by Headlee, Kim
A Lucky Bat Book
Morning’s Journey
by Kim Iverson Headlee
Copyright ©2013
by Kim Headlee
All rights reserved
Interior art Copyright ©2013 by Kim Headlee
Cover design copyright © 2014 by Natasha Brown
Published by Lucky Bat Books
ISBN 1-939-05127-4
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, with the exception of brief excerpts for the purpose of review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Praise for Dawnflight, 2nd Edition:
“Intense.” ~ Jessie Potts, USA Today
Chapter 1
THE CLASH OF arms resounds in the torchlit corridor. Blood oozes where leather has yielded to the bite of steel, yet both sweating, panting warriors refuse to relent.
Her heart thundering, Gyan grips her sword’s hilt, desperate to help the man she loves. Caledonach law forbids it.
Urien makes a low lunge. As Arthur tries to whirl clear, the blade tears a gash in his shield-side thigh. The injured leg collapses, and Arthur drops to one knee. Crowing triumphantly, Urien raises his sword for the deathblow.
Devil take the law!
Gyan springs to block the stroke. Its force jars her arms and twists the hilt in her grasp. She barely holds on through the searing pain.
Urien slips past her guard to slice at her brooch. The gold dragon clatters to the floor. Her cloak slithers to her ankles, fouling her stance. As she tries to kick free, Urien grabs her braid, jerks up her head, and kisses her, hard. Shock loosens her grip. Her sword falls. She thrashes and writhes, but he holds her fast, smirking lewdly.
“You are mine, Pictish whore.”
Urien’s breath reeks of ale and evil promises. She spits in his face. He slaps her. She reels backward, her cheek burning. He grabs her forearms and yanks her close.
“Artyr, help me!”
No response.
Her spirits plummet. Weaponless, she can do nothing—wait. A glint catches her eye.
When Urien kisses her again, she surrenders. He grunts his pleasure, redoubling the force of the kiss. Slowly, she works her hands over his chest until her left hand touches cold bronze on his shoulder. She snatches the brooch and rips it free, hoping to stab him with the pin.
Her elation vanishes with her balance as her tangled cloak thwarts her plans. Face contorted with rage, Urien lunges and catches her wrist. She grits her teeth as his fingers dig in to make her drop the brooch. Pain shoots up her arm. She pushes away. Together, they fall—
GYAN GASPED and sat bolt upright, pulse hammering. Sweat plastered her hair to her head, which felt like the ball in an all-night game of buill-coise. Bed linens ensnared her legs.
Fingers grazed her shoulder. She recoiled and cocked a fist. Her consort ducked behind his hand. “Easy, Gyan!” She relaxed, and he wrapped his arm about her. “What’s wrong?”
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “A dream,” she replied, hoping that for once he’d be satisfied with a vague answer.
“Some dream.”
She sighed. “It was the fight—and yet not the fight.” Gently, she traced the thin red line at the base of his neck where she’d scratched him with Caleberyllus to seal his Oath of Fealty to her and to her clan. But dreams cared naught for oaths. “This time, Urien won.”
Arthur grimaced. “That’s no dream.” He hugged her, and she burrowed into his embrace. “I’d call it a nightmare.”
“Ha.” She bent forward to disengage the linens from her feet. The unyielding fabric ignited her ire. She pounded the straw-stuffed mattress, furious at Urien and even more furious at herself for allowing him to creep into her wedding chamber, if only in spirit. “Why must that cù-puc keep coming between us?” She gazed at the table where Braonshaffir, named for the egg-size sapphire that crowned its hilt, lay sheathed inside its etched bronze scabbard beside Caleberyllus. Indulging in the fantasy of her new sword shearing through Urien’s neck, she bared her teeth in a fierce grin. “Just let him cross me openly, and by the One God, I’ll settle this matter!”
Arthur’s warm sigh ruffled her hair. Together they righted the linens, but when she would have risen, he clasped her hands and regarded her earnestly. “I can’t afford to lose either of you.”
She looked at those hands, young and yet already scarred and callused by years of war: hands that cradled the future of Breatein. “I know.” Briefly, she squeezed his hands, hoping to convey her desire to help him forge unity among his people, the Breatanaich, as well as with Caledonaich, her countrymen.
