I could see what it was. Gwenhwfar was right; I had been carrying an Apple of Discord. It was the Frankish treasure. The allies, kings, princes, petty rulers and warlords had fallen out amongst themselves and were killing each other for it.
I stood up and risked a look outside. The camp was seething; the different kingdoms, bands, tribes and villages were setting upon each other. Oswy didn’t need a victory in the field; his battle was being won, here, in the Mercian camp. I could see that Penda’s army and personal guard were driving their way through the melee, aiming to escape and get back to Lichfield. They were being driven towards the Winwaed river, which was rushing deep and treacherous. They tried to turn aside but they were driven into it. Those that fought, died and were pushed into the water. Those who tried to escape were dragged won by their armour and drowned. Pretty soon, the forces that drove them to ruin were able to walk across the channel, dry-shod, on the bodies of the dead.
Wolf was barking. At what, I could not see. I turned and was
Dragged back into the Otherworld. I felt another shudder - I was racked with guilt; another child had died to bring me back. An arm was stretching from the darkness, reaching out to me. I reached for my sword, ready to fight back.
Come now…come now…now…now
My Prince…Prince…rince…
Of Donegal…gall…gall
My knees turned to jelly. I could not fight. I could not lift my sword. The arm stretched towards me; the hand reached out to touch me… there was nothing I could do.
Now you will know the fate you visited on so many others.
It touched me; with the last strength and will that I dragged up from I know not where, I heaved my sword up and brought it down on my assailant’s wrist. I was as weak as a kitten. There was hardly enough power to break the skin, let alone cut flesh and smash bone - but it was enough. The hand let go and fled into the darkness.
I was surrounded by mountains of corpses. They towered over me. The reached across the sky and sealed me in, away from the sky -
WHY DID YOU KILL ME, BROTHER?
I screamed and screamed in terror. There were millions of them - all Coivin, my brother, who I had killed, twenty years before.
No, there were others. There were the bandits at the bridge.
WHY DID YOU KILL, ME BROTHER?
The assassins at Clovis’ camp.
WHY DID YOU KILL ME, BROTHER?
There were countless dead, maimed and wounded, all demanding the same answer, over and over, through all eternity.
WHY DID YOU KILL ME, BROTHER?
My mother emerged from the mass of corpses, her body slashed open repeatedly, blood pouring from wounds on every surface.
WHY DID YOU KILL ME, BROTHER? She screamed, her face up against mine.
She kissed me, deep and hard, but it wasn’t her. It was the bar girl - Zelda.
WHY DID YOU KILL ME, brother?
I didn’t kill you. I let you live! I screamed.
The corpses were everywhere. Every one of them, millions of them, piling into me and demanding to know. Why? WHY? WHY?
I slashed about me and cut some in two - but they leaped together again. A hellhound with eyes burning with fire came towards me, its mouth wide open. I slashed at it and it ducked away. More corpses. Uncountable numbers. I had killed every one of them. They were piled too high to climb over. I slashed and slashed, and felt something - a wall of corpses was giving way! I could cut them, slice them in two and they did not leap back together! I cut my way through the wall and was past, out into the open. But there were more. Penda. WHY DID YOU KILL ME, BROTHER? He demanded. His head was floating, feet up in the air. I slashed at it and it flew away, into the darkness.
The great mob of death, the legion of hell was gathering behind me, ready to drag me down into the underworld and keep me there for eternity. I would never be reborn; they would torture me forever.
I could see a wood ahead of me. If I could get there I could escape. I could confuse them. I could outrun them. I could hide. I could get away.
My armour was slowing me, dragging me down, holding me back and allowing the hands, the millions of hands, to reach out to grab me, they could nearly touch me.
I dropped my sword and hauled my hauberk over my head. I tore off my shirt. My breeches were cramping me, preventing me from running. I kicked off my shoes and dragged my breeches off my legs, throwing them back at the pursuing army of death. Hoping they would distract them. They howled in anticipation; they had my scent. I finally pulled off my loincloth and dropped it and ran, ran, ran as fast as I could, into the woods. I crashed through undergrowth, paying no attention to the myriad of scratches that erupted and began to bleed. I had to get away, to get deeper into the woods. I had to get away from where anyone could see me and find me and drag me back to the army of death. I ran and ran and ran for days, weeks, months, years. I ran until I could run no more.
***
Very few in the Mercian camp could spare time from the slaughter to watch what happened. Those who did saw Prince Ciaran the Damned suddenly, without explanation, lash out in a frenzy with his Great Sword, cutting violently through the empty air. He nearly killed his own dog, who just managed to leap out of his way as the blade threatened to slice him in half. Ciaran’s eyes were wide and filled with a deeper terror than any could remember seeing, ever before - and none wished to see again. He made his erratic way to the back of the tent and slashed through the fabric, seemingly possessed by furies from Hell itself. He ran off towards the woods, pausing only to pull off every stitch of clothing, then, naked as the day he was born, he disappeared into the forest and was never seen again - except perhaps by his great wolfhound, which followed him into oblivion.
