Dark Winds Rising Page 6
The horse rounds the bend, trotting down the path. My eyes suddenly widen as sweat rolls down my temples. The steed’s saddle is empty.
I peer over my shoulder, knowing that our ambush has been found out. Darting quick glances every which way, the incoming mists and whistling wind only obscure more of the downs surrounding me. Ahern cries out from the brush across the way.
A dark figure looms in the gray vapors, thrashing through the undergrowth with Ahern. I aim my bow but cannot discern more than two shuffling shapes in the briars across the way. No! I cannot let this mercenary kill my brother while I sit by and do nothing.
I sprint across the path and into the brush, searching for the two combatants. More groans emanate from Ahern as his silent attacker battles through sedge and brambles. The clang of steel rings through the mist.
Rounding a bend in the labyrinth of thorn bushes, I find a massive man towering over Ahern. My kinsman lies sprawled in the dirt. Ahern clutches his broken spear, blood covering his beard. I loose an arrow into the assailant’s back, but he merely spins around as though pricked with a sewing needle. What kind of man is this?
I draw another arrow and thread it onto my bow. The assassin glares at me through the mists, but his face is placid and still. Only then do I realize he wears a mask. A steel mask with a pair of broken antlers protruding from the helm. I’d know that battle mask anywhere. But it cannot be! The man who wore that mask is long since dead. The Hammer King, my first husband. My dead husband.
My voice suddenly sounds small, like that of a child.
“Morgan?”
The masked man does not reply, darting straight for me. I loose another arrow directly into his chest, but he hardly loses a step. Charging like a bull, he grasps a war-hammer in one hand and a spent crossbow in the other. I ready a third arrow, but this Minotaur of a man is nearly on top of me.
A hunting horn blares through the fog, stopping the masked assailant dead in his tracks. The horn sounds again as the thunder of hooves rumbles through the glade. A hundred voices cry out in the gray fogbanks.
“Mab Ceridwen!”
My heart stops. The battle cry of the Free Cantrefs, my namesake. Mab Ceridwen! Green-clad archers pour into the thickets, a lead horseman with a longsword in the vanguard. Artagan charges headlong astride his stallion.
The masked assassin flees into the mists, faster than I imagined any man on foot could move. Perspiration drenches my tunic. Did I imagine things? Was that masked man really my former husband, King Morgan? But no. The Hammer King is long since dead. He perished on the battlefield years ago. I was there when it happened.
Artagan rears up his mount before me, scooping me into the saddle without a word. We return to the main road, where Sir Emryus and Sir Keenan tend to Ahern’s wounds. Scores of archers line the trail, encircling the wagon with Rowena and the children. Air comes back into my lungs. Gavin and the others are all right.
Ahern has blood all over his shirt, but he sits up well enough as Emryus and Keenan dab him with bandage cloths. I turn toward Artagan in the saddle, my mind brimming with questions.
“How did you find us so quickly? How did you know?”
Artagan ignores me, aiming a stern finger at his two Dyfed scouts, Bowen and Carrick.
“Report!”
Bowen replies, still breathing hard.
“No sign of him. The bugger must have caught his horse and made a break for it. He’s damned fast.”
“Damnation! Enough of this. Rally the men. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
Bowmen line up and begin jogging westward. Rowena embraces Keenan while Emryus helps each of the children into the saddles beside various knights. Emryus holds Gavin on his own steed. At least the boy is safe.
Artagan still won’t look me in the eye, even with me astride his horse and the two of us in the same saddle.
“Artagan, what’s going on? You’re not going after him? That was the assassin!”
Artagan turns his stern azure gaze my way. I’ve never seen him so angry before. His nostrils dilate with every breath.
“Whomever he is, he’s like a hare hidden in a briar patch. We’ll never find him in all this fog. My men have wasted enough time double-backing to get here!”
“What made you turn back in the first place?”
“I always keep a couple riders in the rear, in case of an ambush. They spotted Rowena’s wagon, and it didn’t take a scholar to figure out what must have happened.”
