A daring plan and against the odds, but it could succeed—with the right men. Odwain was intrigued. “Wouldn’t Clydog anticipate such a move?”
“Likely he would. He’ll have his best men on the wall.” Hywel paused momentarily to engage Odwain directly, a sly grin widening his mouth. “But we will have the advantage of surprise, and then it’s a matter of who has the superior skill. Clydog has yet to outdo me at anything, and that, I would wager, rubs him raw.”
“Were you never friends, you and Clydog?” Odwain wondered. The complexities of brotherhood still weighed heavily in his thoughts.
“Not in the least.” Hywel’s tone suggested that he regretted this truth. “There are nearly seven years between us. By the time Clydog was old enough to squire, I had spent more years in my father’s company and, admittedly, in his favor than Clydog had yet been alive. At fourteen, he was fostered at the court of our cousin in Gwynedd, and I’ve seen little of him since.”
“Resentments breed rivalries,” Odwain observed. “And now that your father is dead, there is no chance for Clydog to win his admiration. He must hate you for it.”
These insights seemed to impress Hywel, who paused again, this time to regard Odwain a little more thoughtfully. “Yes, well, he might have won my admiration, and his rightful share of our father’s holdings, had he bothered to come for the burial rites and hear the bequests for himself.”
“So,” Odwain said, “now you must show him the error of his ways and bring him to heel.”
Hywel snorted, half amused by the remark. “If such a thing can still be managed, though I have little hope of it. More than likely I’ll be obliged to gut my greedy brother and stake his entrails on the ramparts at Dinefwyr as a warning to any other of my kin who might be thinking to challenge me.”
“Dinefwyr?” Odwain did not know this place.
One of Hywel’s lieutenants obliged: “The seat of Seisyllwg.”
“And court of the new realm, Deheubarth,” Hywel proclaimed. “Or so it will be known, once Clydog is brought down and all of the provinces are mine.”
Hywel stopped to peer sideways at Odwain, beneath a glowering brow and shaggy locks, and then past him at his lieutenants, as if to ask what they thought. One of the lieutenants coughed in a bad attempt to hide a chuckle, and Odwain grew wary.
“I think I am glad you are with us after all, young MacDonagh.” Hywel sat on the end of the log facing Odwain, alongside his lieutenants. “Perhaps you can make sense of your mistress for me.”
“Alwen?” Odwain was hesitant to speak. This line of questioning could take him dangerously close to betrayal. He owed his fealty to Alwen, even Cerrigwen, before Hywel. “What can I tell you that you haven’t already discovered for yourself?”
“Only one thing,” Hywel said, quite seriously. “Perhaps the most important thing of all. You’ve known her most of your life, spent nearly every day of it in her service. If anyone can speak on this it is you, so I will ask. How much do you trust her?”
Odwain was not surprised by the question itself—it was common knowledge that Hywel and Alwen had a contentious relationship—but he was skeptical that anything he had to say on the issue would have value to Hywel. Whatever might be the true motive in asking, Odwain knew enough to be careful in answering.
He could say many things about Alwen—he could say that she was self-righteous and demanding and that she expected as much from those around her as she did from herself. He could also say that she was the closest thing to a mother he could remember, that she had never shown him anything but kindness, and that she was more devoted to her cause and her beliefs than any person he’d ever met. All of that would be true. But none of it really answered the question that Hywel had asked him.
“Madoc entrusted her with the Stewardry and the prophecy,” Odwain countered. “I should think that would be warrant enough for anyone.”
Hywel’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze grew more intense. “I asked how much you trust her.”
Odwain generally preferred the simple and direct. The mental maneuvering and political ploys favored by kings and courtesans annoyed him. He thought it far more practical to just get straight to the point rather than waste time and effort trying to trick someone into saying what you want them to say. “I trust her more than anything or anyone else I know in this world. I may not always understand the reasons for what she says or does, nor do I always agree when I do, but she has never failed me.”
