Shadow Lands Trilogy

by Simon Lister

  Fin Seren only had eyes for what was happening at the top table where she could see Arthur slouched back in his chair as a line of people inched past his table. Between the passing people she caught glimpses of the girl by his side. The realisation of what was happening was beginning to penetrate her shock. As she blinked away the denials her tears began to swell and track down her cheeks. She held her arms folded tightly against her chest trying to still the sobs that threatened to rob her dignity. She wanted to run to Arthur and tell him what she felt she should have told him before now, that she was bearing his child, that she loved him. She wanted to run from the hall and bury herself in the Veiled City. She wanted to be back in the Winter Garden with Arthur and at the same time she never wanted to see either again. As the conflicting emotions swept through her unchecked, her lips began to tremble and the tears spilled freely. More than anything she wanted to understand how all of this could have happened.

  Terrill could stand the assault on his senses no longer and taking Seren by the arm led her from the hall. She did not resist and managed to hold back her desperation until they were once more seated on the lead wagon of the train returning to the Veiled City. As Terrill held the reins and looked ahead, Seren sat beside him and finally abandoned herself to her desolation. With her head hung down and her arms limp by her sides, palms upturned, she let the heart-rending sobs of despair shudder, catch and then break upon her.

  *

  As Captain Terrill and Fin Seren began their journey back to the Winter Wood the nervous Uathach warrior finally came before Arthur. Although his posture did not change, Arthur immediately sensed fear and the threat of violence from the man before him. He glanced at Gwyna and saw a look of surprise on her face then looked over his shoulder to where Ablach sat. The Uathach chieftain was draining another cup of wine with a good deal of it spilling down either side of his thick beard. Ablach was watching the Uathach warrior with avid interest and Arthur realised that Ablach had planned whatever was about to happen.

  ‘I claim the right of challenge for this woman’s hand,’ the warrior said, staring at Arthur defiantly.

  Arthur looked at Gwyna, ‘Do you know this man?’

  Gwyna looked nonplussed. The man before them was called Mador and they had been lovers before she had travelled to the Shadow Lands with Ruraidh’s band. She nodded in answer to Arthur’s question, her mouth still open in surprise. They had been lovers but no more than that and she did not understand why he should be issuing a challenge now.

  Ruraidh stood up and walked around the table to the warrior. ‘What are you doing Mador? Gwyna’s not your woman and you know it!’ Ruraidh said, but he was forcefully pushed away.

  ‘We were together and this dog took her from me!’

  Other people nearby had been following this interesting development with amusement but a quiet began to spread from the top tables when Mador insulted Arthur.

  ‘Gwyna, do you wish to be with this man?’ Arthur casually asked, still slumped back in his chair.

  ‘No, of course not, and you know this Mador,’ she replied, addressing the last part to the warrior whose hand was already resting on his sword hilt.

  Arthur looked up at Mador. ‘It appears you are mistaken. This is a peaceful feast, absent of enemies and much has been drunk. Rejoin your friends and boast that you called me a dog and lived.’ Arthur waved a hand to dismiss the young warrior and reached for his wine cup.

  Ablach leaned forward anticipating the moment when Mador would strike. He had planned this challenge during the journey to Caer Sulis. If Mador succeeded then the southern tribes would be in chaos without Arthur and he might well be able to benefit from that. If Mador failed then it would not reflect upon himself and Gwyna would still be with Arthur so he would be none the worse off.

  Mador had put his right hand on his sword hilt as a feint. He was left handed and it was his left hand that plucked the dagger from his belt and sent it arrowing towards Arthur only six-feet away.

  Ceinwen jumped to her feet, drawing her sword as Gwyna stared on in horror. Arthur remained seated and Ceinwen looked at his chest expecting to see the dagger buried there but Arthur had caught the blade in the bowl of his wine cup. Arthur smiled at Mador as he upturned the cup and emptied the knife onto the table.

  Mador snarled half in fear, half in fury and clumsily drew his sword, which hung on his wrong side. Arthur stood up to face him and hurled the table aside. Gwyna was cursing Mador while all the warriors in the hall were trying to get towards the front so that they could get a better view of what was happening on the dais.