My husband doesn’t look happy to see me. I glance over his shoulder at our son in the saddle with Sir Emryus.
“You plan to take the children on horseback and not in the wagon?”
“That damned thing will only slow us down,” Artagan snaps. “Things are in a bad enough mess as it is, and that’ll be quite enough questions from you!”
He turns and yaws into the stallion’s ear. Before I can reply, we gallop headlong into the mists, trailed by half a dozen knights and at least a hundred bowmen jogging at a steady pace. I clutch Artagan around the middle to steady myself, but I have half a mind to strangle him in my grip.
He has had enough of me, has he? Maybe I deserve more than a slap on the wrist, but I damn well did what I had to in order to keep our son alive. If only I could make Artagan understand. But there’s no time to discuss anything as we charge headlong into the foggy moors. In trying to save the children from an armed madman, we’ve ended up in a cavalcade heading into battle, possibly against Picts or worse.
I crane my head close to my husband’s ear as we sit astride his black warhorse.
“Artagan, listen to me. I did what I did to protect our son. We had to slip away in disguise.”
“A lot of good it did,” he retorts hotly. “And I thought I was supposed to be the rash one.”
I bite my lip a moment, ignoring his comment. I struggle to get the next words out.
“The man, the assassin, he wore a … a mask.”
“A mask?”
“Like the one the Hammer King once donned.”
Artagan slows his steed’s pace, turning in the saddle to look me in the eye for the first time since this entire debacle began. He opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. My husband simply wags his head.
I reexamine the silhouette of the assassin in my mind, but every aspect of him reminds me of my deceased former husband. The man in the thicket had the right physical build, tall and powerful, yet adept and fast on his feet. Few men could have matched such a warrior in any age. If not Morgan, then who? I shake my head, finding it more and more difficult to disregard what I saw.
“It was him,” I continue. “At least, it looked like him.”
“You must be mistaken,” Artagan replies. “Morgan is dead. It’s just someone with a similar war-mask.”
“It’s the same mask! I know it.”
“Then someone must be using the Hammer King’s old mask.”
“But who would have it? Presumably he was buried with it.”
“I presume very little with certainty these days.”
Artagan sighs, wearying of this debate. Exasperated, I sit back in the saddle behind him, my arms still entwined about his middle as we ride Merlin through the mists. The long column of mounted warriors thunders through the fog around us.
Despite it all, a worse, nagging fear tugs at my mind. We may be well away and safe from the assassin for now, but whoever attacked Ahern and me, his mask certainly belonged to no stranger. I shake my head, wondering if I truly am mad. It’s all so impossible! Nonetheless, I cannot deny what I saw in the thicket. That unique metal mask, the war-hammer, and that superhuman strength. My former husband, the Hammer King, has returned from the dead.
5
The open moors give way to a lone hillock surrounded by several clumps of woods. Mists still obscure most of the downs, but the hilltop overlooks the surround like the humped back of a sleeping leviathan. At its summit, a ring of ancient standing stones keeps watch like megalithic sentinels.
A crossroads of several trails passes beneath the foot of the hill. Something about the snaking way the mists congeal along the craggy monoliths makes my spine tingle. I’ve oft heard of this place but never seen it. One of the most ancient ruins in all of Wales: Ogham Stone.
Artagan halts our horse, ordering his men to make camp at the foot of the hill. His exhausted bowmen halt in their tracks and drop their dusty satchels. They exchange wary glances as they rest in the shadow of the standing stones atop the mound.
Artagan dismounts from Merlin, offering me a hand to help me down from the saddle. He still hardly deigns to look me in the eye. Both of the Dyfed scouts, Bowen and Carrick, raise their eyebrows before dismounting their steeds. Bowen slowly approaches the King.
“King Artagan, do you intend to make camp here?”
“For the night. We’re in the heart of Dyfed and my men need rest. I don’t want to reach the sea tomorrow and find my soldiers worn out by the march if should we encounter any barbarians.”
