This Present Past

by Traci Harding

  ‘I am less likely to cause an incident as I am not a threat,’ Gwion pointed out. ‘And in this situation I am the most expendable.’

  ‘That is not the way I see it,’ Owain assured him.

  ‘But nevertheless, it is the way it is.’ Gwion figured if all else failed he’d drink the potion, but he was not going to risk leaving himself weakened until he’d at least attempted to use his own logic.

  ‘Granted.’ The King was resigned. ‘Glean what you can and report back.’

  Gwion nodded obediently and hurried off through the rain, across the open heath towards the massive barbarian – easily twice his size and age. The fellow’s face was battle-scarred, and the rims of his eyes were blackened by charcoal, making him appear all the more fierce. Gwion was regretting his life choices now, and could barely breathe for the pulsing of his heart in his throat.

  ‘You are not a warlord,’ the burly man objected. ‘I want to speak to your leader.’

  To Gwion’s great surprise and relief he understood every word – this development was going to make this parlay much easier. ‘We don’t believe you are here to make war,’ said Gwion. ‘As an adviser, I speak for my lord and all my combrogi.’

  ‘You are too young to be a bard,’ the warrior scoffed.

  ‘You are familiar with our tongue and our ways.’ Gwion was impressed and he allowed that to reflect in his tone.

  ‘I want you to release your captives.’ The warlord got straight to the point.

  Gwion was sheepish, but he could only be honest. ‘That would not bode well for you, Lord. These men are all under an enchantment and will kill any Saxon they encounter.’

  The warrior first looked fit to burst into rage, but then laughed loudly. ‘Do you think me a fool, boy?’

  ‘I assure you, Lord, it is true. Their main objective is to kill your leader.’

  The warrior’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with rage and mistrust. ‘My brother is among the captives; release him to me and prove this claim.’ He wiped his large hand over his face to dispel the excess of water.

  ‘With all due respect, Lord, your brother is dead . . . that is but his walking corpse. His spirit is trapped in a void of torment and misery. My lord has gone to great lengths to beseech our gods for a way to free their souls from the abyss, so that they may pursue the afterlife. He has been given an enchanted sword, and only by its blade shall they be freed.’

  ‘Enough!’ the warlord roared, beginning to pace. ‘I am not listening to another word you have to say, little bard, until I have proof of this . . . enchantment! Tell your king that!’ He pointed back towards the stockade and Gwion backed up a ways to do as instructed, before turning about and hurrying back.

  Owain considered Gwion’s report. ‘I will have to stand by for the reunion as we all know what is going to happen. The other problem is, how do we know which of these men is his brother? He won’t answer to his name . . . this warlord will have to come and identify him.’

  ‘The undead will do your bidding; tell them to assemble and they will,’ Gwion posed.

  The King nodded. ‘I shall do this; you inform their warlord what must be done.’

  Gwion nodded and returned to inform the Saxon that his demand would be met.

  While Gwion explained the situation to the Saxon, the King assembled the legion of dead, unarmed men into long, orderly rows and sent all his King’s guard away to the huts. Gilmore stood sentinel outside the dwellings to bear witness from a distance. Only the young king remained on the field with the force.

  To the disbelieving Saxon, this appeared a bold move of good faith, for now there was nothing stopping his force from advancing and freeing their brothers in arms. But in truth, Owain had an undead army at his disposal and a sword that would never miss its mark. The fact that Owain was controlling his comrades so easily must have made the warlord uneasy.

  He accompanied Gwion towards the assembly at a leisurely pace, observing the scene carefully – yet refusing to appear fearful of a few young lads. ‘Your warlord is younger than you!’

  ‘But he has Otherworldly allies,’ Gwion forewarned.

  ‘He is one of these Sons I have heard tell of?’ the Saxon queried.

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That it was they who reduced Gwtheyrn’s new fortress to ash.’

  ‘Under the guidance of the Arth . . . that is the tale I heard also.’ Gwion grabbed the opportunity to see what the Lord knew on that subject and infuse a little more mystery into this situation.

  ‘Surely this kid is not the Great Bear?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who is?’

  ‘The Arth?’

  The warrior nodded.

  ‘Only the Sons know that.’

  ‘And who is this?’ The warlord motioned towards Owain.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself first?’ Gwion proffered.

