Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  As he’d expected, it didn’t take long to overwhelm the three lightly manned enemy ships. After loosing a few token volleys of arrows, which caused only minimal injuries to Arthur’s men, the Scots surrendered. The worst delays were imposed in the wake of the encounter by having to tend the wounded and secure the captured men and ships. Arthur’s most difficult tasks—ridding the island of the invading army, and making good on his vow to Peredur of Caledonia—were yet to come. Like Cai, Arthur was eager to begin.

  The first group of Brytons to make landfall was a scouting party. While the rest of the relief force came ashore, Arthur ordered the scouts to determine Tanroc’s status. They returned to the beachhead shortly after the landing of the soldiers and supplies was complete.

  While the other men rested and ate, the scout leader made his report to Arthur: “Tanroc and St. Padraic’s Island are flying the Silver Wolf, Lord Pendragon. Tanroc’s palisade is badly burned, but the buildings look mostly intact. From what we could tell, the monastery fell without a struggle.”

  Arthur absorbed the news without reaction. It came as no surprise. “How many are we up against?”

  “In total numbers, sir?” Frowning, the soldier spread his hands. “I don’t know. The enemy garrisons at both sites seemed rather small. Maybe a hundred men at each.”

  “Where are the rest of the stinking beggars?” This from Cai, who had shed his fisherman’s disguise on the beach. By the fierce way he was chafing his arms, he appeared to be regretting his decision.

  “From Tanroc, a wide path leads southeast, General Cai. The grass is bent flat, as though a great host passed that way.”

  “Dhoo-Glass. Of course!” Arthur ground his knuckles into the opposite palm. “I should have anticipated this.”

  “How could you?” Arthur frowned at Cai. Ignoring it, Cai clapped hand to hilt. “But while we’re here, let’s go clean out the Scotti rats at Tanroc and—”

  “No.” Arthur turned to begin selecting another scouting party for the mission to Port Dhoo-Glass.

  Cai clamped onto Arthur’s bronze-plated shoulder and pulled him around. “What of your sister? And Chieftainess Gyanhumara—what if the Scots have them at Tanroc or St. Padraic’s?”

  The concern in Cai’s eyes stated his doubt that the ladies were alive. It was a doubt Arthur refused to share.

  “They will have to wait.” Those were the hardest words he had ever spoken. But once past his lips, the rest came easily enough. “Surprise is our ally. We must deal with the main body of the invasion force, Cai, before they can strengthen their position and become harder to defeat.”

  “Ah, but think of how much more fun we’d have that way, Arthur.”

  “Right.” Despite the swelling tide of worry, he chuckled. “Send two centuries into the hills east of Tanroc to watch the fort and guard our rear. Then let’s hunt some Scots!”

  Chapter 23

  URIEN HAD NO doubts about the identity of the prisoner bound, facing him, to the stake on the ridge behind the enemy encampment. There was only one person on the island whose presence in the hands of the Scots could mean anything to him.

  How on earth had the swine found out?

  He uttered a mirthless laugh. So Angusel’s story had held a grain of truth after all. The best lies always did. He congratulated himself for having the foresight to lock the murderer away. With a grin, he imagined what the Pict must be doing in the dank darkness, alone but for the rats and his wicked thoughts.

  Shoving Angusel from his mind, he studied Gyanhumara’s tiny form. He was glad to see her alive and infuriated at the Scots for what they were doing to her. But not angry enough to be goaded into attempting anything as foolish as a pitched battle against a force that was twice the size of his just to try to win her back.

  It was easy to shrug off that temptation for a while. Some time spent under the merciless skies might even teach the ungrateful wench to be a bit more appreciative of his attentions.

  Besides, surely the Scots would recognize the failure of their trick soon enough.

  Yet, as he waited in his siege headquarters in the guard tower over the western gate of Port Dhoo-Glass, the crawling hours exacted their toll. Two spawned two more. The unseen sun reached its zenith and started to descend behind the sodden clouds, and still Gyanhumara stayed at the stake. She seemed smaller now than when her torture had begun. Was she buckling under the stress? Urien thoroughly cursed the distance that prevented him from seeing her clearly enough to tell for certain.

