by J. M. Hofer
No one else questioned his presence among the ranks, perhaps also assuming Bran had changed his mind.
“And why would they? You’ve never disobeyed your father in your life,” Laust pointed out. “Besides, you belong here. We all think so.”
Just at that moment, Gorlois bellowed a battle cry that spread through the ranks, rising to a deafening roar as every warrior joined in. Gorlois raised his weapon high and charged forward on his horse, leading his cavalry around the edges of the field to pen the enemy in. Bran and the other chieftains rallied their forces from the surrounding forests and hillsides, moving against Hengist’s ground troops.
As Gareth ran toward the enemy, visions of the horrible day he had been taken prisoner assaulted his mind. I’m not a boy anymore. His blood rose, blocking out his fear. Today, I seize back what was taken from me. He felt a surge of adrenalin as he drove his spear through the first victim of his rage for redemption. His awareness narrowed to nothing but the position of every man around him, how far away he was, and how best to kill the enemy while protecting his brothers.
He and Laust stayed close to one another, taking their cues from Idris, who, in spite of his age, fought with a grace that astounded Gareth. He had watched him for thousands of afternoons upon the practice field, but never had he seen him kill his opponent unless it was a boar or deer.
The battle waged on. The strength he had felt at the onset of the fight began to wane, draining his confidence. Gareth soon found himself battling two enemies. He struggled to remain strong and fierce, but each time a fellow Oak was struck down beside him, he felt his focus waver. He relied on his pride to keep him going, for he had defied not only his father to be on that field, but his commander as well. I cannot fail! I will not yield! Not to the enemy, not to my fear. He shut out all thought and fully inhabited his body. He learned that when he let out a battle cry, all fear and doubt disappeared—they had no place to lodge themselves inside his body. That discovery helped him defeat three more Saxons.
When he could feel nothing but searing pain in every muscle, and his throat felt as if it had been scraped raw with a knife, he heard such a ghastly battle cry, he could not help but turn and look for its source.
His heart leapt. Father. He watched him disembowel a warrior with clean and exacting force, and then push through the wall of Saxons like a bear, never hesitating, never resting. He watched his father cut down the enemy as if they were no more than sheaves of wheat, his face twisted in an expression of brutal terror. That’s my father, he thought with swelling pride. His blood runs in my veins.
But then, just when he thought his father would single-handedly kill every Saxon on the field, he saw him seize up and clutch his ribs as if he had been stabbed from the inside by an invisible foe. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, it was not long before a Saxon moved to attack.
Gareth gasped as a surge of panic flooded his body with adrenalin. He let out a cry and ran toward his father, engaging the Saxon until he managed to recover. Then, the two of them fought together, side by side, as Gareth had desperately longed to do from the time he had been a small boy. Inspired by his father’s presence, he demanded everything of his mind and body, until he could no longer lift his sword. Undeterred, he sheathed it in favor of his spear, using speed to his advantage and protecting himself with his shield. On he fought, until, as if emerging from a trance, he became aware of Hengist’s men retreating. Emrys’ men raised their hands and voices in triumph. He stood there, heart pounding, throat burning, hands shaking, feeling drunk on the elixir of victory.
Idris ran over, grinning, the whites of his eyes and teeth garish against blood running down his face. “Hengist’s retreating in the direction we want him to. He’ll try to take the castle at Caer Conan, but he’ll not succeed. We’ve won this battle. Nothing will stop Emrys now.”
Someone grabbed Gareth’s shoulder. He turned to see his father standing behind him, awash in blood, his arteries throbbing. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m…”
Before he could say anything, he felt the power of his father’s fist throw him off his feet onto his back into the mud. “How dare you disobey me!”
His father had never hit him, except in training, and never in anger. Idris came between them and said something, but Gareth could not hear it over the ringing in his ears. He could only see the look on his father’s face as he stormed off.
Idris came and helped him to his feet. “He didn’t change his mind, did he?”