“So you would claim your loyalty is earned then,” Hywel queried. “Not just a burden of your oath?”
Hywel was deliberately leading the conversation, and Odwain was done with it.
“I follow no one blindly, not even her. Oath or no oath,” he said, looking directly at Hywel. “Prophecy or no prophecy.”
Hywel’s left eyebrow arched. “You’d make a very poor diplomat, MacDonagh.”
Odwain saluted the observation with a shrug and a slight jut of his chin. “Is that good, or bad?”
“I haven’t decided, but I will let you know when I do,” Hywel said, almost smiling. “I have one more question, if you’ll indulge me.”
“Alright,” Odwain stipulated, “so long as you come straight to the point this time.”
“So be it.” Hywel gestured beyond the fire ring toward where Cerrigwen lay sleeping, never breaking the steady, pointed gaze he had trained on Odwain. “If it comes to choosing between her and me, which will it be?”
This was not the question Odwain was expecting, but it was far more interesting. Pedr came to his mind, and what his brother had said about his own dilemma in the face of a difficult choice. Odwain also remembered the advice Pedr had given him.
“Well?” Hywel prodded. “Take care how you answer, MacDonagh. I want the truth.”
“So be it,” Odwain said, squaring himself to Hywel. He would show respect, but without compromise. Once he had believed that duty and loyalty were the same, but Odwain knew better now, and duty had already cost him far more than he’d ever meant to give. “I’m afraid that is a truth I cannot know unless I come face to face with it, Brenin.”
“But suppose you did,” Hywel insisted. “Tell me honestly. What would you do?”
“I have faith that such a choice shall never be mine to make.” Odwain met Hywel’s gaze dead on, wondering how this relentless, exacting man would take the naked honesty he demanded. “And so should you.”
Hywel held steady, whatever thought or feeling he had well masked beneath a façade of neutrality. But his eyes belied his calculating nature, and Odwain watched them shift from spark to shine as Hywel examined and assessed and adjudged what he had heard, until he came to a determination.
“Tomorrow, we leave the forest for the merchant’s road.” Hywel stood abruptly, as did his two lieutenants. “But tonight, we shall see how well you can fend for yourself in the White Woods.”
Before Odwain had fully made sense of what Hywel was saying, his lieutenants had drawn their swords and flanked him.
“Take a torch and whatever weapons you want. I suggest a good knife be among them,” Hywel instructed. “Otherwise, you will go as you are.”
Odwain stood slowly, so as not to show defiance or resistance, but neither was he about to submit. He widened his stance and brought his right hand to rest on the grip of his sword.
“Stand easy,” Hywel said. “They mean only to make sure you cooperate, should you be of a mind to refuse me. You will walk out of this camp, under your own power or theirs.”
Odwain would not stand easy. If anything he grew even more wary. It was clear enough to him that he was being put to a test, but he wanted to know why. “What do you expect this to prove?”
Hywel completely ignored his question. “A thousand paces north, straight into the woods, and then true west a thousand more before turning back. My men here will follow far enough to keep you honest. Fin
d your way back here before dawn, or we leave you behind.”
Odwain understood the utter wickedness of the White Woods. He had not been with Rhys and the others when Alwen confronted the devilkin and struck them down, but he had been with Eirlys while their curse consumed her. He had laid her out in the meadow like a corpse on the funeral pyre and waited for the faerie folk to take her away from him. Odwain had survived that horror, and he would survive this.
The first thousand paces he could feel Hywel’s lieutenants shadowing his steps, but once he turned west, he knew he was alone. He also knew that the trail he had made on his way in was no longer there. The woods had woven a maze around him; he had heard it whispering in his wake.
The forest was so dark on a moonless night that the torch cast its light only a foot or two beyond arm’s length, barely enough to keep him from falling on his face. His legs ached already from the strain and tension of so carefully watching his step.
