The Savage Knight mkoa-2

by Paul Lewis

  He was dimly aware of people moving and talking in hushed tones around him, but he paid them no notice. His mind struggled to comprehend the enormity of the man’s passing. He got down on one knee and put his arms around Rhiannon, saying nothing, just holding her, feeling her body stiffen and then relax at his touch. Moments later she shuddered as she began to weep, and he held her tighter still.

  They stayed like that for a minute or two, and then Dodinal leant across to lift the old man’s head from Rhiannon’s lap and lower it gently to the ground. “There will be time to grieve for the dead,” he told her as he helped her to her feet. “But that time will come later. For now we must concern ourselves with the living.”

  People had gathered round and were standing there helplessly as they looked down at Idris, traumatised both by the sudden ferocity of the attack on the village and by the death of their leader. They seemed to be at a loss to know what to do or what to say.

  Then all heads turned as one towards the Great Hall as its door was hurled open with a mighty crash. Dodinal had given the creature no further thought, assuming it had perished in the flames, but it had not. It leapt out of the burning building, alive if not unscathed. Its body was blackened and blistered. It rolled on the ground, yelping in pain.

  Rhiannon went rigid and screamed her son’s name.

  “Oh no,” Dodinal groaned when he saw why she had cried out. Owain was running past the Great Hall, towards the gates. The boy, oblivious as always of his own safety, was perhaps trying to rescue the stolen girl. He gave no sign of having seen the creature, but the creature immediately saw him. It twisted around on the ground, jumped up and reached out to snatch Owain off his feet. Dodinal had left the gates open. There was no need for it to scale the palisade. It vanished into the darkness in the blink of an eye. Dodinal heard it howl in triumph.

  He saw red and went after it.

  The smoke in his throat and his lungs was forgotten as he tore between the trees. Their life lights, though dim, were bright enough for him to avoid them even with his eyes closed. Behind him he was aware of the sound of villagers hurrying after him, but he did not slow; he didn’t want them anywhere near him.

  The moon bathed the forest in its unforgiving light. Ahead of him, a shadow flitted and leapt high up in the trees. Dodinal’s fury coalesced as he realised it was pulling away from him. The distance between them was growing even though he was running so hard his heart felt like it was about to burst through his chest.

  Consumed by the fire of his seething rage, he had no sense of time. So when the mist cleared and he was finally forced to break off the pursuit, throat ragged, legs burning, pulse thudding, lungs puffing like bellows, he had no idea how long he had given chase.

  He doubled over, hands on his knees, head bowed, gasping for breath, hearing nothing above his heart’s relentless pounding. When at last it calmed, he realised with dismay that the forest around him was silent.

  The creature was gone. He had lost it.

  Baying his frustration and anger, he drew his sword and hit out at the tree closest to him, striking it repeatedly, roaring with each blow. The force of the impacts was like a hammer against his wrists, until it seemed the blade must surely break. He hated himself for failing, for letting down the people he had sworn to protect. He hated Arthur, too, for making him take the oath to begin with. Dodinal had not sought knighthood. But neither had he refused it.

  Now he would give anything to turn his back on it.

  He hurled the sword away and wiped his eyes. Blood and ash and sweat smeared the back of his hand. Then he slid to the ground and sat with his back against the tree, elbows resting on his knees, and held his head in his hands. Men called out to him. Dodinal did not call back. He was too troubled to want anyone near him. It was the first time in his life he had failed. He hated the feel of it. Anger, despair and inadequacy battled for supremacy inside him. He raised his head to stare into the inky darkness of the forest. There was a good chance Owain and the girl were alive; whatever those things were, the children were no good to them dead.

  Perhaps there was time to save them, and redeem himself.

  Even if there was not, he would go after them regardless. He would not suffer the creatures to live. Not after what they had done and would doubtless continue to do. They would continue probing south, attacking village after village, unless they were stopped.

  So he would stop them. They did not deserve to live.

