Rise of the Pendragon (The Last Pendragon Saga Book 6)

by Sarah Woodbury

  But none could reach the top of the wall more quickly than Goronwy could chop them off it. At the same time, not every defender was as skilled or as quick as these three companions to the king, and they didn’t have enough men to replace those who fell. Bedwyr cursed steadily beside him. At one point, Goronwy turned just as a Saxon came up behind Geraint and slashed at his head. Goronwy shoved at his friend and met the Saxon’s blade with his own. But the few heartbeats he’d taken to protect Geraint had allowed a Saxon to reach the top of the ladder and leap down to the path behind it.

  Goronwy swung around, panicked that he’d lost the rhythm of the fight. If he fell behind the pace, the Saxons would overwhelm them. But in this instance, Bedwyr was there. Then once again, the friends fought together. As the moments passed, Goronwy lost track of all sense of himself, fiercely holding on with two hands to the hilt of his sword. He was aware only of the succession of blood-shot eyes of the Saxons in front of him.

  “Retreat! Pull back!” The call came from the rampart above and behind them. The Annex had been a bold, initial line of defense, but they couldn’t hold it.

  Geraint obeyed instantly. Goronwy shoved his sword through a last Saxon but then had to drag Bedwyr along the pathway towards the main gateway to Caer Fawr.

  “Come on! Run!” Dafydd had posted himself at the top of the rampart above the gate, and he screamed the words over and over as they ran.

  “Loose!”

  That was Cade from the level above, ordering the remaining archers on the inner rampart to release finally the arrows they’d saved. The barrage of metal held the Saxons back long enough to allow the exhausted Welsh to secure themselves inside the lower walls. The gate slammed closed behind them.

  “Christ on the cross!” Bedwyr ripped at a strip of cloth from the hem of his tunic and wound it one-handed around a slit in his upper arm.

  “Damn it! I thought we had them!” Goronwy sputtered and spit his anger, but after a skeptical look from Bedwyr, had to acknowledge that Cade had been right to sound the retreat, and if he’d waited any longer, it might have been too late. None of them would have made it to safety.

  Goronwy leaned against the inner wall and rested his head against the sod. Cade remained on the wall above him, shouting and pointing at men, one after another, each in turn running off to do his bidding. From up there, he would have seen the heavy toll the Saxons had been taking on the defenders.

  Cade glanced down at Goronwy, who didn’t even have the energy to lift a hand in acknowledgement of his king. Cade jumped the distance instead. “You were the last to leave the balustrade, I see.”

  “We had to leave the dead and a few of the gravely wounded to the Saxons,” Goronwy said.

  Cade put a hand on his shoulder. “I know. Several of the men wanted to retrieve them, but I refused permission.”

  “The Saxons will slaughter the wounded,” Geraint said.

  Cade’s face was drawn and as grim as Goronwy had ever seen it. “I know that too.” He tipped his head to indicate the pathway that led to the gate in the second rampart. “Come. We have another wall to defend.”

  * * * * *

  Tapping on some hidden reserve of strength, Goronwy ran after Cade, up the pathway to the final gatehouse that protected Caer Fawr proper. This wall was ten feet higher than the lower one they’d been defending. The Saxon ladders wouldn’t reach the top of that wall, no matter how many they crammed into the space. Possibly lashing two ladders together would do it, but whatever the Saxons decided to try would take time—and give the Welsh time—to regroup until the Saxons came at them again.

  “How many men have they lost?” Goronwy’s breath was just beginning to ease. He glanced back towards the gate behind them. It held firm. For now.

  “Many. Maybe as many as we have, but then had more men to begin with and thus more to lose,” Cade said. “I had hoped that Penda would have reconsidered by now.”

  “He wants you dead, my lord,” Goronwy said, “whether or not you’re his nephew. Family ties are nothing when they give no advantage to him.”

  Cade grunted, not necessarily his assent, Goronwy thought, but his understanding. Ahead of them, the rest of the stragglers passed through the higher gate, inset into the inner wall, that protected the next level of the fort. Goronwy and Cade came through it last.