  Mador rushed forward and slashed his sword downwards at Arthur’s left shoulder. Arthur took a step backwards and sideways, and as the blade passed his chest he moved forward and struck Mador in the face with his fist. Mador’s head snapped back and he stared at Arthur stunned by his speed. Arthur leapt back again as the sword sliced through the air in a backhand cut and again he stepped in and struck Mador in the face once the sword had swept harmlessly by. Mador staggered backwards, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. He wiped at the blood on his face, shocked that Arthur could evade his sword and strike so quickly. He was dimly aware of shouting and roars from the hall behind him but he was watching Arthur who still had not drawn his sword.

  Arthur stood facing Mador with his arms casually by his sides as the Uathach warrior slowly circled him. The Wessex Warlord looked utterly calm and his breathing was unlaboured. Mador cursed him as he hefted his sword in his sweaty grip. Arthur smiled at him and Mador realised with a fresh wash of fear that Arthur was enjoying himself. He lunged forward desperately trying to drive the blade into Arthur’s midriff but his unarmed opponent turned, swaying sideways, and the blade plunged past him. Arthur grasped the sword arm and snapped the wrist inwards, breaking it. The sword fell to the floor and Arthur twisted Mador’s arm up behind his back and sent him crashing to the ground. Grabbing his hair he jerked his head back and drawing his own dagger he pressed the blade to Mador’s exposed throat.

  Arthur looked up to where Ablach had been screaming on his warrior and called out loudly for all to hear, ‘In the spirit of our peaceful feast I let Ablach decide his man’s fate.’

  All eyes turned to the Uathach chieftain who stared from the prone Mador and back to Arthur. Ablach realised that if he asked Arthur to spare his warrior then he would be condoning the attack upon his host. If he let Arthur kill him then he would be seen to be abandoning his own warrior. He spat on the ground and said, ‘I leave it to the mercy of the Warlord of Britain.’

  Arthur shrugged and slit Mador’s throat. ‘I have no mercy,’ he said standing up as Mador thrashed on the floor trying to stem the flood of blood.

  Ceinwen looked to the Uathach warriors expecting them to launch an attack but it had been a single combat and Arthur had offered their chieftain a chance to spare Mador. In their eyes it had been fair. Eventually two of them climbed the steps up to the dais, stared warily at Arthur for a second then wrapped their dead comrade in his cloak and lifted him away.

  Arthur dragged the table back into place and took his seat behind it once more but the queue of people had melted away. The feast resumed and the gathered warriors grabbed more wine and beer as the combat was relived and other famous challenges were recalled. This would become a renowned feast and they were here and witnessing it; for the warriors in the Great Hall it was already turning out to be an excellent marriage.

  Five miles to the East of the town Terrill stared after a rider who had galloped past them racing towards Caer Sulis. The relay messenger was bringing word that the Adren were massing on the Causeway.

  Chapter Five

  Cei knelt by Merdynn’s low bed. The old man had lain in a fitful dream state for several days, hovering between this world and the next as if his ancient spirit was undecided which one it belonged to. An hour ago he had finally regained consciousness and was now propped up by pillows and tentatively supping a light hot broth. The enchantments he had worked in
an attempt to safeguard Cei’s band had nearly been his last.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Cei felt a little foolish asking the question but tradition demanded that the ill be asked how they feel.

  ‘Ill,’ Merdynn replied between mouthfuls of the soup, ‘Weak. And tired too, which is surprising as I’m told I’ve been asleep for days on end.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it sleep. More like a disturbed death.’

  ‘Well, that’s comforting to know. I’m glad to have you around.’

  Cei smiled in relief, Merdynn’s reply told him all that he needed to know; he was recovering. Merdynn noticed his smile and snorted into his soup.

  ‘If you must know, and I suppose you must, I’ve been somewhat lost in walking through my memories. And I have rather a lot of memories to get lost in.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to be more careful working your magic if that’s the result of them.’