  Were the Scots planning to let her die up there?

  His fist crashed into the timber ledge. No man had the right to deprive him of what was lawfully his! Nor was he about to have his long-range plans thwarted by a pack of heathen dogs. If the Scots weren’t going to give up, then by God neither would he!

  He focused his attention upon the steady construction of the Scots’ siege engines and scaffolds. To a man, they wielded their tools with gleeful vigor. Many structures stood close to completion. Whether he went after Gyanhumara or not, he would be engaging them soon.

  The fleet that had blockaded Dhoo-Glass Harbor, Urien didn’t want to begin to contemplate, though he knew he must deal with that problem too.

  Thus far, there had been no attack on the city, and the invaders had made camp safely beyond bowshot range of the walls. More than once, a knot of the fatherless sons formed at the forefront of the camp to hop about like mad toads, shaking spears and flinging insults. When the dance reached its frenzied peak, one of them would streak toward the wall, leaping and dodging and rolling to avoid steel-barbed death. Those who reached the gates landed a kick to the unyielding timbers before dashing away.

  The masters of this deadly game were carried back into the camp on the shoulders of their cheering comrades. The novices were left to rot where they fell.

  Watching one of the more successful attempts—the warrior had sustained only a grazed shoulder—it occurred to Urien that perhaps an assault on the camp before their siege equipment was finished was not such a bad idea after all. His miraculous success would win Gyanhumara’s gratitude and warm the chilly attitude she had developed toward him over the past few weeks.

  And if he failed…well. A woman’s feelings didn’t matter to a dead man.

  The sound of running footsteps in the corridor invaded his thoughts. He turned, feeling his lips thin into a scowl. More bad news on the way, no doubt.

  A guard clattered to a halt in the doorway and saluted. “My lord,” he gasped. “The—the eastern lookouts—”

  “Come on, man. Out with it!”

  The guard drew a deep breath, let it out, and drew another. “Our fleet, my lord. It’s on the way! According to the lookouts, it should arrive within the hour.”

  Urien dismissed the man with a wave and returned his attention to the activity in the siege camp, thoughtfully fingering his chin. The signal had gotten through, then. Good. If the fleet could break the blockade to land reinforcements, that would certainly make Urien’s job a lot easier. But he felt his jaw clench as he considered another implication: Arthur would reap all the credit.

  Not if he, Urien map Dumarec of Clan Moray of Dalriada, had his way.

  After withdrawing from the slotted window, the commander of the Manx Cohort summoned his officers to plan the attack on the camp.

  THOUGH FEAR clotted the air like the haze of cooking smoke on a becalmed evening, the villagers toiled at their timeworn tasks with grim persistence. Arthur supposed that for these folk, the business of daily survival far outweighed any thought of armies and battles, as long as those armies didn’t battle across their hearthstones.

  He was both relieved and concerned to see that the enemy had left the villages intact. Relieved that the people—and the livestock and wheat fields and apple orchards that were their livelihood—were unmolested. Concerned because it was more evidence that this was no raid. The Scots wanted Maun.

  Halfway to their destination, the cohort met the scouts returning from the port.
Upon sighting the main column, their smooth, ground-swallowing lope became a dead run.

  Arthur called a halt and ordered a ration break. The formation kept its shape as the soldiers reached for ale skins and oat cakes and dried beef. Arthur motioned Cai to join him as he strode forward to meet the scouting party.

  “Lord Pendragon,” rasped the scout leader between ragged breaths, “Port Dhoo-Glass is still…still in Brytoni hands. But the Scots…they’ve laid siege.”

  “They didn’t waste any time,” growled Cai.

  Arthur glanced at his foster brother. “Would you, if your prime objective was to secure the island?”

  “You think that’s their game?” Cai snorted in obvious disbelief.

  “Cai, I know it.”

  Hands to knees, the scout leader panted heavily. His men were doing much the same. Arthur waited. Inwardly chafing at the delay, he realized he would get no more answers until the scout leader had recovered enough breath to speak. Finally, he judged his man to be ready and launched a barrage of questions regarding the size and layout of the Scotti encampment.