  “Hurry!” Geraint waved at them from above the gate. He held a bow, ready to shoot at the Saxons as they leapt off their scaling ladders and onto the path behind the now undefended rampart.

  Just as they turned into the doorway, Goronwy checked behind them one more time. A wiry Saxon had crested the wall to Goronwy’s right. He whipped out a bow from its rest at his back—

  “Watch out!”

  —and loosed a shot at Geraint whose attention had been drawn elsewhere.

  The cry stuck in Goronwy’s throat. The arrow hit Geraint full in the chest. He folded over it and fell forward off the rampart, plummeting the thirty feet to the pathway below. The Saxon gave a cry of triumph, and suddenly two dozen Saxons were beside him at the top of the wall before leaping down to the pathway.

  “Inside!” Cade shoved at Goronwy, who couldn’t move for shock. “I’ll get him!”

  Cade raced to Geraint’s crumpled form while Goronwy screamed at those who guarded the gate to keep it open, even as the Saxons seized that moment to try to beat them to the open door in the inner wall. Goronwy planted himself in front of the gate and, with a flurry of sword strokes, fought three of them off long enough for Cade to slip through the doorway behind him.

  Once they were safe, with the gate slammed shut, Cade laid Geraint against the wall near the great hall. The arrow was grotesque as it protruded from his chest, and his eyes were sightless.

  “I can’t help him.” Cade eased to his feet as he stared down at Geraint. “He’s gone.”

  Goronwy rested with his head in his hands. Then, filling his lungs with air, he tipped his head back to gaze up at the sky. The rain had stopped just after they’d retreated to the second rampart, and a few stars had come out, interspersed among the clouds. They had perhaps two hours until dawn.

  “If it affects our next course of action, it looks like the morning will dawn clear, Cade,” Goronwy said.

  Cade nodded. “It would, today of all days. But that actually makes the decision easier, doesn’t it?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Cade

  “Get up!” Cade toed Dafydd’s prone form with his boot.

  “I’m awake!” Dafydd had fallen asleep with his back to the wall. He sat near the other archers who’d come through the doorway and collapsed to fall asleep where they lay. Angharad lay curled up next to him, her head pillowed on his thigh. The sky had lightened. Somewhere it was dawn, but the sun hadn’t yet peeked over the eastern horizon. “How long have I slept?”

  “Not long enough, I’m sure,” Cade said. “There’ll be plenty of time for sleeping when this is over, or none of us will ever sleep again.”

  Dafydd stroked the hair from Angharad’s face and wiggled his legs to get her to wake up. She sat up and gazed at Dafydd with a completely blank stare that told Cade she wasn’t really awake. Then she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes again.

  Dafydd touched her cheek gently with one finger and then rose to his feet. “I apologize for earlier, my lord. I said some things I shouldn’t have—”

  Cade held up his hand to stop him before he could say more. “Two friends had a difference of opinion. That is all. That’s not what this is about.” At the same time, he was glad that, like him, Dafydd hadn’t wanted to let the argument fester.

  Dafydd blinked, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Cade knew how his friend felt: confused but too tired to try to guess what Cade wanted.

  “I have many noble men among my companions. But only one has ever held the sword of the White Hilt. That man is you.” Behind his back, Cade had been holding Dyrnwyn, hidden in a borrowed sheath with the belt wrapped around it. He broug
ht it out and showed it to Dafydd.

  “But I thought it wasn’t the real Dyrnwyn?” Dafydd gazed at the sword in clear disbelief and didn’t take it.

  Cade stepped closer and lowered his voice. “We were mistaken. Put it on.”

  “You want me to wear it?”

  “Wear it and wield it. At first light, we ride. We will scatter the Saxons before us—and you will lead the men.”

  “Why me? Why not Goronwy? Or you for that matter? With Caledfwlch and the cloak you can fight in the sun, just like you did yesterday—”

  “With the cloak, I am invisible, and Caledfwlch along with me,” Cade said. “How do I lead my men when they can’t see me? If I tell them that I am fighting among them, they will follow you.”

