by N. M. Browne
Their retreat left the Combrogi standing in a loose line, level with Ursula and Dan. Behind them were the horses and the carts. In front of them lay the woods and between them, the Romans, shoulder to shoulder, five ranks deep awaiting their orders. The Combrogi could have mounted up and galloped away. The Romans were on foot. The Combrogi would have stood a good chance of getting away, but they made no move. At any rate she, Ursula, should run away with Dan, now, before the Romans advanced. Her captors would not chase her, not with umpteen Romans on their heels. Ursula wanted to run, her mind told her it was a really good idea, but she did not know how to make her horse turn round. She was rooted to the spot by a frightening combination of incapacitating fear and incompetence.
Dan did not take his eyes from the enemy. In the dark she could not see his face, she only sensed the desperate focus of his concentration. He was not mad now, unless bravery was madness. He would not run. She knew he would not run. He would defend her, whatever happened. She could see that he really meant it when he’d said he’d keep her safe. It gave her a strange feeling to realise that he was prepared to die for her if need be. She was quite sure of it and yet he didn’t even like her much. She felt awed by his courage. She wanted to stand next to him not behind him so he would not need to feel responsible for her, but she was truly petrified. She could not move. It was not that her legs were jelly or anything, it was just that they would not move. She gripped the sword she was given tightly and wondered if, when it came to it, she would try to defend herself or if she was stuck like this, like a rigid wooden doll that would just be chopped down, like a thing already dead.
She saw Kai adjust his shield out of the corner of her eye. Gwyn fastened his cloak more firmly and wiped his sword on the grass. They were going to fight again. Their intention was clear in every readjustment of their weapons. They were getting ready to die.
There was a pause, a new kind of quiet. Ursula’s overwrought senses heard only the small sounds of the panting men, the occasional clank and shuffle of the otherwise silent enemy. The five tribesmen coolly surveyed and weighed their enemy. It was almost over, but Macsen’s men would not die cheaply. Even in defeat they were defiant, proud and strangely businesslike. Death was their business and they checked and readied the tools of their trade. The whoop of a war cry fearsome enough to curdle the blood startled them as it startled Ursula. A ringing, fluent outpouring of curses that promised disease, pestilence, dishonour and destruction on all the Ravens’ brood unto the tenth generation sang through the silence and all hell and hope broke loose. It was Macsen, huge and magnificent like an avenging angel, with his unbound hair and lurid cloak streaming behind him as he charged forward into the middle of the Roman wedge, on a chariot drawn by two large, bay horses. His inspired men let rip their ululating war cries, boasting of the Ravens they had already dispatched. Spears raised they ran after him straight towards the Roman wedge. It looked like the most dramatic kind of suicide, six men against forty, but could the wedge stand against Prince Macsen? It would surely take more courage than Ursula could believe existed in the whole world. She could not bear to look. Then suddenly, when Macsen was within his spear’s thrust of the front line, within range of Roman spears, the forest itself seemed to rear up and roar its displeasure. Ursula thought she had been afraid before, but this time her knees did turn to jelly and if she had not been mounted she certainly would have fallen. Braveheart whined and flattened his ears against his head. The Roman enemy were not so well drilled that they did not turn to see what made the awful sound. Towering several metres above the trees, flame red and burning with its own inner light against the dark sky, was a dragon. Its eyes burned with wild hunger. Something disgusting dribbled from its maw. It dropped its huge head in the direction of the hapless Romans and opened its huge jaw. The mechanical men, the Romans, began to scream and run from the protective wedge. At about the same instant the front line, distracted from their task at exactly the wrong moment, broke. Horses trampled forward and Macsen’s men were behind taking full advantage of the broken and confused ranks. The dragon roared again. The whole night rang with the sound like a dry-throated lion’s roar only somehow more threatening, more reptilian. A quick darting lizard’s tongue flicked out and those legionaries not already cowering from the giant head now ducked away. Ursula felt that prickling sensation she had felt before, as if the air was filled with static electricity. She could almost hear the deep throbbing hum of power pulsing through her bones and she knew immediately it had something to do with Rhonwen. She blinked and was astonished and blinked again. As her eyes became accustomed to the bright glow of the dragon she could see it in a different way. It was no more than a puppet thing, an illusion of leaves and earth and swirling luminescent mist. The dragon was a creature of illusion and that illusion, she knew, was Rhonwen’s. The Roman legionaries saw it only as a dragon, of that she was sure. They were fighting each other to get away. They were packed closely together and their panic made for disaster. There was too little room for any of the Romans to use their spears and their short swords did not have the reach to defend against the butcher blows of Macsen and his men. Macsen’s well-trained horses reared and stamped while he and his men cut down their panicking enemy with ruthless efficiency. Even he was wary of the dragon and reaped his bloody harvest as far from its gaping mouth as possible. The Combrogi warriors’ ululation no longer seemed like whistling in the dark as what had looked like a suicide charge turned into a massacre.