Those who watched Prince Ciaran the Damned run from his final battle then resumed the serious business of killing each other over possession of the Frankish treasure. By the time enough blood had been spilt to satisfy even the most hungry raven, Penda’s last army had been reduced from thousands of disciplined men to a fraction of its size; a disorderly, ragged rabble.
Oswy of Northumbria’s victory was not so much a triumph on the battlefield as a mopping-up operation. He would take it in whatever form it came. He was now the undisputed ruler of his own land and pretty much anywhere else that took his fancy. The English of Mercia were smashed. Penda’s allies in Anglia would be well advised to lie low. Gwynedd, who he had paid handsomely to pull out of the battle at the crucial moment, was leaderless. As was Powys and half a dozen other British kingdoms and principalities. He surveyed the remains of what had been the high command in the tent on the hill. He turned over a body with his foot; it was Cadfael. One of his lieutenants identified Mangan. He bent over and picked up a severed head. He wiped the hair away and recognised the features; Penda, his old adversary, who had beaten his family three times, was no more. A priest with a tonsure shaved from his forehead to his crown - a monk from Lindisfarne - came over and strongly recommended that the king and his army should give thanks.
“You saw the sign. The Cross in the sky last night. This triumph was promised to you. Now you must keep your promise,” he said.
Oswy nodded. That sign the evening before had been as clear as could have even desired. It had given his outnumbered forces hope and confidence. That his enemies had fallen upon each other was an even stronger signal that God was on his side. His army had suffered virtually no casualties. The most severe injury was from a fool who had fallen over in his cups and broken his arm.
“I will keep my promise. I will establish all the monasteries, abbeys and churches I swore I would build, no matter how much they cost,” he replied. Whatever the outlay was, he would get it back, mostly from Mercia. He turned to one of his senior soldiers.
“What happened here?” he said, almost to himself. “They seem to have turned on themselves. What manner of evil…” he shook his head and rubbed his bearded jaw, before continuing, more clearly.
“What about that witch-king Cadfae
l mentioned in his message? Any sign of him?” When the answer came in the negative, he ordered that the area should be searched and anyone answering the description should be brought to him. “Alive. I want to question him, whoever he is. If he exists.”
Those who had survived the slaughter in Penda’s camp - and cared enough to offer an opinion about it - believed that Prince Ciaran had finally lived up to his name: he was Damned, at last. Few would mourn his passing.
Chapter Nineteen
Lockeran
There was a Man there. I could see him through the branches. I could smell him, too. Men smelled so much it was almost more than I could bear to be this close. This one was alone though; sitting outside the cave as he had on each of the two days I had been watching him. He seemed to be paying no attention, to be unaware of me, but I had to be careful with Men, very careful. They were cunning and sly and cruel. The old wounds on my back seemed to throb again. They reminded me of the sting of stones and the smart of fires. Sometimes the Men ran away from me, especially the small ones and the long-hairs, hampered by their long garments. They screeched a lot. But too many came after me, chased me away, barking out their calls. Others answered, and I had only just escaped with my life. They feared me, I knew, and I feared them - but the smells kept drawing me back. Not the smells of the Men themselves - they were disgusting - but the food, the glorious smells of their food. I got so hungry: the animals seemed to know I was there, now, and had learned to hide from me when I was hungry. Could they smell me too?
Did I smell as much as Men? Men would set traps and walk away, being careful to conceal their scent or leave the area well alone for a few days so that the scent became cold. I had seen them do it. I had watched them. The traps would catch unwary animals, but not me, never me, except the once when I had fallen into a pit - but I had been able to climb out again. I had been able to reach the top of the pit and I had climbed out! But it had frightened me and I had learned to be wary of too-smooth leaves and grass and the smell of Men, even if it was old and cold. I had learned.
The other animals were not so clever. I had been able to take the Men’s prey out of a trap more than once. They left it so long, for days at a time, to make sure their scent was old and cold. Then I could get something they had caught in their traps, the cruel wire traps that almost cut a leg in half. I broke the prey’s neck and then gnawed the captured leg off and took the rest of the carcass away with me to my den. But I couldn’t stay long in a den. Men or bears or wolves would find it and either take it over or wreck it. I was always moving on and it got cold, so cold, when the days were short and the snow fell, cold and white and soft on the hard frozen ground. I hated the Men. They hurt me and chased me away with fire when all I wanted was to get close to the fire and get warm, because I got so cold. I hated the Men. They were cruel. But the food, the food, the food. The smell of the food. It brought me back, trying to find a camp of Men and get some scraps after they had all gone to sleep. I was so quiet: I could creep past a sleeping guard and be away with a warm leg of deer or bear from over the dying embers of the fire before they knew and without disturbing them. I would have liked to stay by the fire. It was warm when the ground was cold. My coat gave hardly any cover at all. It was sparse, I was bald over much of my body and the fire felt so good.