Gareth shook his head.
Idris simply nodded and put an arm around him. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it now. Don’t let this throw you.”
Gareth had always appreciated Idris’ directness. “Don’t worry. I’m angrier now than I’ve ever been.”
“That’s it. Take it out on the enemy.” He looked over at him and gave him an encouraging slap on the back. “I’m going to go and speak to him.”
***
Bran’s fist was already black and blue. His teeth were clenched so tightly he feared he might break them. His heart would not stop pounding. The pain was nigh unbearable, bringing on nausea. I can’t believe it. In front of the entire clan. Gareth had never disobeyed him. He regretted hitting him, but his blood was up. In comparison to the brutality he had unleashed that morning, it had seemed like nothing.
When they reached the outskirts of Caer Conan, Idris came up alongside him. He should not have. Bran turned and grabbed him by his tunic, unable to control his temper. “You knew I’d posted him in the city! I should have you flogged!”
Idris put up his hand and shook his head. “I thought you had changed your mind, Pennaeth—I swear it. The boy has never disobeyed you in his life. I was certain he’d talked you into letting him march with us.”
Bran took a deep breath, trying to quell his anger. He knew truth when he heard it. “Please, leave me. I’m not myself. I’m who I need to be to win this battle. We’ll talk of this later.”
As soon as Idris left, Bran clutched at his ribs and gasped, watching silent tears fall into the dirt.
***
They reached the outskirts of Caer Conan to find Hengist’s men completely outnumbered. Emrys’ cavalry had arrived.
Before moving into the city, Uthyr rallied all the commanders and their chieftains. Like the rest of them, he looked as if he had been beaten and buried alive, yet managed to crawl out his grave. “Hengist’s fled to the castle,” he said to them, “but he’ll not hold it for long. Our cavalry destroyed most of his forces before they even got inside the city walls.” He proceeded to give orders to each of his commanders, who, in turn, assigned a plan of attack to each chieftain who reported to him.
“You and your men will come with me to siege the castle, along with Eldol and his men,” Gorlois said to Bran. “Hengist is to be captured alive, if at all possible. He’ll not escape. Our cavalry surrounds the city.”
Then, there was no more talk. Encouraged by their imminent victory, they marched with renewed enthusiasm into the city.
Hengist was captured before the sun set.
***
That night, after the campfires had been built and wounds tended to, Idris came to Bran with a cask of ale. “Can I join you, Pennaeth?”
Bran nodded and gestured to the empty space beside him.
Idris sat down and filled their horns, wincing a bit from the day’s events. “I know your son disobeyed you, and I don’t condone it, but you need to know your son fought well, today. More than well. He was one of the best warriors on the battlefield.”
“He disobeyed a direct order. That’s cause for dismissal in any army. Death, in most.”
“But he’s not just a warrior in your army. He’s your son. And he needs to know you’re proud of him. You’ve not said a word to him since this morning. None of us know how many days are left to us.” He glanced at Bran’s heart, causing him to feel a surge of failure. He saw me fall, today.
“Who knows, Pe
nnaeth, we could be ambushed by Saxon bastards on our way home. You don’t want your last words to your son to be…”
Bran let out a long sigh, overcome with exhaustion. “Alright! That’s enough. I’ll speak to him. Leave me be, now.”
Idris smiled, left the cask and returned to where the men were celebrating.
Bran watched the flames of the campfire while he finished his ale, considering what he would say to Gareth. Then he retired to his tent and sent for his son.
Gareth showed up with a bandage over his right eye and his arm in a sling.
“Broken?”
Gareth nodded.
“Sit down.”
Gareth came over and sat across from him. Bran gestured for him to hand over his drinking horn, and then poured some ale in it.
“You fought well today, but that doesn’t excuse your disobedience. If I give an order, you’d bloody well better heed it. I demand this of all my men. Not just you. You know that.”
