Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (90 page)

Flint rolled again, this time towards Abloyc—so near he could smell the leather of the Votadini’s boots. He heard his nemesis swiftly inhale above him. The man was about to strike his final blow. Galvanised, Flint rammed the edge of the breastplate into exposed shinbone, the strike cleanly fracturing the leg. Howling, Abloyc hopped away from him.

Most of Flint’s energy was gone as he struggled to his feet. Abloyc, frantic to keep upright, spun on his good leg. When his balance left him, he fell forward before Flint. Grimacing, he attempted to gain his knees, but his jarring bones caused him to scream. He was defeated. He could not stand.

The circle of men had closed around them; and only now did Flint absorb the wild cries which had sounded unabated throughout the duel. He stood above Abloyc, panting but resolute.

With no need to rush, such was the level of Abloyc’s debilitation and his own fatigue, Flint strolled to retrieve his discarded ax. Looking to Arthur and Gherwan he gasped: ‘This … is for our friend … and the baby who would … who would have become him.’

He kicked Abloyc’s helmet out of reach. The Votadini twisted his head, his eyes glittering with hate as he spat out his final curse. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Finish me you Dumnonii shit!’

Flint looked to Arthur again, and then to Cunedda. To his surprise, the Votadini chief looked untroubled by the outcome. He gave Flint a brief nod. ‘Finish him. Do it now,’ he said.

Flint obliged, and two hacks with his blunted ax removed Abloyc’s head. With disdain, he kicked the head to one side and pushed through the cheering crowd, their praise and adoration unwanted.

Raedwald lay, locked-breathed, under the shrub as Nila approached. So near was she, he heard her sweet singing voice as she stooped to take water from the stream. He decided she would have to do for now—the other hag could wait until she strayed from the protection of the dog. Knowing he had only seconds to act, he crept from cover and approached Nila.

Away from them and unaware, Modlen took Titon’s jowls in her palms and gave them a spirited shake. The dog, ever glad of human attention, gave out low yelps of pleasure and playful growls.

‘No you don’t,’ laughed Modlen as the canine stood on its hind legs in an effort to lick her face. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have encouraged you. Get down you great—‘

A curtailed shriek stopped Modlen dead. The noise had to be Nila. Something, beast or man, had caused her to scream. She untied Titon and moved falteringly towards the stream.

The falling light had rendered the scene monochromic, so that Nila’s blood ran as a black flow into the water. Raedwald turned—his eyes ablaze and his knife bloody—as he sensed Modlen’s approach. At his feet Nila bled out, her throat agape. He flinched and considered his options as he beheld Modlen. The woman—too stunned to act for now—merely stared at him, but she had brought the dog. Raedwald’s gaze fell to his knife, then turned to the animal. He considered whether to run or fight. A malevolent growl from Titon served to make up his mind and Raedwald left.

All went well for him at first—his own panting breath and rushing footfall the only sounds breaking the blanket silence of the wooded grove through which he ran. He reached the edge of the spinney. Beyond the trees was scrubland—uncultivated and wild. He pushed through stiff broom and juniper looking for a place to hide. He counted out his steps, one hundred should be enough, then he would be safe. The shrubbery thickened and Raedwald began to relax somewhat. A growl—low, menacing and gathering in intensity—was his first warning; the rapid rush of paws upon leaf litter, his second, as the mastiff closed on him.

Trained to chase, then kill, by his past master, Titon had bounded away from Modlen as soon as her trembling hand had dropped its leash.

After crashing to ground, such was the forcefulness of the dog’s leap, Raedwald rolled over and fished for his knife. His hand found only an empty sheath. ‘No—no, go … off, away with you.’ In shock, he chattered and batted at the animal as it rammed its nuzzle into his midriff.

Titon pulled its bull neck backwards and jerked Raedwald’s tunic from him, exposing his bare torso. Again, it bit and pulled, this time bringing away skin and muscle. Raedwald’s screams emerged high-pitched and reedy as the mastiff, oblivious to the blows Raedwald rained upon its head and body, attacked a third time. Now the dog went for the youth’s glistening entrails, pulling them in strings from the ragged tear in his gut.