It didn’t occur to him to cheat on his paces until he had already gone more than half way. As he counted six hundred, some shrieking night bird flew out of the brush and startled him enough to make him consider turning back, but honor held him to the rules of the game. Only four hundred paces more.
His last step brought him to the edge of a small spring, which, were it not for the torchlight reflected on the water, he would never have seen until he stumbled right into it. A single footfall farther and his boots would be wet, and maybe the rest of him too.
Neither had he noticed the chill until he stopped walking. Winter was beginning to give way to warmer weather, but the night air still bit. These woods could be the death of a man in far too many ways.
Odwain held out the torch and turned full circle to get a sense of his surroundings. He was fairly certain he had his bearings straight, but his intuition was as skittered as his nerves. Once he was sure it was safe to move, he would move quickly.
As he turned, the light arced with him, chasing back the shadows and whatever might be hidden within them. Each time he moved, a rustle erupted just beyond the reach of his torch. His skin tingled. Something lurked in the brush not six feet from him.
Odwain drew his knife and widened his stance to better balance himself. He stilled his movements and slowed his breathing to bring himself as close to dead calm as he could. Sound and smell were more useful to him now than his sight.
Several moments passed before he heard the rustle again. It came from behind and seemed to be moving south, away from him. Odwain turned toward the sound slowly so as not to provoke anything else that might be hunkered within striking distance.
His ears began to sort the ambient sounds of the forest itself from the transient disruptions made by the creatures dwelling within it. The gurgling spring and the cold night air brushing through the evergreen boughs settled into the background. In the foreground he heard the soft scamper of rodents and other nocturnal beasties, punctuated by the occasional snap and crunch of something slightly more formidable moving about.
Odwain sensed nothing particularly threatening, or even remarkable for that matter—except for the odor. At first it was barely distinguishable from the aromas of forest duff and pine trees adrift in the wind, but he felt an uncomfortable twinge every time his nose caught a curl of it. He knew well the scent of fresh kill.
A stronger whiff reached him, and his senses recoiled. This was not the inviting tang of warm blood and raw meat ripe for skinning. Odwain smelled the reek of human flesh, carried past him as the breeze traveled from northeast to southwest.
He started into the trees, instinctively following the scent toward its source. It was closer than he’d expected. Not even a furlong farther, he broke through the trees and found himself standing knee-high in wild grass and scrub alongside a narrow but well-trod horse path.
This was not the trade road Hywel was headed toward, but even in the near-dark Odwain was certain this path would eventually intersect it. The stench of death was strong here.
He stood on the path and held up the torch so that the light would catch on both sides. A snort and the familiar sound of hooves shifting in the brush drew his attention. On the other side of the trail, a stout Frisian mare waited. The mare was saddled, and standing over something heaped on the ground.
Odwain’s gut chucked over in dread, but he crossed the trail anyway. The horse whinnied and tossed her head, but she didn’t shy away when he came near. He took the torch in his left hand and reached out to her with his right.
“Easy now, girl. Let’s just have a look.”
He took the reins and eased her back, lowering his torch to see what lay beneath her. Cloak cloth, plain brown woolen that was soaked through with blood, and good boots. He recognized the make of the boot. Every soldier of the Cad Nawdd was issued a pair.
The body had landed face down in the brush. Odwain let go of the reins and staked his torch in the ground, so he could roll the man over. He readied himself for what he imagined the worst scenario might be, but he was nowhere near prepared for what he found.
“Thorvald,” Odwain whispered, heartsick and a little terrified. The warrior’s eyes were wide open, staring stark-wide, and his face was a bloodless white, but it was the gaping, sinewy hole where his chest had been that turned Odwain’s veins to ice. “How could this be?”
But he already knew. Odwain had seen firsthand the carnage the Hellion rampage had wreaked upon Fane Gramarye. He had witnessed the slaughter of his men—his friends—and been powerless to stop it. Those few who had survived were scarred in body and mind. It still ached where the fangs of their flesh-eating beasts had torn pieces out of his right side.