“I’m not sorry, Father,” Gareth countered, chin up, but Bran could tell from his expression that his words had wounded him. “You’re so worried about upsetting Mother you’d never have allowed me on the field. If you two had it your way, I’d stay in the village forever.”
Bran shook his head. “That’s not true.”
Gareth laughed half-heartedly. “It is, and you know it. If Arhianna hadn’t come home, Mother would never have forgiven you for leaving her behind with the Saxons. And if I’d been among the slain today, and she found out you’d let me ride into the thick of the battle, she’d have blamed you for that, too.” He stopped and looked him straight in the eye. “I did the only thing I could do. At least my way, if I’d have been killed, you could’ve told her you forbid it but I disobeyed. She would have mourned either way, but it would’ve been my own fault—not yours.”
Bran sighed and rubbed his temples, attempting to placate a vicious headache. He’s right. “I’ll not deny you fought well today. Better than most. You deserve to know that. But I command this clan. I cannot allow your disobedience to stand. Least of all in battle.”
Gareth held up a hand. “I’m ready to suffer any punishment you see fit, but let me point out no one knows I disobeyed your orders except Idris, and only because I told him after the battle. They all think you changed your mind about where to post me—and, I might add, they all believed it was the right decision.”
Gareth’s defensive tone had softened somewhat. He looked down at the ground and let out a long sigh. “I take back what I said. It pains me that I’ve shamed you. I ask only that you consider what I’ve said and hold with your decision until morning. Tonight, let’s drink with our brothers.”
Bran found himself at a loss for words, feeling as if he were the son and Gareth were the father. He’s right. About everything. He nodded at Gareth. “I will. And I agree. Like I said, you fought well. We’ll settle it tomorrow. Tonight, go celebrate.”
Gareth smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
***
The following morning, Emrys and his commanders sat in counsel and unanimously decided Hengist would publicly be put to death.
Eldol of Caer Glou held up a finger to speak. “My dear king, if you would allow me the honor of being his executioner, I would feel forever indebted to you. Of all the men seated here, only Amlawth and I were unfortunate enough to witness the bloody slaughter at Ambrius. My dreams since that day, both sleeping and waking, have been of putting this man to death for what he did there. I would have done so already upon the battlefield, had it not been for your grace’s strict order that he be captured alive.”
Emrys considered Eldol’s wish. “I see no reason you should not be his executioner. Does anyone here protest? Amlawth?”
None did.
Emrys nodded. “So be it. Hengist will die by the sword at dawn by the hand of Eldol, Duke of Caer Glou.”
***
The following morning, Hengist was dragged out beyond the city walls by a rope tied around his neck. He looked like an animal being led to slaughter but was not treated with nearly as much dignity. He was nearly dead from stoning by the time he reached Eldol.
Eldol wasted no time raising his sword, perhaps anxious to finish the deed before it finished itself, and swung his blade true. Hengist’s head flew off his shoulders and bounced upon the ground to an eerie chorus of victory cries.
A strange storm of feelings came over Gareth. Though justice had, at last, been served for those murdered at Ambrius, he did not feel triumphant. He felt disturbed; disturbed that a man as powerful as Hengist could be brought so low, treated worse than an animal. Watching his execution reminded him that no one, however powerful, was exempt from fate. He tried to shake his melancholy by telling himself many things—that Hengist deserved it, that he angered the gods, that he was dishonorable—but he was no longer a child. He knew better. He knew that honorable men fell just as often as dishonorable men. More often, in fact. The truth was, no matter what fortune bestowed upon a man, fate could take it away at any time, for any reason. Nothing lasts forever. Even the stars fall.
***
To the surprise and disapproval of many, Emrys commanded that Hengist be given a proper Saxon burial. Though Gareth was among those who thought it overgenerous, he understood why.
A strange silence descended over Caer Conan. With Hengist defeated, focus shifted to other matters. They had their own dead to bury, wounds to dress, swords and spearheads to sharpen, horses to care for, and countless other matters to attend to.