  Dodinal nodded solemnly. His mind was made up.

  He got to his feet and retrieved his sword from where he had thrown it. Then he set off for the village to say his last farewells.

  FOURTEEN

  The men did not find him; he found them. He could have passed them unseen had he wanted to — certainly he was in no mood for conversation — but his fight was not with them, and he had no reason to treat them discourteously. Even so, when they asked him what had happened, he gruffly informed them the creatures had gone. With that, he fell silent and did not speak again until they reached the village.

  Rhiannon paced anxiously at the gates. Her shoulders slumped when she saw Dodinal had returned alone.

  “Owain is gone. I’m sorry,” he told her. The words sounded woefully inadequate. “It was too fast for me.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” Rhiannon’s voice had risen in pitch. She was close to hysteria. Dodinal did not blame her.

  He reached out and held her by the shoulders. When he pulled her towards him, she resisted briefly and then collapsed into his arms as his words hit home. “I know it’s hard,” he murmured into her ear. “But don’t despair. Owain is alive. He is strong, not like the child they took from Madoc’s village. You have to be as strong as he is.”

  She pulled away from him, beating both fists hard against his chest, her voice rising to a shout. “And what good is it to me to know he is alive after those… devils have taken him? How is that supposed to make me feel any better?”

  Her voice broke and she hit him again and again, putting all her strength into each blow, screaming in denial. Dodinal said nothing, did nothing to stop her, waiting for the storm to pass, until she lacked the strength to strike him and the screams had dwindled into sobs.

  Then he held her tight and pressed his face to her hair and whispered: “Owain is alive. I will get him back, I swear.”

  She did not resist when he led her through the gates. The guard’s body was gone. The ground was stained black.

  He steered her past the Great Hall, now completely alight.

  The firelight painted a picture of hell.

  Bodies, battered and bleeding and not all of them intact, lay where they had died. Wives and husbands knelt alongside them, crying and wailing their grief, whispering prayers, holding the fallen even while torn flesh cooled and broken limbs stiffened, as though they could hold on to the life that had been extinguished.

  Someone must have taken the children to a place of refuge to spare them further trauma, for there were none to be seen. Many of them were now orphans. Not all of them would yet know it.

  Idris had been moved, his body placed before the smouldering remains of his home, with his arms crossed over his chest. His head rested on a folded cloak, his hair arranged to conceal his shattered skull. His sword and shield had been placed next to him. Two men with spears stood, one each side of his body, a guard of honour. Dodinal held back his grief at the loss of a man he had come to regard as a friend. There was too much to do.

  Villagers flitted through the smoke, comforting the bereaved and gently separating them from the bodies. Now the initial shock had worn off, the living were taking care of the dead, carrying the fallen to a place out of sight where they could be readied for burial.

  Ordinarily the dead would need to be buried soon so as not to attract predators and vermin. Now there was no need to hurry. It was too soon after winter for flies, and in this abandoned wilderness the corpses would not attract so much as a single carrion bird.

  Now Do
dinal understood why this was. It had nothing to do with the weather, as they had assumed. The wild beasts had not gone south to survive the winter, but had fled there, scared away by the gargoyle creatures that swept through the forest like a plague.

  Dodinal hailed a passing woman and asked her to accompany Rhiannon to her hut, not wanting her left alone. But Rhiannon would have none of it and insisted on seeing to the wounded, since she was the village healer. Dodinal did not try to stand in her way. Far from it; he felt that with her work to distract her, she was less likely to spend the night fretting over her missing son, even if there was no distraction great enough to keep him far from her thoughts.

  So he left her to it and wandered through the village, giving out words of condolence or reassurance to the survivors, who wandered around helplessly, unsure of what to do in the absence of any clear leadership. He had no desire to interfere in their affairs, but with Idris dead and Gerwyn yet to return, he felt he should guide them, for their sake and not his own.