  The raider served him a sideways glance, but remained tight-lipped.

  ‘As you wish,’ Gwion concurred. ‘At this stage of the negotiation, perhaps it is best to keep all involved anonymous.’

  As they walked down past the rows of rotting men, the rain did nothing to kill the stench.

  ‘Oh! Damn.’ Even the hardened warlord raised a hand to his face in a feeble attempt to block out the fetid stink.

  ‘They are rotting from the inside out.’ Gwion too wished he could hold his breath, for the putrid air was leaving a foul taste in his mouth. ‘They don’t eat, they don’t sleep, they don’t bathe, they don’t even breathe.’

  Gwion could see the bemusement and sad resignation in the expression on the Saxon leader’s face. His warriors, on their knees in the mud, hands clenched behind their backs – no restraints – bowed before a foreign lord without protest. Heads hung low, they quietly groaned, moaned and seethed – as if itching to claw their way out of themselves.

  Gwion did the introductions as they approached the King, ‘Lord, meet my lord.’

  The two men nodded to one another, scowls upon their faces.

  ‘Which of these warriors is your brother?’ Owain motioned to the decaying force.

  With ten rows, all near a hundred rotting men long, the warlord appeared daunted by the task of identifying his kin at a glance.

  ‘Legion! Raise your heads!’ Owain yelled the order. All the warriors raised their heads simultaneously and their tortured grunting and seething increased.

  The three of them stood at one end at the front of the assembly and Owain invited the bemused Saxon to accompany him to walk the lines. ‘Shall we?’

  Gwion trailed the pair of leaders, who walked in silence at first.

  ‘You see these men are not at rest, yet they are dead and rotting,’ Owain said. ‘Wherever the souls of your warriors go when they depart this earth—’

  ‘Asgard,’ the warlord stated. ‘To feast in Odin’s great hall with all our mighty forefathers. But to be welcomed by Odin in the halls of Valhalla they must die a glorious death in battle, or as a sacrifice to the Gods. But this . . .’ He appeared uncertain on how this would be viewed by their Gods.

  ‘These men did die in battle, only their bodies were resurrected,’ Owain explained. ‘Their souls are trapped in a void between life and death. Only my enchanted blade can free them to their eternal pursuits.’

  The Saxon had a repulsed look on his face. ‘You did this to them.’

  ‘Our Gods did this,’ Owain stated. ‘And could do it again. They want this land back in the hands of the Cymry.’

  The warlord did not appear convinced; his top lip twitched, like a dog ready to snarl. But turning his attention back to his chore the Saxon spotted the man he sought towards the end of the front row, and made haste to stand before him. ‘Brother!’

  The man said nothing until Owain stood before him also. ‘Let me kill him, Lord,’ the man seethed, his eyes resting on the young king.

  The Saxon warrior grinned, believing his brother recognised him and was requesting to kill the King h
olding him prisoner.

  ‘Let me him kill him, Lord,’ cried another and another, until they were all chanting the same request.

  The Saxon stood back and smiled. ‘It seems they remember me after all; perhaps your enchantment is not as strong as you thought?’

  ‘I think you misunderstand.’ The young king turned to address his prisoners. ‘Legion!’

  The throng fell silent.

  ‘Who must you kill?’

  ‘Hengist! Kill Hengist!’ Every pair of eyes fell on the Saxon warlord, and the men kept chanting, ‘Hengist! Kill Hengist.’

  These undead had been issued this instruction because all of the Sons were too young to recognise the aging enemy warlord, who, it was rumoured, didn’t bother himself with raiding any longer, but remained in the east and sent out warbands to raid on his behalf. Owain had instructed the witch to issue the undead enemy with this mandate, in case the rumour proved false. The young king had intended to send these recruits after the warlord in the wake of the battle, but Keridwen had prevented it, knowing the Night Hunter would demand his soul count filled.

  ‘You see now why we strongly advise you do not attempt to interfere with my task this day?’ Owain rested his case.

  ‘No!’ The warlord was mortified and knelt before his brother, who was still begging the King to let him kill the Saxon. ‘Horsa, it is me, your brother!’

  ‘Horsa?’ Owain stepped back and placed a hand on his sword hilt.