As he scrabbled for his innards, Raedwald implored Titon for mercy—his babblings serving only to spur the animal to a higher level of frenzy. Twisting its neck from side to side as if shaking the life out of a rabbit, the mastiff jumped into the air with a mouthful of the Saxon’s twisted viscera.

Upon landing, Titon turned its attention to Raedwald’s head, attacking it with meat-rending bites as it snatched and pulled, snatched and pulled; shredding him of his features until only the musculature of his face and exposed, veined eyes remained. His mouth, stripped now of its lips, continued to move in a parody of speech, as a froth of gargled blood emerged. His demise dragged on, prolonged and dreadful, his whimpering continuing until Titon finally grabbed and pulled at his throat.

Modlen wept as she hugged Nila’s limp form to her breast. Her friend was dead, She knew that now. Killed by a shadow in the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Cunedda and Diarmait took to the northern road and reflected upon the success of their plan. As early as the second day of battle, both had come to realise that the conquering of Arthur’s lands would not be possible. Saxons had fallen in droves, their chiefs dead and their resolve weakened.

    Furthermore, they were aware that a prolonging of the war was contrary to their personal ambitions: Cunedda’s being the long-term security of his people; Diarmait’s the removal of the mad king, Guertepir. Mindful they could not just walk away, and that a straight surrender might come with too many conditions, they had decided to press Arthur for the fight of champions, knowing the terms attached to such a contest would be far less severe.

Cunedda and Diarmait’s meeting on the third day had been brief and decisive. Both stated their intentions, aired their views, and reached an agreement. It was decided that Guertepir and Abloyc (two men far too disruptive and unpredictable) needed to be eliminated. They took the deal to Wigstan, prepared to kill him too if the need arose. Fortunately, the Jute, who had few options left, had reluctantly agreed.

As for Cunedda and Diarmait, neither desired Aquae Sulis—its inclusion in the conditions of combat serving only to give the fight of champions a degree of credence. Their plan had been brilliant in its simplicity and the war had ended with minimal bloodshed on its fourth day.

At Corinium they parted; Diarmait, now the lord of Dyfed, went westwards to his coastal ring fort; Cunedda went northwards to Deva.

Arthur and his army were lauded as heroes as they journeyed back to Brythonfort. Bedecked by garlands of evergreen (man
and
horse), their trip was tinged with both joy and sadness. Many of those who had ridden to Aquae Sulis to wage war were now absent. Of the one thousand men of Arthur’s levy, only three hundred had survived. Seventy knights and thirty-three bowmen had also perished. Smala and his Angles had fared little better, losing a respected leader in Hereferth, as well as twelve hundred of their levy and over three hundred knights.

As the army passed by village and farmstead, hope would collapse to despair when folk learned of their losses. Others—the lucky ones—greeted their men with displays of joyous relief.

Ashen with pain, Flint rode aslant in his saddle as Brythonfort’s gates loomed before him. Beside him were Dominic, Augustus and Withred.

‘Nothing like a few broken ribs to put colour in a man’s cheeks.’ Augustus attempted to bolster Flint. ‘And I should know; I rode all the way from the eastern forest with six of ‘em broken after being ridden over by that bastard, Ranulf.’ He tapped Flint on the knee. ‘It’s nothing that Rozen can’t put right, though. She and her herbs work wonders.’ Giving him a knowing wink, he added: ‘Thought about asking her for something to make my cock stiff but my Modlen reckons it’s all right as it is.’

Flint chortled out an explosive laugh and immediately wished he had not. Grimacing and grinning at the same time, he berated Augustus. ‘I’ve told you to keep quiet. Every time you speak I end up like this. I can’t wait to get out of this saddle and away from you.’ A huge crowd had gathered at the gates of Brythonfort. Flint scanned the horde looking for his mother. ‘Ma should be waiting,’ he said. ‘I’ll be relieved to see her.’ He gave Dominic a sideways, crafty glance. ‘What say you, Dom? Will you be glad to see my mother?’