The question on everyone’s minds now was how Emrys would deal with his sons, Octa and Eosa. The moment they learned their father had been captured on the battlefield, they had retreated and fled north to Caer Ebrauc, where they were now surely fortifying their position.
It was no more than a few days before Emrys’ orders made their way down the chain of command. Gareth reported to his father with the rest of the Oaks to hear what course of action their high commander had decided to take.
His father raised his hands to cease the talk among the men. “Please, we have much work to do before tomorrow. I’ll be brief. Once a viper’s nest has been disturbed, only a fool walks away without setting fire to it. We must deal with Octa while we still hold the advantage. All those still able to fight will march for Caer Ebrauc at dawn.”
All were in favor of the decision, eager to finish the job they had come to do, but the mood was not the same as it had been before the battle at Mais Belli. Their thirst for battle had been slaked. Many suffered from wounds. All were exhausted and grieving the loss of their clanbrothers. After Bran dismissed them, they did not speak to one another, except when necessary. Each man seemed absorbed in his own somber thoughts as he saw to the work he had been assigned.
This is war’s true face, Gareth realized. The glory lasts only moments. He dared not contemplate whether the cost was worthy of the prize. The fight was not yet over, and he knew such doubts would only weaken him. He threw himself into his work at the forge, refusing to contemplate them any further.
“Gareth?”
Gareth turned around to see his father standing behind him. He had not heard him approach over the sound of his hammering. “Yes, Father?”
“Come with me.”
Gareth put down his hammer and followed him to his tent. His father poured them both some ale and motioned for him to sit down.
“You were right about your mother,” he admitted. “I understand why you did what you did. So, my terms are these—swear to me you’ll never disobey my orders again, and I promise I’ll make my military decisions solely as your commander, not your father or your mother’s husband.”
Gareth gave him a relieved smile. “I swear it, Father. On my life.”
Bran nodded. “So be it.” He embraced him, squeezing him quite a bit harder than he needed to. “I’m still a bit angry.”
“I know. Thank you.”
***
Taking Caer Ebrauc proved to be easier than they ex
pected. With the head of the snake severed, the Saxon settlement thrashed in confusion. Emrys and his men took full advantage of it, wreaking the last of their strength and will upon the unprepared city.
Before nightfall, Octa emerged from the city gates with a chain in one hand. He fell down upon his knees before Emrys and poured sand upon his head. His speech was later translated and repeated for the bards to commit to memory so that they might accurately sing of Octa’s surrender.
“Our gods have been vanquished. We accept that your god is more powerful. I am prepared to be fettered and suffer whatever fate you deem fit, for I am not afraid to die, but I beg your mercy upon my people.”
Emrys dismounted and walked to where Octa kneeled. He put his hand upon his head and closed his eyes. Gareth assumed he was praying, for his lips addressed the unseen.
All waited in silence, wondering what their high commander would do next.
Emrys raised his head and opened his eyes. “The justice of the old world would demand the sons of Hengist executed for their father’s sins against us. But not the new world. Not in the world I wish to build by the grace of the Prince of Peace, Christ Jesus. The sins of the son are not the sins of the father.”
Emrys looked down at Octa. “Octa, son of Hengist, I am weary of strife and blood. I shall grant the mercy you beg for and land in Bryneich, far from our settlements. You and your brother are now my vassals. Seek not to expand your territory, and there shall be peace between us.”
No one spoke as Octa was taken away, but Gareth knew what they were thinking—that Emrys had made a terrible mistake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Homebound
With the threat of Hengist and his sons settled, the chieftains were thanked for their loyal service and given leave to return home.
Bran was more than ready. Between his otherworldly errand for Arawn and his clan’s service to Emrys, he had been away from Lucia for the better part of the past year. He returned to the barracks to give his men the good news. They were ready to depart by the next morning.
