The Savage Knight mkoa-2

by Paul Lewis

  They departed without fuss or goodbyes, Dodinal picking up the trail almost as soon as they had crossed the village boundary. The forest echoed with the sounds of labour. It would not be long before the defences were complete. He hoped they were not put to the test before Madoc returned. He suspected the village would stand or fall depending on whether the chieftain was there to help defend it.

  The afternoon passed uneventfully. They stopped to rest only briefly for, by unspoken agreement, all seven men were keen to push on and take advantage of the daylight hours. Once night fell, they would have to pitch camp.

  After a time they began to hear a rumbling in the distance.

  “We’ll not go hungry tonight.” Madoc gestured vaguely ahead of them. “The river’s half an hour away, maybe less. Good fishing.”

  Dodinal smiled sadly as a memory came to him, of Idris dismissing fish as food for babies and the very old, for the toothless. Like the effusive chieftain, he, too, preferred the taste of meat. But even fish was better than nothing, and they had to eat. Men did not fight well, or march well, on empty stomachs.

  The roaring grew louder the closer they got to the river, until it was like the roar of a gale through the trees and they had to raise their voices to make themselves heard. Finally they emerged from the forest onto the wide bank of a raging torrent, the clear water swollen with snow-melt, foaming and turbulent, alive with eddies and swirls as it swept past them. The spray quickly soaked them through.

  The far side of the bank was an unbroken wall of forest, mirroring their own. Dodinal sensed the land there was bereft of game too, yet even had it teemed with wildlife, it would have been cruelly out of reach. They had no way of crossing the river. They dared not even attempt it. Dodinal was consoled by the realisation that the creatures could not have crossed it either.

  The constant rumble and rush was deafening, but their ears soon became accustomed to it as they proceeded upriver along the bank. The ground was rocky, the going firm underfoot, but even so, they made sure not to wander too close to the edge. After the melting snows, the water was almost level with the top of the bank, where the earth had turned to slippery mud. A man who lost his footing would be swept away to certain death.

  Dodinal remained within the forest to follow the trail, catching glimpses of his companions beyond the tree line. The creatures had followed the straight path of the river until its course ahead of them veered eastwards, when they had moved away from it, relentlessly heading north. Dodinal called out to the men and hurried to catch up with them. “They left the river behind them. We must do the same.”

  Hywel squinted up at the sky. By now the sun had lowered until it appeared to touch the treetops, lengthening the shadows around them and turning the air so cold that their breath plumed misty white. “Better to wait until morning, maybe? We won’t be able to follow their trail much longer and at least there’s fresh water to be had here.”

  “Where there’s fresh water there’s fresh fish,” Madoc added, rubbing his stomach in a slow, circular motion.

  There were indeed fish. Dodinal could sense them. He pulled a face but said nothing.

  It was agreed they would establish a camp while there was some daylight left. Given the stiff, damp breeze that blew off the river they decided to return to the forest.

  Once they had chosen the site of their camp they split up, with Dodinal, Gerwyn, Emlyn and Hywel gathering firewood and the other four taking their spears to the river’s edge. Madoc and Gwythr knew this territory well while Tomos and Rhydian professed to be as adept at catching fish as they were hunting game. Dodinal had his doubts but let them go; they only needed so much firewood.

  “How are you two going to catch anything with those?” Gerwyn taunted them as they carried their spears towards the river, a friendly grin on his face.

  “It takes a lot of skill,” Madoc answered mock-indignantly. “What you have to do is stand perfectly still until the very last moment… then shove your spear in and hope for the best.”

  They left, laughing, and went about their chores. Soon there was a fire blazing within a circle of stones, a stack of gathered branches heaped alongside it to ensure they would not get cold.

  Dodinal had even more reason to be thankful these men were with him. He had been left so poorly equipped after his encounter with the wolves that he lacked the means to start a fire.

  The wood they had gathered was green, unseasoned, spitting and smoking in the flames. But that was all for the best: to Dodinal’s mind, fish came closest to being palatable when flavoured with smoke.

  At dusk, Madoc and Gwythyr returned to the clearing. Between them they clutched enough fat trout, strung together on a cord, for the men to have one apiece. Too hungry to wait for the brothers to come back, they scaled and gutted the catch and threaded the fish onto sharpened sticks over the fire.

  Oil dripped from the fish as they cooked, sizzling and flaring as it struck the flames. The aroma of cooking trout made them salivate. They ate once the skin was blackened and peeling, blowing and sucking on their fingers as they burned them in their haste.

  Although he usually disdained fish, and it was far from enough to satisfy his hunger, it was Dodinal’s finest meal in a long time. He devoured it quickly, picking over the last of the flesh carefully until there was nothing left but head, tail and bones.

  He tossed the remains away and stretched his arms over his head, stifling a yawn. Dusk had given way to dark; the moon was rising and the sky was ablaze with stars. The air began to cool rapidly. He pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders. It had been a long, tiring day. He suspected they would all want to sleep early so they could rise and leave early come the morning. For all their levity, they had not once lost sight of their purpose.

  Then Rhydian stepped into the camp, holding a brace of trout in one hand and his spear in the other, water dripping from the blade like rain. He looked around the fire. A frown creased his forehead.