Unfortunately, too many of the panicked men raced for the horses as far away from the dragon as possible. Ursula did not know why they did not all run straight past her and Dan, claim a horse and ride away. They did not.
A man ran their way. He was a young soldier, wild-eyed and shaking, completely unnerved by the apparition behind him. He came so close Ursula could smell sour wine on his breath and salt meat. In other circumstances Ursula might have found him handsome.
‘Let me through!’ he smiled a little madly and plunged his short sword into what would have been Dan’s belly, except that by that time Dan had moved aside and Braveheart had leaped for the soldier’s throat. The soldier did not survive the encounter. Dan betrayed no emotion, merely pushing the body aside with his toe. Another man, seeing the death of his comrade, charged forward, his mail glinting red in the reflected light of the dragon.
‘I’ll have you, hell-hound!’
Spear at the ready, he hurled it towards Braveheart’s huge and snarling form. Ursula did not see Dan move. His reactions were always praised by the other boys at school in their endless post-match autopsies, but she had never taken a lot of notice. She could only watch, wooden and unmoving as he moved with incredible speed to deflect the spear. She looked away as he thrust his bloodied blade into the Roman’s throat. There were more. All the retreating Romans seemed too eager to join the fray. None sought to avoid the boy and the dog. Dan and Braveheart almost seemed to find a rhythm, like digging a garden or building a wall. For a madman Dan was very cold. He wasted no effort. He did not speak or cry out or threaten. His madness was of a cool and calculating kind. He just killed. There was ice in Ursula’s own veins as she watched him. He was saving her, but she did not feel saved. She wanted to go home to a place where this did not happen, where men were not hacked, where limbs were not severed, where blood did not flow so endlessly and where death did not stare back at her so bleakly with unclosed youthful eyes. It was too awful for her to cry. She still could not move to save herself and if a Roman had fought his way past Dan she did not know whether she could have raised her own sword even in self-defence. Her hand was numb with holding it, as her knees were numb with the effort of staying on her horse. She just wanted it all to stop. Eventually it did. There was no one left for Dan to kill. There were bodies all around. How could a boy kill ten men, soldiers armed with shields and spears? None of it made any sense. Dan was slumped among the dead, uncaring. Bright Killer, bright no more, but clogged and sullied by blood and worse, lay across his
lap. His hand rested on the neck of Braveheart who licked his face wearily. Braveheart’s whole head was wet with blood.
The dragon was gone and the only men still living were of the Combrogi. Bodies littered the ground. Then Kai began to sing.
Chapter Seven
Kai’s rich baritone voice trembled with weariness as he sang. His face was all but lost in the gloom. Dark blood hid his features like camouflage paint, but he sang as if he were the only living thing left in the world. It was a song for fallen comrades, in a minor key, sombre and soulful. It was a lament for the lost beauties of the earth that the dead would never see again. It was a lament for the dead themselves whose own lost, brave beauty those of the earth would never see again. It was a song to honour a valiant enemy. Ursula felt a sob rise, but she was afraid that if she let it out she would descend into hysteria. Prys’ face was stained with tears as he joined in. Ursula quickly counted the warriors; all the Combrogi were still standing. The tears were for the enemy.