  “It’s large enough to support a full cohort, sir,” the soldier answered. “Couldn’t get an accurate man-count. Too much activity, what with building siege engines and all.”

  “Do you still doubt, my brother?” Cai only shrugged. Arthur continued questioning the scout leader: “Any sentries? Patrols?”

  “We saw no patrols, my lord. Ten sentries are stationed on the back slopes of the two ridges to either side of the river, just west of the camp. Weren’t troubling to conceal themselves. Should be easy marks for our archers.”

  “Confident beggars,” Cai observed cheerfully.

  “Indeed.” Arthur allowed his tone to run cold. “A pity they won’t learn from their mistake.” After dismissing the scouting party with a word of praise, he addressed Cai, “Pick a squad of your best—”

  “Your pardon, Lord Pendragon, but there’s one thing more,” said the scout leader. “They have a prisoner. A lady.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed on the man. “Only one?” Thank God no one else could hear the thrashing of his heart. “Describe her.”

  “Tall, my lord, and red-haired. Bound to a stake on the southern ridge. Been there a while, by the look of her.”

  “In this weather!” Cai flailed a fist at the heavens. His outburst drew several stares. “Those bloody, sister-raping bastards!”

  “Easy, Cai.” Arthur gripped Cai’s shoulder.

  Cai’s fist unclenched, and the hand dropped to his side, but the amber fire in his eyes did not die.

  Arthur knew his foster brother’s reaction was born of anger that any woman would be so mistreated, and he empathized with him. At least Gyanhumara was accounted for, but what in God’s name had happened to Morghe?

  Keeping his voice neutral, Arthur said, “We will get Chieftainess Gyanhumara out of there as soon as we can dispose of those sentries.”

  While a squad of bowmen ran ahead to fulfill their role in the operation, Arthur and Cai divided the main column, reformed the twin units, and hiked off the valley floor. With Cai’s four centuries in the hills north of the river and Arthur’s to the south, the advance began anew.

  ALONE ON the ridge, Gyan struggled with her bonds until her arms stung from rope burns. Her guards hadn’t done their work quite well enough. The hastily erected pine post wasn’t anchored to the surrounding platform. It seemed sunk into a hole, supported by the platform logs. Many of those logs did not touch the stake.

  Eventually, she was able to work the post loose. Not that it did much good toward getting her free, but the effort kept her warmer and gave her something to do. Her captors, casting occasional smirking glances at her from their encampment below, didn’t appear to be overly concerned.

  Of the sentries she saw no sign, although she heard them. The frequent bursts of laughter mingled with swearing or occasional groans of disappointment told her they were probably dicing to pass the time. She hoped they’d stay too busy to bother her.

  By early afternoon, the sun emerged victorious over the clouds’ assault. Gyan was grateful for the extra warmth. A few minutes under the soggy skies was one thing; a few hours was quite another. She paused from her labors to bask in the sun’s rays. As she leaned back to stretch and gather strength, a new idea formed: the post might be loose enough to turn.

  She had to try. The hours had made her unutterably weary of the view of the bustling enemy camp, the walls of Port Dhoo-Glass bristling with Urien’s archers, and the red-sailed Scáthinach warships clogging the harbor.

  A heroic effort wrenched the post a scant few degrees. But she was determined to succeed, for it helped to relieve the burning anger she felt toward her predicament. The Scáthinaich were completely ignoring her. Their efforts to build the siege engines had redoubled since the rain had quit.

  Urien might be arrogant to a fault, but he couldn’t be foolhardy enough to lead the city’s forces to her rescue against these highly unfavorable odds. She was doomed to rot on this infernal ridge!

  As the shadows lengthened, she managed to force the post through a quarter turn. While not devoid of the accursed Scáthinaich, the northern vista was a definite improvement.

  Then came the unmistakable whine of arrows in flight, and the thumps as they found their targets. A cry of alarm died mid-word. No laughter came from the hillside, only a single weak moan.

  Another arrow sang. The moan ended in a wet gurgle. The Scáthinaich in the camp continued their work in ignorance.