Odwain pulled fast to his feet, quickly calculating the most likely circumstances and their probable outcomes. When he left, Thorvald had had three men under his command and Cerrigwen’s daughter in his charge. On his return he would also have brought with him his brother and Branwen, third Guardian of the Realms. Where one soldier had fallen, so surely had others. And if Thorvald was dead, were the sorceresses as well?
Of all the horrible outcomes that Odwain could envision, this was the worst, though it was not necessarily a fate foregone. There could be survivors. Choosing hope over doubt, he began a quick search through the grass and underbrush near the trees for signs of life.
Working by torchlight was tedious and slow, and required that he come much too close to the bodies in order to see whom he’d found. By the time he had discovered two more piles of remains, he realized the odds of coming upon a survivor were small. If there were any to find, he would need daylight, and help. It was then that he remembered the reason he was in the woods in the first place. He had to reach to Hywel’s camp by dawn, and he had only a vague idea where it was.
Odwain borrowed the Frisian mare and headed back into the forest on little more than memory. He was reasonably certain that his natural sense of direction had kept his bearings straight, but the torch was spent. That left only his faith in his instincts.
TWENTY
By the time Alwen had dismissed the assembly and the search of the Fane had begun, the sun was already setting. It took more than an hour just to walk a quarter of the perimeter in the dark, another two to follow the stone walls to the midway mark. Even with a half-dozen torches, there were recesses in the walls or overgrowth where the shadows were so thick nothing short of the noon sun on a summer’s day could penetrate. It was these patches that unnerved them all the most, but so far they had found nothing unusual.
Emrys had sent six of his best men with Glain and Nerys, men known for their courage and skill. They had all fought the Hellion and survived, which gave Glain confidence that they could confront anything. And there was no telling what they might find themselves facing this night.
The compound and its lands had been ravaged by the Hellion onslaught, but so had the Cad Nawdd. More than half the regiment had perished, most of them trying to keep the horde
from overrunning the main gates, and the rest in the open between the gates and the castle.
“These are sacred grounds,” Nerys said, so softly she might well have been speaking to herself. “There should be a monument to the sacrifices made here.”
It was a generous and reverent thought, and Glain made note of it. Though the bodies had been burned, the earth held the blood of brave men who had died so horribly in defense of the Stewardry. Their suffering haunted these places, but evil was not hiding here.
“Perhaps when all this madness is passed,” Glain agreed. “Perhaps then we shall honor all who are lost to us, in the proper way.”
It was too dark to see if Nerys was moved by what she had said, but Glain imagined she appreciated the intent. If Nerys were feeling half the sorrow Glain felt, she knew more misery than she deserved.
“The rear gate next,” she instructed. “And then the orchard.”
Aside from the orchard, where the White Woods had overgrown weak spots in the wall, it was the rear gate that was the most vulnerable to ingress. Though a sentry was posted day and night, it opened into the forest. If wickedness were to find its way to the Fane, it was very likely to first seek its way through here.
The sentry greeted them and then stood aside so that the officers in their escort could inspect the integrity of the stiles. Nerys took a torch from one of the guards and used the light to get a sense of the surroundings and look for anything out of the ordinary near the wall.
“It is eerie, so near the woods,” Glain commented, scratching absently at her arms. “But if the Cythraul were here, their scent has been washed away by the wind.”
“I sense nothing at all,” said Nerys, still scouring the hedgerows and wild brush. She straightened abruptly and spun around. “Nothing.”
A moment passed before Glain realized what Nerys was saying. They both should have been able to feel the subtle harmonic vibrations that emanated from the enchanted mist that veiled Fane Gramarye. Glain had noticed the sensation repeatedly as they had circled the compound along the retaining wall, but not here. This was the evidence for which they were hunting.
The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Page 20