This Man had a fire. It was a small one but I knew it would be warm if I could get close but the Man was sitting by it. He had a brown coat and was bald over the front of his head. He looked like his head was swelling at the front. Maybe he was sick. Maybe his head would burst and he would die and then I could sit by the fire. But he looked well enough, just sitting there. He had a dog. A great wolfhound. It sat by him as he fed it scraps. A squirrel came close to the Man, small and russet with a big tail. Too small for a proper meal but enough to take the edge off my hunger if I was starving, but they tasted of rats. The squirrel stood on its hind legs and sniffed hopefully at the Man’s plate. He said something and offered a nut. The squirrel was almost torn in two: it wanted the nut so much, I could tell, but it was frightened to come too close. The Man tossed it gently so that the squirrel could get it without coming too close, maybe - just out of arm’s reach but close enough for a sudden spring.
Don’t do it, I thought, don’t do it. Men are cunning and cruel. They will smile and tempt you in with food and then throw stones and fire at you and kill you just for fun, won’t even eat you, I knew. Don’t do it, don’t go near. But the squirrel ran the couple of steps to where the nut lay and picked it up and started to eat it where he stood. Now the Man will have him, I thought, Now he’ll spring out and catch the little squirrel and catch him and kill him, he’ll have him. But he didn’t. The Man just sat and watched and smiled like they did when they didn’t know I was watching and they were going to mate or play a game or something. He sat and purred to the squirrel, as if it could understand. Then the wind changed and it came off my back. The squirrel looked my way and ran off up the nearest tree and off over the branches, I watched it go. The dog rose from where it had been lying and looked over to where I was hiding and whined. It had caught my scent. The Man looked my way and purred. He calmed the dog with a hand on its head, and it sat down again. He held out his plate with the food on it but I couldn’t smell it any more and I just snarled a growl of irritation, then turned away and crept off through the bushes.
The next day there was a bowl of food about two paces from the Man and about four from the edge of the forest. It was cooked meat of some kind, mixed with herbs. It smelled good. It smelled wonderful, like a feast after a long hunt. But there was the smell of a herb I didn’t recognise, pungent and lingering at the back of my throat. It reminded me of something but it was too strong and the bowl was too near the Man even though he was just sitting there, outside his cave, same as every day and he seemed to be paying no attention. But it was too close. The dog whined again, looking right at me. I crept away through the trees.
The next day the bowl was further from the Man, but still too close. The dog did not catch any scent of me, I was sure, but he looked right at me. I was sure of it. I didn’t like it. I loped away and managed to catch a young rabbit, which I ate while it was still warm. It didn’t taste as good as it used to. It would have tasted better if it had been cooked. I caught another early the next day and didn’t go to the cave to watch the Man, but the next two days I had no luck and went back to the bushes just by the cave, ravenous with hunger. It was early morning and there was no food out. I tried my luck in the forest again: nothing. Everything was wary and it seemed they knew I was coming. I went back to the cave and there was a bowl of freshly-cooked meat, just an arm’s length from the bushes and well away from the Man. I could see the steam rising from it and could smell the delicious smell. The Man was by the cave, standing up, arms out and head back. I stretched out a hand, quietly, quietly and snatched the food out of the bowl. It was hot and it burned my hand and I let out a small yelp I couldn’t stop myself and I ran back into the forest but I didn’t let go of the food, no matter that it burned me. It was a whole rabbit, young and tender and cooked with herbs and it was delicious.
The next day the bowl was not so close but the Man was standing up, head back and arms outstretched. The dog sat and watched but made no attempt to move. The food wasn’t as hot and I had to step out of cover for only an instant to get it and run back into the forest again.
A few days later I had got used to the ritual, the food just a little further away from the bushes and if I went at the right time the Man would be standing, head back, and he would pay no attention, not even if I rattled the bushes and snarled, so I sat by the bowl and ate the meat and the roots with it at my leisure. So it went on until one day, when the weather was turning and getting colder I heard the Man purring while I was sitting and eating. I looked up, afraid and ready to run away, but the Man was just standing well away from me and purring. I finished the food and left again; I went back into the forest. It rained hard that night and I got wet in my h
iding place high up in the trees. If I was to keep dry I would have to come lower but that would make me exposed so I stayed where I was and I got cold and wet and I hardly slept at all.
It was still raining in the morning and I was wet and cold. I went to the cave early and there was no bowl of food but the Man was sitting just at the edge of his cave with the trees above sheltering him from the rain. He had a fire, a warm fire, and was cooking something in a pan. Even through the rain I could smell the meat and herbs and roots and it smelt good and the fire was warm, I could see it was warm, and I was so cold and wet. I whimpered and the Man looked up towards the bush I was hiding in. He smiled and purred and I could make out some of what he was saying. He was calling me ‘Lockeran’. He stood and pointed at the cave and the fire and he brought the pan up to his face and smelled it and smiled at me. He wanted me to come to the fire. I hesitated and turned to go. The wind changed for a moment and the smell caught me and I turned again, back to the Man. I sneezed. Then I smelt the food again. The Man was purring again and I could understand him, I knew what he was saying.
Lockeran (Prince Ciaran the Damned Book 2) Page 20