“But, sire, this is Ogham Stone. No one spends the night here. These grounds are haunted.”
“Which makes this the perfect place to pitch camp. Whomever is marauding these lands, be it Picts, Saxons, or other Welshmen, they’ll all keep clear of these ruins. It’s the safest place in Dyfed right now.”
“Except for the spirits,” Carrick murmurs.
Artagan laughs, overhearing the knight’s comment.
“They once said Aranrhod was haunted before we rebuilt it,” the King begins. “But a brave woman taught me otherwise.”
He glances my way, the first look without malice Artagan has shown me all day. The King walks away to help right several canvas tents with his men. I know not whether to smile or frown. Artagan has never been one to keep hold of his anger for long, but even if he forgives me for bringing the children and myself along, he still probably thinks it a foolish idea. I clench my jaw. Does he still not see I had no other choice?
A few dozen beige tents pop up along the dew-ridden greens. Several knots of watchmen take up positions near the woods and across the plain, but none linger near the hill itself. Half the men kindle small campfires in the clearing, erecting pup tents over their bedrolls in the tall grass.
I gaze up the slopes at the dozen-odd boulders on the heights, each rock impossibly old with weathering and lichens. Notched runes carved in stone display the script of the Old Tribes, known as Ogham. Few know how to read such signs anymore, but in my youth at the monastery by the sea, the monks seemed to both revere and curse the unfathomable learning of the ancients. The clerics said that they knew just enough of the Ogham to know it was best left alone. They pronounced it Owum.
Artagan’s tent stands nearby, his dark silhouette cast against the canvas behind the glow of a lantern. I stomp through the weeds and catkins toward his rawhide shelter, but I cannot escape the prickly feeling of the tall standing stones behind me. As though the rocks quietly watch me.
I duck into Artagan’s tent to find him working his longsword with a whetstone. Ahern sits on a bedroll nearby, wrapped in pink-stained bandages. My gaze darts to every corner of the tent, my heart tensing.
“Where’s Gavin?”
Artagan sharpens his blade without looking up.
“With the other children in the next tent,” he says. “Both Emryus and Keenan stand guard. Rowena’s with them.”
I breathe easier. The little ones must be tuckered out from a long day in the saddle. At least they are safe.
Artagan shifts his jaw as he runs the whetstone down the long length of his blade.
“You put the children in danger, Branwen. Our son! You knowingly put our son in harm’s way.”
His blue eyes glare up at me, our gazes meeting for the first time. All the breath goes out of me. He has never snapped at me so before others or in private. But instead of being cowed, my skin runs hot and my mouth tightens. Does he think I want to endanger our son and the other children? Does he think I realistically had any other choice? A damned assassin is on the prowl, and I am doing the best I can.
Ahern averts his gaze, probably pretending he can’t hear us even though he lies but a few paces away within the very same tent. Most certainly wishing he wasn’t present in this spat between my husband and me. I grind my teeth.
“I did what I had to, husband. Might we discuss this later? I’m tired.”
Artagan catches my glance toward Ahern and nods his head, his gaze focusing on his blade once more.
“Fine,” he says. “But we’ve not finished discussing this. I simply do not wish to wash our dirty clothes in front of others.”
I bite my tongue. Let it go. At least he has the foresight to put this argument away and deal with it later. Spats so rarely occur betwixt my husband and me, which makes his words smart all the more. I wait a few moments for the heat to fade from my chest, for my breathing to ease. An old trick Lady Annwyn taught me, a way to curb the demons that anger breeds in the blood.
Although Artagan no longer seems as stern as he did a few moments ago, he still appears to pay me little heed. Even Ahern doesn’t look my way, slumped on a stool, nursing his hurts. A pang of guilt seizes me. I haven’t even tended to him since the attack in the thickets. Between the assassin, the children, and Artagan, my mind hasn’t had room for much else. I put a palm on my half brother’s shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“Nothing that won’t mend,” Ahern says, faking a smile. “If the King hadn’t showed up when he did, I’d have been mincemeat.”