  Dafydd stared at the sword. Cade didn’t urge it on him, just held it out to him. As far as Cade was concerned, the decision was the right one and the more he thought about it, the more sure he was. But Dafydd had to come to that understanding for himself—for by accepting Cade’s challenge, not only would he lead the men, but he would make himself the center of all the action on the battlefield. A man had to choose that. He couldn’t have it thrust upon him unwilling.

  “Go ahead.” Angharad spoke from behind Dafydd, and he turned to look at her. She pushed to her feet and came to stand beside him, her hand on his arm. “I don’t want you to fight, but given that you will whether or not I want it, you should be the one to carry Dyrnwyn.”

  Dafydd gazed down at her for a count of five. Then he turned to Cade. “I will do it.”

  “I’ll be an unseen sword beside you.” Cade clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ready yourself. We ride within the hour.”

  Cade walked away from Dafydd and Angharad, leaving them to sort themselves out as they saw fit. Back inside the hall, he found Rhiann consulting with Catrin. “I need to speak to you, Rhiann.”

  His wife gave him a long look in which he read more understanding than he necessarily wanted. “I already know what you’re going to say.”

  “And what is your answer? I know you’re as skilled in the use of the bow as any of us here, but I can’t let you fight this time—not from the walls—not with the chance that the Saxons will come over them.”

  Rhiann gazed at him steadily.

  Cade tried again. “Enough men have already died today without losing you.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she said. “Defend the retreat again?”

  “There will be no retreat. Every man capable of sitting on a horse—and that means every man here—will ride out to face the Saxons. You, the other women, and the servants, will remain inside the keep. If the Saxons get this far, we will all be dead, and Caer Fawr will be theirs. If I am dead, Penda will spare your lives.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Catrin said. “Why would he?”

  Cade stared past her, unseeing. Penda would spare Rhiann so he could marry her to Peada, but Cade couldn’t bear to say that. “So Taliesin says.”

  “He’s awake?”

  “Awake and insisting that he is well, for all that he’s lain unmoving on a pallet since I brought him inside.”

  “A temporary thing only.”

  Cade turned and couldn’t help smiling to see the bard crossing the floor of the hall with long strides.

  “Rhiann and I will watch from the top of the keep.” Taliesin stopped in front of them. “We will be able to see the action well enough from there.”

  Cade looked down at Rhiann. “I saved some arrows, just for you. You’ll have an even dozen, plus the one that Arianrhod left you.”

  Rhiann took the quiver, looked down at it, and then back up at him. “I suppose you don’t have to be a seer to have seen this coming.”

  “If you do end up needing them, make them count.”

  “I always do,” she said.

  “Ach, Rhiann, how can you laugh?” Cade pulled her into his arms. “I fear the world is ending, and we with it.”

  “I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.” She hugged him, and then with a whirl, she strode away. Taliesin went with her, heading for the stairwell that led to the top of the keep and the battlements that would allow them to observe the course of the battle.

  Cade gazed after them. And then Catrin gasped. “My lord! Rhiann is—” She bit off the words.

  He turned to her. “What did your gift show you?”

  “I saw two heartbeats,” Catrin said.

  Cade put a hand on Catrin’s shoulder. “Tell her for me, if I don’t survive this day. She will have a future King of Gwynedd to live for and protect.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Catrin’s voice trembled as she spoke, but then her chin firmed. “Is that what you fear? Your death? Has Taliesin seen it?”

  “Taliesin will not say.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Goronwy

  Goronwy steadied his horse and pulled up beside a man with a spray of blood across his chest. Earlier, he’d been bleeding out on the floor of the hall.

  The man saw Goronwy inspecting him and shot him a beatific grin. “Rhys ap Morgan was my lord. I’d followed his father since I became a man and then him.” He gave a short laugh. “I’ve died twice today already and been resurrected by King Cadwaladr. Now I’m alive and well again and about to die for a third time.”

  “King Cadwaladr doesn’t actually bring men back from the dead,” Goronwy said.

  “Doesn’t he? If Rhys had listened to him perhaps I would never have died at all.” The man moved away and fell into line on the right flank of the column of men.

  Goronwy checked the front of the line to see what kind of time he had before they would ride. Dafydd had mounted his horse and now leaned to the right. It looked odd until Goronwy realized that Dafydd was listening to Cade, though neither king, sword, nor horse were visible.