Flint knew!
Dominic had read the look. He replied with some discomfort. ‘It seems you already know the answer to your own question. Flint … listen … this was not something either of us—‘

‘You’ve no need to explain, it’s fine by me,’ smiled Flint. ’I’ve recognised it for weeks anyway. I noticed the way you looked at her; the way she looks at you, these days.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dominic. ‘You have no idea what—‘

‘Here’s my Modlen!’ shouted Augustus who had been riding ahead. He jabbed his horse into a trot towards her.

Modlen waited with her orphans: Cate, Ula and Art; and their latest addition, Cara. Martha—Murdoc’s widow—stood with Simon. She held Ceola. Titon sat at their feet, his stump of a tail banging against the earth as he waited for Augustus. Ula and Art jumped into Augustus’ arms as the dog, unable to wait any longer, bounded and barked around them. He spun with them a moment before settling his concerned gaze upon his wife. Something troubled her, he could tell. Her red eyes and folded arms were indicative of impending bad news. He knew her too well.

Modlen went to him then, and poured out her sorry tale.

Wild cheers erupted as the main body of Arthur’s army, led by the great lord himself, reached the gates. Amidst the clamour, stricken and weeping now, Augustus turned to meet Dominic and Flint, his sorry countenance warning them of forthcoming ill tidings.

‘Your mother, Flint’—Augustus swiped his sleeve across his eyes as he fought to gather himself—‘she didn’t make it back. Murdered, she was, by a Saxon renegade.’ He pointed to Titon. ‘My dog took the killer, but it was too late for the poor woman.’

Flint slumped against the neck of his horse. ‘No—no—not this,’ he muttered. ‘Please not this.’

Dominic went to Flint as the knight crumpled. He embraced and rocked him, unmindful of his own devastation.

Augustus stood with Withred. Both were silent and sad. After a moment, Augustus remembered something. ‘These were found on the Saxon,’ he said, as he held out the necklace for Withred to see. ‘They must have belonged to Nila.’

Withred drained of colour. ‘Let me see it,’ he murmured.

Augustus handed him the beads.

Withred looked skywards, his eyes stinging as he clutched the necklace. ‘Raedwald,’ he wept. ‘The murderer’s name was Raedwald … son of Egbert … he killed my aunt, also. These belonged to her.’

Time passed as the roar of cheering crowds engulfed them. Eventually, Dominic slid from his mount as Augustus led a slumped and wretched Flint towards the gates.

Martha and Simon came to Dominic, and they hugged and wept. Wept for Murdoc; wept for Nila; wept for the nature of man and his shattering wars.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Weeks passed and the western lands became settled again. The war had secured relief from Saxon invasion and engendered a peace that would last for decades.

Withred travelled northwards with Smala and a large host of Anglii folk who had recently arrived from the continent. All intended to settle north of Hadrian’s Wall in the lands vacated by Cunedda. With Withred’s group were Augustus, Flint, Arthur and Dominic.

Arthur (who rode with an accompaniment of thirty of his knights) had decided to visit Cunedda and Diarmait at Deva and Dyfed; his purpose to cement the newfound alliances made after the battle of Badon Hill.

The abandoned fort at Venonis, at the crossroads of Watling Street and the Fosse Way, marked the parting of the ways for many of the group. Here, Arthur, Flint and the knights, made ready to take to Watling Street and follow its northwestern course to Deva.

Arthur went first to Withred, embracing him. ‘You’re role in securing the future of this isle is immeasurable,’ he said. ‘Who could have imagined a man who came here as a mercenary, would become one of Britannia’s greatest heroes.’

‘No, lord,’ Withred’s laugh was laced with modesty. ‘I only did what any decent man would have done.’

‘And in doing so, you lost a woman precious to you.’

‘I
will
see my aunt again one day,’ said Withred with conviction. ‘Together we’ll walk through fields of barley with mother and father, and feel the warm winds of Elysium upon our faces.’

‘And what now, Withred. What will you do now?’