The others were moving along the bodies. She couldn’t see what they were doing. Surely they weren’t looting the dead? It was worse than that.
Macsen rode towards her in his chariot. Even in the dark he seemed to glow with exultant triumph, a conquering hero, overflowing with the energy of victorious battle. In his left hand he casually held by the hair the decapitated heads of two Roman legionaries. Blood dripped on his cloak.
‘You are still alive then, Boar Skull? Much good you did us out there. Does your brother live? I see he is a worthy warrior.’ He eyed the pile of bloodied corpses at Dan’s feet with respect.
Macsen then leaped lightly from the war chariot and tied the heads to his horses’ reins by their hair and moved to check on Dan. It was as if he did such things all the time. Perhaps he did do such things all the time. Ursula swayed in the saddle. She could feel the world around her turning black. The thundering of her own blood was loud in her ears. She was very afraid she was going to faint. She could not look at the heads. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again everything would be all right. All the horror would only be a nightmare. None of it could be real. But even with her eyes shut she could smell things that had no place in her normal world. The world of history field trips and safe beds, mothers and comfort. She could smell male sweat and blood and excrement. She could smell damp horse, damp dog, damp wool and fear. She opened her eyes. She had not fainted but the world was as it had been. It was all still there. Macsen was caressing Braveheart, whispering endearments, wiping flesh and gore from his muzzle.
‘I should have trusted you, Giff, my old friend, you would not have fought for just any man. You’re a hound of the gods!’ He looked at the slumped, insensible form of Dan.
‘He is young. I would not have guessed he had the strength for all this,’ he indicated the sprawled bodies again. ‘The madness of the bear sark is well known. I have always heard that they could fight with the strength of ten. Now I believe it. He will be honoured among us for this. But you … I did not think you a coward, Boar Skull. I’m disappointed. Rhonwen has found us no warrior in you. I will have to talk with Rhonwen about you and about the foolish risk she took just now … ’ His face looked suddenly grim, then cleared. He called out.‘Gwyn! Bring water for Giff and a couple of cloaks for The Bear Sark, and mead. He is too weary to look to his own honour.’
With a hard look at Ursula, now shivering with shock and cold, he turned away to join the others. The moon was bright again and she could see them all cheerfully ransacking the corpses and hacking off their heads. Kai’s song had changed. He sang now as a butcher might whistle when he prepared meat for his shop. It was now a lively song with a rousing chorus. Prys and Rhodri sang in harmony. Ursula could not hear all the words but it was something about threshing corn and reaping the heads of their enemies. It was a scene from hell.
The spasm of shivering that racked Ursula seemed to signal the end of her petrifaction. She managed to release the hold on her borrowed sword and slide gracelessly off her borrowed pony. Stiffly, she tried to force numbed limbs to move. She would have fallen but fear that she would land on a corpse lent desperation to her attempts to keep her balance. She staggered towards Dan’s recumbent form. He was only a step or two away, just in front of her. She did not think about the danger. She should have. Braveheart or Giff, as Macsen had called him, growled warningly in the back of his throat. The warning was enough for Dan who snapped awake, wild-eyed. He reached at once, with reflexive ease, for Bright Killer.
‘No, Dan! It’s all right. It’s me, Ursula, you know from school … ’
She hoped that reminding him of his own real life away from this slaughter might bring him back to himself.
She was not sure that he had heard her strangled whisper, but he did not kill her, so he must have done. He also did not put down his sword. It was hard to square Dan, the schoolboy, with Dan, the mad killer, even though she had seen the transition with her own eyes. He now seemed to be both people at once. He held the sword with an easy grip. It was, as it had been in the battle, part of him, an extension of his will, but he spoke like the schoolboy.
‘I’m starving!’ He looked at her with troubled eyes. ‘Ursula, you haven’t got any chocolate on you, have you? I’ll pay you back. I’m so hungry I’m shaking. I feel like I’ve been racing all day. I’m cold too … ’ he didn’t finish. He suddenly noticed her face, which must have looked like she had stared into the pit of hell itself. He was all concern.