  As he walked, he searched for familiar faces. Eventually he found one, gratified to see Hywel, the quietly-spoken tracker, among those who had embarked on the grisly task of carrying the dead to the hut where their mortal remains would be stored overnight. Its original inhabitants were presumably among the lost.

  There was no preamble. Each man understood what had happened. Neither felt the need to speak of it, only of what should be done. “They will start digging at first light,” Hywel told him, taking a break from his grim duties to walk the perimeter with Dodinal so they would not be overheard. “What happened here tonight… people have yet to come to terms with it, let alone consider what will become of us after the burials. Idris is dead. His son is his heir, but no man here will accept Gerwyn as their brehyrion. I fear for us.”

  “Until tonight they only took children by stealth,” Dodinal said. “Then word spread, and villages started keeping their children indoors. The creatures will not give up. Direct confrontation was inevitable.

  “We were unlucky. We were the first. But we hurt them. They will be in no hurry to return. You have nothing to fear.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Hywel said. He stopped and looked up at the moon. Another two days and it would be full. “Idris did not know you for long, but he held you in great respect. As do we all. We would do well with you to guide us through the hard days ahead.”

  “You honour me.” Dodinal remembered how he had laughed off Rhiannon’s suggestion that he might one day take over from Idris. So amusing then, so tragically prescient now. “But I will be leaving come dawn. The children are alive. I will find them and bring them home. I made a promise to Rhiannon and I intend to keep my word.”

  “Then I will leave with you, if you will take me.”

  Dodinal shook his head.

  Hywel scowled. “Those things were like nothing I have seen before. You know what they did. They tore our people limb from limb, yet we failed to kill even one of them. You are a great warrior, but you would not stand a chance alone.”

  Dodinal shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. If I have to give my life to save others, then so be it. I am not afraid. But too many people have died tonight, Hywel. The village needs good men like you if it is to survive. Besides, a man travels faster when he travels alone.”

  “And a man dies faster when he fights alone,” Hywel snapped back. Dodinal could not help but laugh, despite the night’s shattering events. Even so, he would not be swayed and when the two men parted he shook Hywel’s hand solemnly. Whatever happened, he was certain he would not see the tracker again.

  He intended to return directly to Rhiannon, to offer whatever comfort he could. But on his way he heard a familiar voice raised in anger, and he knew that Gerwyn had returned.

  FIFTEEN

  As the knight cast eyes on Gerwyn, the late brehyrion’s son saw him and came storming across the ground towards him, hands curled into fists. His eyes shone a deep amber in the firelight, lending him a feral, almost demonic look. “What happened here?” he demanded, his voice loud and strident. “My father is dead and I want to know why.”

  Dodinal looked beyond him to the two men guarding the old man’s body. Standing close to them, awkward and fidgety with nerves, were the brothers Gerwyn had taken on his hunting trip. It came as no surprise to him that they had returned empty-handed. One of the brothers shrugged helplessly as Dodinal held him in his gaze. The knight ignored him and returned his attention to Gerwyn.

  “We were attacked.”

  “Really?” Gerwyn spat. “You think I have not worked that out for myself? I am no simpleton, no matter what you think.”

  One of his hands now clasped his sword hilt, but as yet he had made no effort to draw it. Dodinal tensed. He was willing to forgive the man his hostility in the light of his father’s death, but if he spilled over into outright violence, the knight would put an end to it. “I did not intend to suggest that you were,” he said. “If you let me speak, I will explain what happened.”

  Gerwyn dismissed the words with an angry gesture. “You are alive. My father lies cold on the ground. Even a simpleton can see you were more interested in saving your own hide than protecting his.”

  “He had no duty to protect your father, you gutless bastard.”

  Dodinal turned his head at the unexpected interruption.

  Rhiannon marched towards them, wearing a furious expression. “He had no duty to protect anyone, but he did because he chose to.” The words tumbled out of her in a torrent. “He led the fight against the creatures that attacked us. Yes, your father is dead, but know that he died valiantly. If it were not for Idris and Dodinal, and the other brave men of the village, we would all be dead and our children would all have been taken.”