  “Where’s Tomos?”

  “We thought he was with you,” Hywel answered.

  Rhydian looked anxious. “I haven’t seen him. He complained all the best spots had been taken, said he would find a good place a little way downriver. I was watching the water, but I looked up now and then to see how he was getting on. When I left there was no sign of him. I thought he had returned here.”

  Dodinal got to his feet, suddenly uneasy. There could be any number of reasons why Tomas had not returned. He could have gone into the woods for a piss or to empty his bowels. Perhaps he, too, hated the taste of fish, and had taken his spear into the forest, hoping to outdo the rest of them by returning with game. Or he could have fallen in. That was as likely as an explanation as any, though not one Dodinal wanted to entertain after witnessing so much bloodshed.

  “We have not seen him,” he said. “But we’ll find him. Probably squatting behind a bush with his trousers around his ankles.”

  The men laughed at that, even Rhydian, but the laughter sounded empty and forced, as though they all feared the worst.

  They gathered their weapons and followed Rhydian as he led them downriver to the place where he last saw his brother. The earth was soft, and it was plain to see where Tomas had stood, spear in hand, waiting to skewer the fish. A trail of boot prints led further along the bank. Perhaps he had decided to try his luck elsewhere, having failed at the first attempt. They looked around and called out, but their efforts to find him were in vain.

  Finally Dodinal sighed deeply. “Rhydian, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it looks like your brother must have fallen in.”

  “What makes you think that?” Rhydian answered sharply.

  Dodinal gestured at the ground close to the bank. “There are no footprints beyond this point.”

  “That’s impossible.” Rhydian stepped back unconsciously, as though fearing the river could pull him into its lethal embrace. “We have fished wilder rivers than this. He knew what he was doing. He would never be stupid enough to fall in.” />
  Gerwyn reached out and grasped Rhydian by the shoulders, pulling him close in an awkward embrace. “Your brother was not stupid. But anyone can make mistakes.” He looked up bleakly at Dodinal. “Anyone.”

  Rhydian shrugged free of him. “Believe whatever you want. Tomos would not have fallen in, he’s here somewhere. Go back to the fire, all of you. I will search until I have found him.”

  “As you wish,” Dodinal said softly. Let the man search, if that was what he wanted. He would find no trace of his brother. Tomos was dead. His body would be far from here already, carried away by the implacable torrent until it either snagged on some obstruction or was washed out into the faraway sea. But it would be better to let Rhydian reach that conclusion for himself than try to convince him he was wasting his time.

  They watched him go, picking his way along the path, calling out his brother’s name, until he was far enough away for the roar of the river to drown out his voice. When they made their way slowly back to the camp, the fire did little to warm them. Even Dodinal, for all that he had barely known the missing man.

  He suspected Gerwyn would have remained with Rhydian if he had held so much as a glimmer of hope that Tomos may yet be alive. Perhaps, like Dodinal, he felt his friend should be allowed to make his own decision as to when to abandon the search, rather than have others make it for him. That might have caused resentment.

  Dodinal observed Gerwyn guardedly. If that had been his reasoning, it was another encouraging sign he was not as selfish and shallow as everyone, Rhiannon especially, considered him to be. Then again, he thought ruefully, it could have been that he was simply too lazy to want to bother helping with the search.

  The brace of trout Rhydian had caught lay untouched on the ground. The men had been ravenous, but now not one of them was hungry. It did not matter whether they had liked Tomos — indeed, Madoc and Gwythyr had barely known him — but they were all in this together, and he was one of theirs.

  The men sat and brooded, each aware it could have been he who had fallen in, whose lungs had filled with water as he struggled, terrified, trying desperately to swim to the bank only for the current to sweep him away, consigning his body to the river’s crushing embrace forever.

  Each of them had lost someone, whether it be a father, kinsman or child, brehyrion or, in the case of the absent Rhydian, brother. The mood around the fire was as dark as the woodland around them.

  Other than the crackle and spit of the fire, the woods were eerily silent. In forests elsewhere there would be the hooting of owls, the howling of the wolves, the furtive rustling of small creatures in the undergrowth. Here, the stillness put Dodinal on edge.

  After an hour or so spent in mainly silent introspection, they heard something move swiftly across the woodland towards them. At once the men leapt to their feet, reaching for their weapons, relaxing only when a forlorn-looking Rhydian stepped into the circle of firelight.

  “Well?” Gerwyn hurried across to him.

  Rhydian shook his head. “Nothing. I walked until I reached a turn in the river, where the forest closed in and the bank narrowed until there was not enough room to walk safely. Then I searched through the trees while I made my way back here. You were right, Dodinal. He must have fallen in, though for the life of me I cannot understand how.” He hurled his spear to the ground and sat down wearily. “Why him?” he asked no one in particular. “Why not me?”

  “You should eat,” Gerwyn said tentatively. “You’ll feel better with a full belly.”

  Rhydian waved the idea away. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then rest,” said Dodinal. “Conserve your strength. The same goes for all of us. It has been a hard day. We should sleep now so we can be away again with the dawn. I will stand first watch.”