  ‘Indeed. There was a time, ah well, but that was long ago. It seems that there’s little left in the land now. The last Age sapped all the old enchantment from the land. In truth it’s been waning for a long time, surprised there’s anything left in the earth at all.’ He put the half-empty bowl down by the side of the bed and closed his eyes.

  ‘So the spells you worked came from the land?’ Cei asked, unable to bridle his curiosity.

  Merdynn opened his eyes again with an obvious effort, ‘In a manner of speaking, yes, but it’s far more complicated than that.’ He drifted off again and his bearded chin settled on his chest once more.

  ‘Merdynn?’

  His eyes flashed open, ‘Good grief! If an old, ill man closes his eyes it means he wishes to rest!’

  ‘It’s just that I didn’t want you to...’

  ‘Don’t fret yourself, I’m not going to sink into a ‘disturbed death’ as you so reassuringly put it. I only wish to sleep.’ He saw the look of reproach on Cei’s face and noticed for the first time how tired the Anglian Warlord looked. His dark blue eyes were ringed black and his fair, red-tinged beard made his face look gaunt. Merdynn was quietly shocked by Cei’s appearance.

  ‘Does the fortress still hold?’ he asked in a kinder voice.

  ‘Yes. Yes it does.’

  ‘And will you be able to hold it for the next few hours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Until then, then.’

  Cei watched as the old man slipped into an untroubled sleep and then wearily eased himself upright. Trevenna was standing in the doorway and Cei smiled at her.

  ‘Is he all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Good as old.’

  Trevenna massaged her arm where an Adren weapon had struck her some days ago then looked up tiredly into Cei’s eyes, ‘They’re preparing to attack the main wall again.’

  ‘The cliffs too?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Good. Come on, the others will think we’ve sidled off for a moment of passion.’

  Trevenna laughed softly, ‘Oh for that kind of energy. You realise that if we get out of this I’ll sleep for longer than Merdynn did?’

  ‘Not exactly the encouragement I was hoping for,’ Cei answered laughing too.

  ‘Come on then,’ Trevenna said and led the way back to the sounds of battle. Behind them Merdynn opened his eyes, sighed and reached down for the unfinished bowl of broth.

  On their way to the wall they passed Cuthwin who was striding off to the cliff edge followed by four of the Bretons’ dogs that bounded through the snow relishing this new game that the whole village seemed prepared to play indefinitely. Along with Ethain, Leah and Aelfhelm he was one of the few of Cei’s band who had survived the Shadow Lands. By the standards of the other warriors in Cei’s spear riders he was a quiet young man, not yet twenty but despite his restrained demeanour he was popular among his companions. He was always ready to pass the time with anyone and usually ended up making them laugh. He had a likeable nature and a quiet confidence that was reflected in his steadfast ability to fight. His swordsmanship would never be dazzling or be imbued with the mad battle frenzy that took over some of the others but he was calm in a fight and knew exactly what he was doing. He was, as Cei had succinctly put it, reliable. None of the others were surprised that he had survived the Shadow Lands but he was puzzled that experienced and better warriors such as Herewulf, Wolfestan, Roswitha and Cerdic had all died and yet he had lived. He put it down to the chance of war but could not help wondering about it.

  Cei called out a greeting to him and he waved his sword in return. He was on what had become known as the ‘dog patrol’; a circuit around the unprotected edges of the headland. The dogs had become extremely adept in detecting any sign of the Adren trying to scale the cliffs from the frozen sea. When they simultaneously attacked the wall and the vertical sides of the promontory, the Bretons found themselves stretched far too thinly and several times they had found themselves on the brink of being overrun.

  The Adren had been laying siege to the Breton fortress since the sun had set but the assault had found a new impetus when Cei’s band had joined the defenders. Since then the Bretons had lost over a hundred people trying to keep the Adren at bay. Bran, the Breton leader, had managed to get just over five hundred of his people within the safety of the defensive wall, which stretched across the headland, when the Adren had first attacked. Everyone else had been slaughtered in the villages that lay around the fortress and now he was losing more of his people day by day and attack after attack.