‘Go with my people and help secure their future beyond the northern wall.’

‘As ever, you do what’s right,’ smiled Arthur.

As they spoke, Flint and Dominic also prepared to part their ways. United in their grief, their bond was tight, their sentiments sparing yet poignant.

‘Keep strong,’ said Dominic. ‘Your body has healed, but your eyes tell me your heart has not.’

‘So says a man with the most despairing eyes I have ever seen,’ said Flint sadly. ‘We are both damaged, Dom, and need time to settle.

After they imparted their final words they embraced, then Flint took to Watling Street with Arthur.

Dominic rode beside Augustus and Withred. Ten miles north of Venonis, the ancient forest of Sherwood abutted the western edge of the road.

‘Did you notice that Arthur did not say goodbye to you, Dom,’ said Augustus as the tracker swung from his saddle and examined the earth at the side of the road.

Crouching as he rubbed soil through his fingers, Dominic squinted up at Augustus. ‘Yes, I did. Refuses to believe I’m not coming back. Said at Brythonfort before we set out, that he wouldn’t curse our parting with a farewell.’

‘And I should do the same,’ said Augustus, close now to tears as he sensed Dominic’s imminent departure. ‘That, or pick you up, bundle you with ropes, and take you back with me to Brythonfort.’

Dominic stood and went to Augustus’ horse. He patted the charger and looked up warmly at the Briton. ‘A big horse for a big man,’ he said. ‘And a man with a heart bigger than the forest I’m about to walk into.’

Augustus looked at Dominic; at his two ponies, one of which was loaded with extra gear. He pulled himself from his saddle and dropped down to him. Withred joined them as Smala and his people made their slow progress up the Fosse way.

‘What does the earth say,’ asked Withred as he glanced at Dominic’s soiled hand. ‘It’s told us much in the past, my friend … saved our lives and guided us through territories unknown. This time I hope it tells you to get back on your mount and ride with me to the northern lands. There, you can help us settle.’

‘No, it tells me I’ll be having game for my supper before this day’s out.’ He nodded towards the brooding forest. ‘In two days I’ll have established a camp in there; in two months a permanent base.’

Augustus, exasperated and upset at the same time, burst out with: ‘And do what, man! You don’t even know these woods; have no idea what lurks within them.’

‘One thing
is
for sure, though,’ said Dominic. ‘No Saxon will enter the forest, not this far north.’

Their pleas went on a while longer, but they knew Dominic too well … knew his will was unshakeable once his mind was set. Eventually, he embraced them both and turned away.

‘I’ll see you again, Dom!’ shouted Augustus, as Dominic led his ponies to the forest edge. Augustus dragged his sleeve across his face as Withred placed an arm over his shoulder. He shouted again to Dominic. ‘If I have to search for you for months, I’ll find you and rake your bald head with my knuckles! You just see if I don’t!’

Dominic, smiling, turned and waved to them.

‘You tried, Gus,’ said Withred. ‘All this way to persuade him not to leave but at least you tried. Now you must return to Modlen and your children.’

Augustus slumped down sulkily at the road’s edge; his fisted hands pressed to his temples. ‘And start my life again without so many dear friends,’ he said, staring at the ground. ‘And Tomas … he doesn’t know. Dominic couldn’t bring himself to tell the lad. That’s something else I need to do when I get back.’ After some moments, he turned his attention to the sky, then got to his feet. His tears had dried. ‘You’re right I need to start back while most of the day is before me. And you’—he jabbed a thick forefinger at Withred—‘I
will
see you again and soon.’

They embraced and exchanged their final words. Soon the road was empty as Withred rode north and Augustus took the trail back to Brythonfort.

As Dominic watched them go, he thanked the Gods for bringing such people into his life. Then he cursed the same Gods for allowing him to love them. To love was to be let down; to be hurt; to be left a shell. His love for Murdoc and Nila would be with him to the grave, but they had gone now.

Behind him, the forest whispered her siren’s call. She would accept his love, but never curse him with her death … never leave him alone. He sighed and entered the wilderness.

The End