  A heated panic filled Gwion, for Hengist – the mastermind responsible for the night of the Long Knives – had a brother named Horsa. It dawned on him, as it was no doubt dawning on Owain, that this legion of dead men were not just mindlessly chanting their objective, they were alerting the King to the fact that the man responsible for the death of his father, and all the fathers of the Sons, was standing right in front of them!

  ‘You are Hengist!’ Owain drew Dyrnwyn and it burst into flame.

  The Saxon stood and took a few steps backwards, fearing the clearly enchanted blade. He didn’t have to say anything; the answer was written on his face and he was too proud to deny it.

  ‘You killed my father.’ Owain pointed the tip of his blade at Hengist.

  ‘Then you are one of the Sons,’ the warlord growled and drew his own sword. ‘You burned my daughter and grandchild alive when you brought down Gwrtheyrn.’

  His claim corroborated the bardic accounts that Hengist had married his daughter to the traitor.

  ‘Stop!’ Gwion stepped in between the lords as they moved towards each other, the blades of both their swords stopping only a hair’s breadth from the front and back of his neck. He stopped breathing for a moment.

  ‘Get out of the way, Gwion!’

  ‘I cannot . . . not if there is to be peace. He killed your father, you killed his daughter and brother – the killing must end somewhere.’

  The King withdrew his sword and backed up a few paces, and Gwion was thankful as the heat of it was scorching his hair and neck. Gwion quickly backed away from the Saxon also.

  ‘If your brother does not die by this sword, his soul will be damned for all eternity and you will never drink with him in Valhalla.’ Owain had a look of pure evil upon his face as he pointed his sword tip at Horsa, who was still begging to kill Hengist. ‘You!’ Owain singled Horsa out. ‘Permission granted.’

  The salivating soulless corpse charged at Hengist, who head-butted his brother in the hope of knocking him out. Horsa’s neck snapped, leaving his head hanging at an angle to one side, but still the dead warrior was undeterred and turned about to take another pass at his brother – biting, snarling and clawing.

  The army of the undead all growled hungrily to join the fight.

  Gwion could see the Saxon force emerging from the trees, just waiting for their leader’s leave to attack. Likewise the King’s guard was emerging from the huts over yonder. ‘You must call him off!’

  ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t let them all loose to slaughter their brothers?’ Owain was absolutely seething.

  ‘Hengist is the only man who can ensure the peace you want.’

  ‘He is right!’ Hengist was having a hell of a time restraining his seething brother, and hurled him down the muddy hillside to buy himself some respite to negotiate. ‘I am the only one who can end our incursions into your land. Cut off my head, and ten will replace me – many are not so easy to bargain with as one.’ Near-headless, Horsa had managed to scale the muddy bank and ran at Hengist, who stepped aside and tripped his attacker, before pinning him to the ground. The arm Hengist had pinned behind his brother’s back broke under the pressure, but he continued to push down on it nonetheless. ‘Lay these demons to rest, and we will walk away and never return.’

  Owain’s conscience was thrown into turmoil and he began to pace, his undead army egging him on to sound their battle cry. ‘I must kill him.’ He moved in close to speak to Gwion over the din. ‘My own brothers and all the Sons will turn against me if they learn I let him live.’

  ‘Only you and I know who he is,’ Gwion reasoned. ‘From everyone else’s point of view, you have only given the Saxon warlord the proof he asked for by setting his brother loose!’

  Owain looked back to his troops, too far away to have heard his accusations, then back to Gwion, who had brows raised, urging him to be stoic and sensible. ‘You have nine hundred and sixty Saxon heads to take this day; at least reassess how you feel about destroying your only chance at peace once your debt to the Night Hunter is met.’

  Owain was still hesitant to intervene in Hengist’s struggle.

  ‘I’m sure Gwyn ap Nudd would love to see you render your sword’s power useless by the end of this day.’ Gwion felt Gwyn ap Nudd’s mischief at work here. ‘But I believe such power would be better reserved to ensure against future peril.’

  Owain drew deep breaths, struggling with reason as he approached the Saxon warlord holding his undead brother to the ground.

  ‘Are you still a wounded son, or are you a leader of men?’ Hengist posed.

  As Owain neared with his fiery blade, Hengist raised his own sword in defence – Horsa going berserk beneath his body weight, hindering his chances of defending himself.