  Gyan expected to be released, but her unknown benefactors did not appear. At first, this only fueled her rage. The passing minutes kindled the cooler fires of logic. Perhaps the archers had been an advance unit sent to kill the Scáthinach sentries to preserve the secrecy of the main attack. She fervently hoped this was true and dared not imagine who their leader might be.

  She glanced toward the port, and her stomach knotted. Another fleet was fast approaching the harbor. Sighing, she closed her eyes and slumped against the post. Even if a Breatanach army had made landfall—and the rumbling sounds growing steadily louder from the west confirmed this guess—the presence of these seaborne Scáthinach reinforcements could only mean more trouble.

  Anxious-sounding shouts from within the camp drew her attention. She opened her eyes, expecting to discover that the warships were landing, perhaps under resistance from Port Dhoo-Glass. The harbor scene had indeed changed, though not as she had expected.

  The newly arrived warships were sporting not red sails but Breatanach blue.

  Squinting, she tried to tally the sails. There was so much activity in the harbor that it was hard to get a true count. The Breatanach fleet was outnumbered by perhaps five or six vessels, but it didn’t seem to matter. Despite Scáthinach attempts to thwart the tactic, the Breatanach fleet formed a line across the harbor’s mouth, penning the Scáthinaich and evening the odds. There wasn’t enough room for all the Scáthinach warships to engage the Breatanach line.

  Swarms of some sort of projectile—arrows, Gyan suspected—rained onto the ships of both sides. Smoke streamed from the rigging and decks of several ships as their crews ran to beat out the flames. Vessels tried to ram each other, with varying degrees of success. Some began to founder and sink, forcing their men to leap overboard. Not all of the disabled vessels were Scáthinach.

  The Breatanach line started to lose its cohesion. But instead of breaking off the attack and heading for open sea, the ships sailed further into the harbor to pair with the remaining enemy vessels. Though it was impossible to distinguish individual warriors, the surge of movement made it obvious that the Breatanaich were carrying the fight aboard the Scáthinach ships. And winning! Each ship to be taken by a Breatanach boarding party joined the reformed harbor blockade to prevent the escape of the remaining enemy-controlled vessels.

  The Scáthinach army arrayed at Gyan’s feet, understandably frustrated at being unable to help their countrymen, resumed work on the siege equipm
ent as though possessed by battle frenzy.

  Her thoughts winged back to the afternoon she had met Arthur’s fleet commander, Bedwyr map Bann. She recalled the respect she’d felt toward his shipbuilding skill. Watching him and his men in battle, she found her respect for him increasing tenfold.

  Before long, all resistance from Scáthinach vessels seemed to cease. The blockade broke up, and ships dispersed to fish survivors from among the floating wreckage.

  Gyan let out the breath she didn’t realize until that moment she’d been holding.

  What if the Scáthinaich decided to kill her, in retaliation? A few minutes’ study of the camp revealed they were still engrossed in their labors, but that could certainly change.

  She turned her head toward the sound of the approaching army. In her entire life, she had never expected to be gladdened by the sight of a thousand Ròmanach-equipped Breatanach warriors. Yet she felt like whooping for pure joy. She settled instead on a sigh of relief. Captivity bred strange ideas indeed.

  Even if the Scáthinaich did kill her, she’d die with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be long in following her.

  She peered over her right shoulder at the Scáthinach camp. From what she could tell, they hadn’t heard the approaching Breatanach columns over the din of their axes and mallets and shouts. She suppressed a grin.

  The rumbling stopped. A peek westward revealed the troops halted on the pair of ridges beyond her. They began advancing a rank at a time, as quietly as possible and staying clear of the river valley, where they would have been visible to the camp.

  A bronze-helmeted head popped over the edge of the rise.

  Could it be? Impossible! She had to be dreaming. Too much time under the elements had made her overwrought imagination produce this vision.

  She blinked, hard. Wonder of wonders, Arthur did not disappear!

  Their eyes met. His gaze was every bit as intense as she remembered. The air around him seemed to throb with his strength and courage. Mentally, she drew upon that power with her steady gaze.