  Gerwyn assumed a condescending air. “‘Creatures’? You must have taken a knock to the head, woman.”

  “That’s enough,” Dodinal growled, but the words were lost as Rhiannon drew level with Gerwyn and, without breaking stride, slapped his face with the palm of her hand, hard enough to rock him on his feet. She thrust her face into his, spraying him with spittle. “Where were you when all this was happening? Far from here, shying away from hard work, just as you have always done.”

  Gerwyn was frozen in place.

  “It’s a pity you weren’t around to help defend us when we were attacked. My son might still be here if you had been, and your father might still be alive.” Rhiannon jabbed a finger hard into his chest. “If you want to blame anyone for his death, then blame yourself.”

  With that she spun on her heel and stormed off, leaving Gerwyn thunderstruck, with a livid welt on his face. The fight had gone out of him. When he turned to Dodinal, he appeared to have just surfaced from a sleep filled with confusing dreams. “What did she mean about Owain? And what is all this talk of creatures? Has the world gone mad?”

  Dodinal was too weary to care whether Gerwyn understood what had happened or not. “Believe me, I am deeply sorry about your father, but my place is with Rhiannon. Find someone else to tell you what occurred here tonight. You will find it hard to believe, but believe it you must. And, yes, the world has gone mad.”

  He had no more to say and so he left, to find Rhiannon and do whatever he could to help her through the long night ahead. She had commandeered another of the huts whose occupants had been killed. One by one the injured were carried in for her to assess their wounds, and stitch them or bind them as necessary. Candles had been lit all around to boost the light from the fire.

  It was ceaseless, demanding work. Dodinal watched her with increasing concern, she seemed to age years as the night passed. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was wan and taut. He could have wept at the sight of her.

  Midnight came and went and still she was not done. Her hands were painted red with blood, her clothes were spotted with dark patches. She was so tired her body swayed, and she had to pause from her work while she rubbed her eyes into wakefulness, smearing blood across her face. Her f
ingers trembled as she stitched torn flesh with needle and sinew until the only way she could hold them steady was by gripping one hand with the other.

  Finally Dodinal could bear it no longer and insisted she rested. “You have seen to the most badly injured,” he told her, ignoring her protests and guiding her away from the healing hut towards her own. “The others have but minor wounds. They can wait until morning.”

  Once inside, he ordered her to lay on the pallet. He found a cloth and used hot water from the pot to wash the blood from her hands and face despite her weak protestations. Then he pulled the furs up over her. “I will not sleep,” she insisted in a drowsy voice. Her eyelids drooped. Only her anger and fear were keeping her awake.

  “No matter, as long as you rest. You have been through a terrible ordeal. You need to take time to regain your strength.”

  At that, she cried out and sat bolt upright. “What about Owain? How can I sleep when he is all I can think of?”

  Dodinal gently pushed her down. “Rest, I said. Think of your son, by all means. Only, think of the joy you will feel in your heart when I bring him safely back to you.”

  She looked deep into his eyes, seeking the truth of his words and finding it. Satisfied, she nodded and settled down, turning onto her side and pulling the furs up to her chin.

  Dodinal busied himself with tending to the fire, then sat at the table and stared into the flames while he slowly sharpened his sword. He went over his memories of the attack and asked himself if there was anything he could have done to have altered the outcome.

  After a while he noticed Rhiannon’s breathing had slowed and was deep and steady. The anxiety had fallen from her face, and she looked once more like the kind and beautiful woman who had tended to his wounds. He would do anything for her, and for her son. It vexed him greatly to be sitting in the warmth of the fire while Owain was in the forest at the mercy of the gargoyle creatures. Every fibre of his being demanded he should be out searching for him, and for the girl. Now he knew what to look for, he would be mindful of signs of the creatures’ passage. Yet for all his gifts, he could not see tracks in the dark. Blundering off blindly in the wrong direction could set him back hours, or even days.