  ‘Let him loose.’ Owain’s voice turned gravelly under the strain of the instruction.

  Hengist served the young king one last cautionary glance and jumped backwards away from his brother, who immediately rose in a frenzy to attack again, head and arm hanging limp. ‘Decide!’

  The fiery blade cut Horsa’s walking corpse completely in half; his head, torso and arms falling one way, his stomach and legs the other. And all three men stood for the longest time watching the body parts twitch.

  The moment was bittersweet for Hengist, yet he served Owain a nod in appreciation. ‘I see now that you are doing my people a service this day.’

  ‘Silence!’ Owain commanded the legion, and immediately there was silence on the field.

  ‘It is clear that all on this field can breathe easier when this legion is put to rest.’

  ‘This sword . . .’ Owain turned it about in his hand, so that Hengist could observe the unnatural fire of the blade, still aflame in the pouring rain, ‘has a body count that far exceeds the men on this field this day . . . lives owed to the Lord of the Otherworld for his support of the Sons. It is not just enchanted to free these men, but to never miss its mark until my debt to the Gods is paid. If you would prefer that tally is not bequeathed from among your living people, you will abandon Viroconium Cornoviorum and never set foot in the lands of Cymru again.’

  ‘So long as I live,’ replied Hengist.

  But Owain was not satisfied. ‘You tell your people of my invincible sword, of the armies of the undead, and of the dragon we have unleashed on the northern raiders to drive them from the Isle of Mon. If any of your people consider invading these lands in your wake, then at least they will have had fair warning of what Otherworldly horrors await them in Cyrmu . . . and believe me you haven�
��t see the half of it.’

  Gwion picked this moment to pull the glowing purple vial out from beneath his clothes and into view. Owain suppressed his surprise, but was clearly pleased by Gwion’s sense of dramatic timing.

  Hengist’s eyes widened, mesmerised by it. ‘What is it? What does it do?’

  ‘That, my Lord, is something I hope you never have to find out.’ Gwion watched with delight as Hengist, the fiercest Saxon warlord known, recoiled from him in fear.

  Hengist had sobered. ‘Can I request you leave the dead, so that we may lay them to rest in accordance with our law.’

  Owain considered this.

  Gwion knew the King would surely find this preferable to having his men dig the graves of so many – to burn the bodies wasn’t really an option in this wet season. ‘Granted,’ Owain allowed. ‘But you bury them here, where they fall. If you threaten us again, by the Goddess I serve, I swear that I will raise them up and send them to slaughter you all.’

  Gwion was inwardly delighting at the young king’s resolve and audacity – Owain didn’t have the power to raise the dead, but Hengist didn’t know that, and after what he’d just witnessed, the Saxon was apt to believe anything was possible. And no doubt King Owain would find a means to make good his threat.

  Hengist nodded. ‘We have an understanding, Cymry. I shall remove myself from the field and leave you to the business of your Gods.’

  Owain gave a nod, his sword’s flame dulling as he watched his father’s killer walk free. His jaw clenched; it was a bitter deal to have to swallow for the rest of his days.

  ‘The Goddess will be proud of your restraint this day.’ Gwion attempted to ease his king’s conflict. ‘You’ve shown great maturity putting your people above your want of revenge. You just need—’

  ‘Gwion.’ The young king held up a hand; he didn’t want comfort. ‘What I need is Saxon blood.’ As Owain strode back to the beginning of the line, Dyrnwyn’s blaze glowed anew and he began slicing his way through his docile captives with its fiery blade.

  The King’s lust for revenge was quenched before he was halfway through his head count for the day, and the task became a chore of mental and physical stamina. The stench caused the King’s guard downwind of the field to gag, and even upwind there was no escaping the miasma of death. The continuous rain belaboured the bleakness of the proceedings – these men may have been rotting, but their life blood flowed like a fresh kill and stained the heath. Pools formed around severed heads and overflowed into rivers of red. That Owain managed to keep going without dry retching was testament to his endurance and bloody-minded determination. Still, when Gwion saw his lord flagging, he persuaded him to pause by offering mead. The fiery lustre of the sword had ebbed – as if its potency was reflective of the passion and valour of the wielder.