“Did you tell him?”
Artagan puts his whetstone down, hissing through his teeth.
“That the Hammer King’s come back from the grave?” Artagan interrupts. “Maybe our scouts were right about those standing stones being haunted. They’ve got you and Ahern seeing ghosts.”
I frown at my husband. For the first time in my life, he genuinely doesn’t believe me. Ahern seems too embarrassed or ashamed to speak up, maybe both. I stomp my foot, having no intention of backing down.
“I know what I saw, Artagan! He had Morgan’s mask. Even a war-hammer in hand.”
“Branwen, the Hammer King died at the Battle of Bloody Fords, fighting the Saxons! I was there, and so were you. A thousand men saw him die that day, Saxons and Welsh. It can’t be him!”
“I don’t know how it’s possible, but you have to believe me…”
My voice trails off in a pleading tone. Why can’t I make him see? Artagan puts down his sword and comes toward me, wrapping his arms around me. He speaks soft and gentle as though we were alone.
“My love, I trust you in all things, but if the Hammer King has really returned, then why now and why like this? He was a king, my dear. Why not reclaim the throne of South Wales? He has a son, Arthwys, there still. And why of all things does he sneak about like an assassin, not trying to kill you or me outright, but our baby boy? Do these things sound like the man you once knew as King Morgan?”
I look away, unable to answer him. My first husband could be both kind and also cruel, but he always had his pride. It certainly doesn’t sound like the old Morgan, sneaking about like some sellsword. His body was buried with pomp and ceremony in Caerleon, the capital city of South Wales. Every logical faculty in my mind tells me that Artagan is right, that the man I saw couldn’t possibly be my dead husband. And yet my heart tells me that it was no apparition in the briar patch that bloodied Ahern and nearly killed me. Something stalks the moors tonight, still hunting for my son. But how do you kill a ghost?
I walk away, shaking my head. I have no answer for Artagan, but I cannot accept what he says. This is no hired assassin looking for pay. This killer knows us well, and he comes in the form of the deceased Hammer King.
If someone else is parading around dressed as the Hammer King merely to terrify me, then who might it be? Reason dictates that it is the only conclusion possible. But the warning in my heart tells me that anything—anything—is possible.
Inside the children’s tent,
Gavin is fast asleep beside the other young ones. Even Rowena snores in the corner while two knights keep watch outside. I lie down on a mat beside Gavin, listening to the wind burr through the tent canvas and open grasslands. The breeze whistles eerily through the nearby standing stones, making odd resonances that sound almost like a child’s voice, just faint enough to be on the edge of hearing. I shut my eyes and coil myself around my slumbering son. Whatever befalls us, we will endure it together. I clutch my longbow and dagger close to my side. My last thoughts linger on my husband and my boy. I will not let harm come to either of them. I will not.
* * *
At daybreak, the thud of ax heads and the braying of horses rouse me from my bedroll. Peeking out the tent flap, I spy dozens of woodsmen felling timbers by the tree line and hauling them back to camp. Other archers trade their longbows for spades and dig lengthy pits in the soil. I rub my eyes, blinking back the sleepiness from my vision. My husband’s soldiers are entrenching.
Gavin stirs in his sleep beside me, his faint breath like butterfly wings brushing against my arm. Both Emryus and Keenan have gone, but a lone guard stands watch outside the tent. I rise to step outside when I see the longsword in his hand. Artagan himself stands watch.
I kiss his neck, wrapping my arms around him while he keeps a keen eye on the surround. I rise on my toes, so glad to feel him in my embrace. Since Gavin’s birth and all the trials of kingship, Artagan and I have not had as much time for each other as we once did. I miss the mornings when we did nothing but lie in one another’s arms in a warm bed. Will those blissful dawns ever return to us? We’ve so many worries, so many cares now. I nuzzle his neck, feeling his strong muscles beneath his tunic. He smells like woodsmoke from the campfires.