‘Ursula, are you OK, you look terrible?’
‘Oh, Dan!’ she could not help it, she started to sob. ‘Dan, this is a terrible place. I want to go home.’
She did not want to have to tell him what she’d seen him do. She desperately wanted him to be sane. In some deep part of her she willed him to be sane, to be with her in this nightmare so she would not be alone.
Dan moved to comfort her and suddenly noticed his own blood-soaked state and the pile of corpses.
‘What’s this … ?’ he began and then a terrible awareness shadowed his eyes and Ursula knew that this time he did remember what he had done. ‘Oh my God! It isn’t true. It can’t be true.’
Braveheart licked his anguished face. The hound’s breath was rank with the smell of raw human flesh. Dan did not push him away but hugged his huge neck with his free hand, as if it were a rock in a swollen river and he were drowning. He stayed with his head buried in Braveheart’s flank for what seemed like a long time. Ursula had no comfort to offer him. How could she tell him it was all right? It wasn’t. He’d killed six men, seven, or eight? She hadn’t counted. He was fifteen, maybe sixteen years old and a murderer. He had killed in self-defence but it was still murder, unless it was justifiable homicide – or was that only in American films? Dan had been ruthless, terrifying, brutal and braver than she could ever hope to be. She had no words at all to offer him.
It was the sound of Gwyn’s footsteps that broke through his despair. Braveheart stiffened at the approach. Dan was on his feet in a blink of an eye, sword ready, his face whiter than the moon. Braveheart bared his dagger-like teeth and gently growled. Gwyn very carefully kept his hands in view. He was carrying a wine-skin and a couple of thick woollen cloaks.
In a part of his mind he had never explored, Dan appraised the barrel-chested tribesman. He watched the way he moved, the way he favoured his right side, the slight awkwardness of his gait that betrayed a recent injury. He calculated where he would need to attack him and how hard. He ran through the possible moves in his head, taking into account the superior strength and height of the older man. Dan had fought him before. He was strong as a bull but his reactions were slower than Dan’s own. Dan was shocked by all that he now remembered he had done, but he had done it. He now knew he had done it. He could not undo it, however much he longed to. He could feel the violence that he had never known was in him. It was there but in his control. He knew where it was kept and how he could loose it. The quiet place of his school-days, his secret gift for total focus
waited for him. Dan was very afraid that he had been mad. He remembered the red-haired girl and what had followed, the wild fight with Macsen’s men when he had heard Ursula scream. He remembered it all. Madness was there waiting for him in that place of calm. He knew it. He felt it as a cold compulsion to destroy. He could lose himself in it at any time. He knew he had a choice, though. He couldn’t be mad if he could choose not to be, could he?
The memory of those other fights gave him a grim confidence, just as it horrified him to the depths of his soul. He had spent his life avoiding fights. He hated violence. Even with his mates he looked away in the worst parts of films. Now, here he was, fifteen years old, a psychopathic murderer. How could it be true and how could it not be true? How could he face his sister, Lizzie?
Gwyn must have seen only Dan’s confidence because beads of sweat gathered on his forehead as he met Dan’s eyes. Gwyn’s gaze was steady but Ursula could almost see his fear. The air around him seemed oily with it. Gwyn did not fear much and he did not like to be made afraid by a boy no more than half his weight. Ursula saw that too and felt compelled to break the silence. She spoke in English so that Gwyn gave her a deeply suspicious look.
‘Dan, this is Gwyn, one of Prince Macsen’s men. He’s brought you mead and a warm cloak. You fought on his side.’
It was in Dan’s mind to say that he fought on no one’s side and that he remembered his previous encounter with Gwyn perfectly, but, as the shock of his new self knowledge grew, he began to shiver. A warm cloak would be good. He had never drunk mead. Mead too seemed like a good idea. Exhaustion overwhelmed him and his knees almost buckled under him. The thought of going back to the place of madness now seemed repellent, impossible. He lowered his sword to let Gwyn closer.