  Cade had promised to act as a guard for Dafydd, and that was the only reason Goronwy hadn’t tried to prevent Dafydd from taking up Dyrnwyn—or laughed at the absurdity of his baby brother leading their host of men. Goronwy still had trouble seeing his brother as a man, much less a knight upon whom all depended.

  The pathway down from the main gate was so narrow that only two men could ride abreast in places. Goronwy found a spot in the left column, and then Bedwyr pulled up beside him on the right.

  “I like her,” he said, by way of greeting.

  “Who?” Goronwy said.

  “Angharad. I like her. Your brother chooses well.”

  Goronwy coughed a laugh. “I like her too, though I find it disconcerting that my little brother has such a way with women. Angharad has already helped him forget Rhiann.”

  The two men glanced to the top of the keep where their queen stood behind the balustrade with Taliesin. The risen sun shone on their faces, and Rhiann shaded her eyes with one hand. Meanwhile, Taliesin held his staff aloft. That had Goronwy scoffing again—or almost did—before he swallowed it. Who was he to question Taliesin’s entreaties or wonder whether they would do them any good? The world of the sidhe was far closer to this one than Goronwy had ever before been comfortable admitting.

  Dafydd stood in his stirrups at the head of the company. He held Dyrnwyn above his head, and Goronwy hoped that only his closest companions noted how white his brother’s knuckles were around the hilt. Suddenly, the sword burst into flame from hilt to tip.

  “We ride!”

  Goronwy thought the call came from Cade, though the roar from the men that followed drowned out his certainty.

  A shout echoed throughout the courtyard: “Hail Cadwaladr! King of the Cymry! The king shines forth!” Sure enough, the glow that even the cloak couldn’t contain suffused Cade’s position, Dafydd, and the half dozen men around them.

  The gate opened, and they urged their horses forward. The narrow causeway between the ramparts was full of Saxons, milling about uncertainly. They must not have understood the words the Welsh had shouted, or if they did, not understood what they meant. Several of the ladders from the outer ramparts had
been brought forward, but the short while Cade had given his men to prepare wasn’t enough for the Saxons to organize their attack.

  The riders swept down the pathway, their arms swinging, and their horses taking out every Saxon within reach, even as they picked up speed. All the way down from the fort, the hapless Saxons fell under the hooves or—those who were less lucky—to one side, where a Welsh sword sliced through them. At the front of the line, Dyrnwyn rose and fell. Many of the Saxons succumbed to Cade’s invisible sword as well.

  Those ahead of Goronwy had killed so many Saxons that Goronwy found himself with little to do. That is, until he swung around the corner of the last rampart, past the Annex that they’d fought so long to defend, and straight onto the field. Before him lay the bulk of the Saxon army that hadn’t yet channeled between the ramparts.

  “My God!” That was Bedwyr from beside him.

  Just ahead, Hywel checked his horse, which gave Bedwyr and Goronwy time to flank him. Forty yards in front of them, Dafydd and Cade, still buttressed by nearly twenty knights, cut a swath through the Saxon force. But the hundreds of Saxons had slowed their momentum. The three friends exchanged a glance, and in half a heartbeat, they all understood that their heroic charge had been exactly that: heroic, but ultimately fruitless, even with the immortal King of Gwynedd riding at their head.

  Against all expectation, Goronwy’s heart lightened. He threw back his head and laughed, and then he spurred his horse into the fray. Hywel and Bedwyr rode close behind. Even if this meant his end, he would die with his friends, and he wouldn’t be among the living when the Saxons overran his country. He prayed that the Saxons would spare the women as Cade hoped, though Goronwy himself had no such expectation. Then he put everything from his mind but his sword and the men he intended to kill with it.

  He met a Saxon axe with his blade and ripped it away. He turned to the other side and thrust the point through another man’s throat. But then a third man buried his axe in his horse’s chest, and the creature went down. Goronwy cleared his feet from the stirrups, leaping just in time to a vacant spot of what had once been grass. Back to back with Hywel, with hardly a pause for breath, he continued to fight.