  Adren bodies lay in frozen heaps at the base of the wall and at the bottom of the cliffs but despite their casualties their numbers had increased as new contingents arrived from the North, and the Adren in the darkness beyond the fortress walls now numbered over five thousand. Bran had less than four hundred and that included the old and young but even those not able to wield a weapon still played what part they could; some prepared the food, some tended the wounded, and others watched the cliffs for Adren.

  Bran kept almost a hundred of his force constantly on the wide ledge that ran across the inside length of the wall to repel the ladders and grappling hooks and to hurl down missiles upon the attackers. They manned the wall in shifts but the incessant attacks had sapped their strength and eroded their will to resist.

  Cei’s few warriors seemed to the Bretons to be everywhere. Trevenna or Leah would be fighting on the high wall, hurling back the Adren that had reached the top and encouraging those around them to carry on the fight against the enemy. Aelfhelm and Cuthwin would be in the thick of the desperate fighting when the Adren threatened to establish a foothold on the cliff tops. With nowhere to hide and nowhere left to run to, Ethain too played his part and stood his ground alongside his companions although he was more often seen working tirelessly among the wounded or inspiring the children to the bravery necessary to help their elders.

  In the midst of all was the Anglian Warlord. The Bretons spoke quietly that he must be possessed for no one had seen him sleep or stop longer than a few minutes to eat and in the fighting he was like a wild spirit of the sea unleashed against their enemies.

  Cei and his warriors had, of course, slept but they had rarely retired to do so and they had snatched what sleep they could between the attacks of the Adren. They were well aware that they could not do this indefinitely and they were already feeling the effects of sleep-deprived exhaustion. The few hours of rest they had accumulated during the lulls in the fighting were simply not enough and they knew that sooner or later fatigue would lead to a slip or mistake that would cost them their lives but with the Adren surrounding them and the coastal seas still frozen there was as yet no other alternative and they knew there was no possibility of help arriving either. It seemed that the Adren controlled all of Middangeard beyond the Causeway; everywhere but where they stood. All they could do was to keep fighting, keep defending the headland and to keep the Adren at bay for as long as possible.

  The only access to the top of the wall was a single stone stair near the central gate and Cei climbe
d up the steeply cut steps. The Adren had been unable to force the gateway and the double protection of the withdrawn bridge against the ironbound oak of the gates still held firm.

  Cei reached the top where Trevenna was waiting for him. Together they ran half-crouched along the ice-cleared ledge to where Leah was sheltering behind the solid stonework.

  ‘Ladders again?’

  Leah nodded and took off her iron-crossed leather cap to sweep her sweat-matted hair from her face. Arrows clattered against the other side of the stonework and fizzed over the top of the wall.

  In the early days of the attacks they had stood at the wall and fired their own arrows down into the ranks below them but the Adren could put two or three hundred archers within range of the wall and the Bretons had lost too many people in that way. Their supply of arrows was limited too so now they waited for the Adren to reach the top when the hail of missiles from below would stop, and then engage the enemy as they tried to establish themselves on the wide parapet. Groups of children scurried across the ground on the Breton side of the wall, collecting the spent Adren arrows and distributing them among the bowmen.

  ‘Where’s Bran, and Aelfhelm?’ Cei asked.

  ‘Aelfhelm’s on the left side. I think Bran’s leading a dog-patrol along the cliff edge,’ Leah replied.

  They heard the deep twanging sound of catapults. At first the Adren had hurled stones and boulders at the high wall but the ancient masonry had held firm and the missiles had little effect. The Adren had changed their tactics and were now using the catapults to hurl heavy rocks that were chained to rough-hewn ladders so that as the rock cleared the wall it brought the wooden ladder up against it and then acted as a counterbalance to stop the defenders from simply levering the ladders away. The chains were attached to the ladders by an iron bracket four rungs from the top and they were too thick to cut through quickly and any attempt to do so meant leaning out over the edge of the wall and courting the Adren arrows. It became a frantic battle to fight off the attackers and severe the chains attached to the boulders so that the ladders could be cast aside and the attack repelled.