish it.
Arthur stood over his prey, his sword held point down over the man’s throat. He saw Cei and the others doing the same. Ther
e were not enough of them to slay all the sleeping warriors at once. They would have to move on to fresh targets quickly once the killing began.
At a nod from Arthur, blades were raised and thrust downwards.
There was some struggling, a little choking, but for the most part, the targets died instantly. Arthur put his boot on his man’s face and tugged his sword free with an ugly sucking sound. He glanced around the hall. A man on the far side stirred in his sleep and rolled over but did not awake.
Something else did awake however; something Guihir had not noticed else he would never had let his companions go through with their plan.
The first Arthur head of it was a long, low snarl. He glanced across the glowing ashes of the hearth and saw a large, shaggy head with two yellow eyes set within dark circles of fur. It rose up onto its haunches and Arthur had never seen a hound so big. This was one of the great wolfhounds Erin was known for.
“Bugger, why didn’t you say anything about a dog?” Cei hissed to Guihir.
“I didn’t see the blasted thing!” Guihir replied. “It must have been in Diugurnach’s chamber and then came out here to sleep by the fire.”
“What do we do?” Gualchmei asked, panic in his voice.
Some of the warriors were stirring, roused by the ongoing growl in the great beast’s throat.
“Nothing for it,” said Arthur. “We kill the dog as well as the men. Band together! It’s going to attack!”
The wolfhound stood up, its vast shape casting a shadow on the dais behind it. It snarled once again and then bound forward, clearing the hearth in one massive leap.
Beduir lunged to meet it, dodging those slavering jaws and slashing at its side with his blade. It tumbled into the others, sending them sprawling under its weight. It scrabbled to its feet, bleeding through its thick, matted fur and turned on Beduir. Beduir backed off, holing his sword point out in front of him as the hound advanced.
It yelped in pain as one of Guenhuifar’s arrows found its mark between its shoulder blades. As it turned to try and bite at the shaft, Beduir swung at its exposed neck. The beast went down, its big shaggy head nearly severed from its body.
The Gaels were awake now, scrambling to their feet and reaching for their weapons, cursing the intruders. Arthur and his companions huddled together, facing enemies on all sides. They were evenly matched but the Britons were on enemy turf and the anger at being awoken and seeing the death of their prized wolfhound was evident in the enraged faces of the Gaels.
Swords clanged and slithered together as Briton met Gael amidst the orange glow of the hearth while shadows leapt frantically around the walls. Arthur gutted an opponent and then cried out a warning as the shape of a massive Gael emerged from the chamber at the rear of the dais, naked and brandishing a sword.
This, he assumed, was Diugurnach; a mighty man with tangled hair that fell to his broad chest. The many scars that lined his body were livid in the light. “Watch it, Cei!” Arthur cried and his foster-brother ducked just in time as Diugurnach’s blade swooshed through the air above his head.
Cei and Beduir sidled around to the giant’s right while Cundelig and Gualchmei engaged him on his left. It was four against one, but the Gaelic chieftain was more than a match for any of them, swiping at them with his broad blade and kicking with his bare feet at any who got too close.
Beduir, always courageous no matter the odds, lunged at him with his sword. The blade penetrated Diugurnach between the ribs and he let out a bellow of rage. Seizing Beduir’s sword arm by the wrist, he brought his own blade whistling down and severed the limb at the forearm.
“Beduir!” Arthur cried, unable to run to his companion’s aid for the remaining two Gaels who barred his way.
Beduir screamed and clutched at his stump which bled profusely. Menw hurried around to the side and hauled the fallen warrior to safety while Cei, Gualchmei and Cundelig pressed the attack.
Diugurnach was sorely wounded though he fought on with astonishing perseverance. His lungs wheezed for air and his side ran slick with blood. Beduir had scored a mighty victory over their enemy but had paid a dear price for it.
It was Gualchmei who finally brought down the giant, hacking low at his hamstrings while Cei occupied the Gael’s attention. Diugurnach roared as he sank to his knees, his ruined legs no longer able to support him.
Cundelig ran his blade in through his back and the great ugly head went back as it gasped for air, eyes rolling and bulging. Cei seized the shaggy mane and struck once, twice at the straining neck. The head came free with a gush of blood and the lifeless body slumped forward.
It was over. As Arthur and Guihir finished off one Gael, Guenhuifar sank another of her arrows into the last one. Diugurnach was dead. The Great Hall of Cair Dugannu was theirs. All that remained was to secure the rest of the fortress.
“Bar all the doors,” said Arthur, “except the main one. Don’t let anybody in on us. We must challenge them on one front only.”