  Hywel looked at him sharply. “Why is that necessary? Are you worried those things may still be out there?”

  Dodinal did not immediately reply. He had assumed the creatures were long gone, but had no way of being certain. At least he knew they had nothing to do with Tomos’s death; they would have left tracks if they had. He realised the men were afraid of what might be prowling the deep forest beyond the camp. Frightened men made mistakes, and in their situation errors could easily prove fatal, as Tomos had discovered to his cost.

  “Better safe than sorry,” he said to reassure them. “We have cooked fish and their remains are scattered around us. Too late and too dark to gather it all up now but it could attract bears or wolves.”

  There were no predators within range of his senses, but his companions could not know that. “I would rather miss a few hours of sleep than be woken by something taking a bite out of me.”

  “Good point,” Hywel conceded. “Wake me in two hours. The rest of you can take turns after me.”

  They seemed satisfied with that and, one by one, wrapped their cloaks around their shoulders and settled down to sleep, resting their heads on their packs. Dodinal undid his sword belt and placed it on the ground to his right, with the spear within easy reach to his left. The fire blinded him to anything outside the reach of its light so he closed his eyes and listened, wary for sounds that might betray the presence of anything that did not belong in the forest.

  There was nothing, save for the ceaseless roar of the river and a night breeze that whispered its secrets to the trees.

  Snores and coughs soon sounded around the camp. Bodies shifted and turned on the hard ground. Someone quietly farted.

  When his legs started cramping, Dodinal got to his feet and, fastening the sword belt and picking up the spear, crept away from the fire to avoid disturbing the men. He walked slow circuits of the camp, treading carefully so he would not be heard above the endless din of the river.

  He thought of Camelot and the life he had left behind in the hope of finding the life he longed for, a life of peace, free of war and of bloodshed. A mirthless smile played across his lips. How much blood had been spilled since then, despite his best endeavours to prevent it? How much more would have to be spilled before there could finally be an end to all of this?

  Without intending to, he found himself thinking about Rhiannon. He was glad he had taken with him the image of her asleep in her bed, the cares of the world lifted from her shoulders, for a short while at least. It gave him something to hope for. Something to live for. That was the woman he wanted to return to, her son safely with him, not the dead-eyed husk she had been the night before he left.

  A twig snapped with a whiplash crack and he froze, holding the spear ready before him, his breathing silent and shallow. It had come from somewhere close to the camp. He strained to listen.

  “Dodinal?” someone whispered. The knight relaxed.

  Rhydian picked through the undergrowth towards him.

  “Didn’t I say to get some rest?” Dodinal said.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Too much to think about.” Creeping about the forest at night was perhaps not the most sensible idea, at times like this, but Dodinal was gratified to see Rhydian at least had the presence of mind to carry a sword. “I still can’t believe Tomos is gone.”

  “I did not know him, but I share your pain.”

  “You have lost a brother too?”

  “Not a brother, but others close to me. You may be hurting now, but it will pass, in time.” That was a lie. The hurt did not pass. It dulled, yes, but it was always there, a silent, haunting presence that would never go away. Neither would he want it to. His past was more than the sum of his memories; it had made him the man that he was.

  “Thank you,” Rhydian said quietly. He scratched the back of his head. “You might as well rest. No point in us both being awake.”

  “Are you sure?” Dodinal was bone-tired and appreciated the offer, but it felt wrong to leave the man alone with his grief. “If you want to talk about your brother, I will listen.”

  “Another time, perhaps. Right now it just doesn’t feel like he’s gone. I keep expecting to look up and see him walking towards me, dripping wet, a big e
mbarrassed grin on his face.” Rhydian stared into space. Pain had etched lines around his eyes and mouth. “Go ahead, sleep while you can. I will keep watch until I start to tire. Then I’ll wake Hywel.”

  “Very well.” Dodinal hesitated, thinking he should say more, but realising there were no words in the world to make Rhydian feel any better, or any less alone. “Goodnight, then.”

  Rhydian responded in kind, and Dodinal went back to the fireside, where he returned his spear and sword to the ground. As Rhydian had no immediate need of his pack, Dodinal took it to rest his head on. Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, he settled down close to the fire and closed his eyes. With his thoughts as turbulent as the river’s harsh lullaby, sleep was a long time coming. When at last it did come, it was filled with dark and twisted dreams.

  He was back in the village, in the chaotic aftermath of the attack. With a groan of horror he saw it was not Idris who lay dead on the ground but Rhiannon, her dark hair matted with blood where her skull had been staved in. Owain sat cross-legged next to her, rocking back and forth, holding his mother’s limp hands in his. He looked up accusingly at Dodinal and opened his mouth as if to say something.

  No words emerged from his lips, only a long drawn-out scream, a shrieking so ghastly the battle-hardened knight clapped his hands to his ears to try to drown it out. There was no stopping it. The scream went on and on. It drilled into his skull until he felt it would burst.

  He woke with a start. His eyes snapped open and he bolted upright, looking wildly around in confusion. It was only when he felt the heat of the fire and heard the scream again, cutting through the air like a knife, that he realised he was no longer dreaming.

  SEVENTEEN