Sure enough, Gaels were converging at the steps to the Great Hall, alerted by the sounds of fighting coming from within. The garrison, such as it was, was preparing to storm the hall. There were not a great number of them but enough to still pose a threat.
While Menw staunched Beduir’s bleeding stump with a tablecloth, Arthur seized Diugurnach’s head and lifted it up by its hair. He was surprised by the weight of it. “Follow me close,” he said to the others.
As one, they moved towards the doors where the torchlight glinted off the mail and weapons of the host outside. As Arthur exited the hall to stand on its steps, he held the head aloft. Faces, pale and uncomprehending gazed up at him, spears and blades gripped in ready fists.
“Do you recognise the head of your chieftain?” Arthur bellowed. “Look upon his dead eyes and know that you are beaten! Cair Dugannu is ours and we hold it for Cadwallon mab Enniaun, the true Pendraig! Throw down your weapons and you will be permitted to live! Stand against us and your souls shall join Diugurnach’s in the Otherworld!”
It took only a few moments of deliberation before spears, axes and swords clattered to the ground. They knew it was over. Somehow the Britons had taken the Great Hall from under their noses and slain their mighty chieftain who had led them from Erin with promises of a kingdom.
As Cei organised the escorting of the prisoners to a secure holding and the posting of guards, Arthur went back into the hall to check on Beduir. He found Guenhuifar and Guihir tending to him. Beduir’s face was pale and beaded with sweat. He was barely conscious.
“Where is Menw?” he asked.
“He hurried off muttering something about the cauldron,” said Guihir.
Arthur cursed. “He means to confront Anna alone!” He bolted from the hall and crossed the enclosure to the northern palisade. The sun was beginning to rise over the sea to the east, turning the great flatness of the water to speckled gold.
He climbed the stairs to the upper chambers. He had never been to Cair Dugannu before, at least not since he had been a baby and knew little of its layout, but he assumed the royal apartments would overlook the sea.
He found Menw standing with his back to the door in a wide chamber furnished with much finery. Tapestries hung on the walls and the bed covers looked to be of silk. The window opposite the door framed the form of his sister, dark hair aflame with the light of the rising sun behind her. Between her and Menw stood the cauldron.
He stepped into the room and was aware that he was intruding on a meeting of two great powers. High-priestess and king’s bard faced each other with the object of their conflict between them.
“I never understood why,” Menw said to her. “Why support Meriaun? Why try to overthrow the line of Cunedag and replace one descendant with another? Then, when I found you here in the royal apartments, I understood at last. These were to be your apartments, weren’t they? You were to rule from Cair Cunor as Meriaun’s queen.”
Anna’s face was rigid and her eyes spat a hate that chilled Arthur to the bone. Th
ey had ruined her plans. They had all been complicit in her destruction and she hated them all for it. Whatever dreams or plans she had entertained were as good as dust on the wind now.
Menw rubbed his temples as if greatly tired. “But I still don’t understand how you convinced your sisters to go along with your plan. The Morgens have always prided themselves on their status as oracles, interpreters of Modron’s whim, impartial in politics. Why abuse that status for the lust of their high-priestess?”
“Lust?” Anna snapped. “You think I lusted after that oaf? Meriaun was a means to an end, nothing more.”
“A means to an end,” said Arthur. “Like the Gaels. Plans within plans within plans. I wonder, sister, are you even sure of your own intentions anymore?”
She turned her head to glare at him. The white greasepaint was flaky and a little of her true countenance was visible behind the mask. “Don’t be naïve, little brother. I am Modron’s representative in this world. I am her voice and her intentions are as clear to me as spring water. The wheel is turning. A new dawn is on the horizon and Meriaun’s son, my son will herald a new age. He will be Mabon son of Modron, reborn. I am the vessel of his rebirth just as this cauldron is the vessel of all rebirth. From my loins will come the power that will set all to rights.”
Gods help us, she’s pregnant! Arthur thought.
“You have forgotten your vows, Anna,” said Menw. “The Morgens may speak for the Great Mother but they are not her living embodiments. They are certainly not mothers themselves. You overreach your duties…”
“What do you know of the vows and duties of the sisterhood, bard?” she said. “Your order is a bastardised echo of the druids who came before you. Your knowledge of the ancient mysteries is as the knowledge of a child compared to its mother’s. You are as children floundering in the great wide world. It would have been better for all of you had you not intervened.”
“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Menw. He turned to Arthur. “Have Cei find a secure place to detain her. She will face the Pendraig’s justice when he returns.”
Sign of the White Foal Page 18