One legion soldier in five called the northwestern Breatanach territory of Dailriata home, and one in three of those men hailed from Urien’s own Clan Móran. In a duel between Gyan and Urien, Arthur’s Dailriatanach alliance would die regardless of the victor.
If politics ever failed to constrain the Urien of the waking world, however, she couldn’t guarantee that diplomacy would govern her response.
She averted her gaze again to the table where their arms and adornments lay. Their dragon cloak-pins sparked a memory. Something else had been odd about that dream, but its details had receded like the morning tide. She couldn’t decide whether to be troubled or relieved.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, trying to purge Urien map Dumarec from her mind. Moist pressure against her lips announced her consort’s plans. She welcomed his kiss and deepened it. He ran his fingers through her unbraided hair, following the tresses down her neck and over her breasts. Her nipples firmed under his touch. She arched back, and he kissed his way down to one breast, then the other, drawing the nipples forth even farther and awakening the exquisite ache in her banasròn.
The swelling shaft of sunlight heralded a reminder of their duties.
“The cavalry games will be starting soon, mo laochan.” No other man had earned the Caledonaiche endearment from her, and none ever would. Her “little champion” bore her down onto the pillows, and his lips interrupted any other comment she might have made. As they explored the curve of her throat, she whispered, “We must make an appearance.”
“We will, Gyan.” His fingertips teased her banasròn, discovering its damp readiness. “Eventually.”
She stilled his hand. He looked at her, puzzled.
Being àrd-banoigin obligated her to ensure her clan’s future by bearing heirs, but was she ready to abandon the warrior’s path and devote her life to a bairn? She gave a mental shrug. A swift calculation assured her that her courses would return soon, leaving the question to be faced another day. Smiling, she began caressing one of the reasons he’d earned “laochan” as an endearment.
He cupped her face and kissed her, urgency for both of them soaring on the wings of desire. His thigh rubbed hers with slow, firm strokes. Gyanhumara nic Hymar, Chieftainess of Clan Argyll of Caledon, yielded to her consort’s unspoken command. She opened to him, and he plunged her into their sacred realm of mind-blanking bliss.
Whenever Arthur map Uther, Pendragon of Breatein, issued an order, on the battlefield or of
f, only a fool disobeyed.
TRENCHER LADEN with goat’s cheese and steaming black bread, and the kitchen’s clamor and aromas and warmth at his back, Angusel mac Alayna stood in the feast hall’s doorway. Most joining-ceremony guests—clan rulers and their escorts, religious leaders, craftmasters, and merchants prominent enough to have been extended an invitation—hadn’t stirred from their quarters. Some sprawled where sleep had overtaken them, snoring fitfully through ale-soaked dreams.
“Over here, lad!”
Though he couldn’t see the voice’s owner, he knew only one Caledonach who could sound like a thunderclap without trying. He headed toward the shout.
He found Gyan’s father at a table below the dais, methodically destroying a loaf of bread and a mound of bilberries and slices of early apples, pausing at intervals to bury his face in his tankard. After wiping the creamy flecks from his graying sable mustache and beard with the back of a hand, he resumed the attack on his trencher. Peredur and Rhys, Gyan’s half brother and clansman, flanked him.
All three had dressed for battle in traditional Caledonach bronze helmets and forearm guards, boiled-leather tunics, thick leggings, and knee-high boots, nary a detail missing except their weapons.
“Sit, sit,” urged the Chieftain of Clan Argyll between mouthfuls with an impatient gesture toward the bench. “Hurry. After you finish eating, you must change.”
Angusel glanced at his sky-blue linen tunic and back at Chieftain Ogryvan. “My lord?”
“The games, Angusel. The games!” As Angusel obeyed and dug in, with Rhys pouring him a tankard, the chieftain explained, “The drink has left Conall in no shape to ride. We need a fourth.”
Surprise made him gag on a hunk of cheese. He swallowed hard. “Me, sir?” He took a swig of ale without tasting it. He could think of a hundred reasons why this was a bad idea, starting with his age and lack of experience.
“Of course, you.” The chieftain grinned. “Do you see anyone else?”
Angusel looked about. Another man sat crumpled over the far end of the table. With his cloak balled into a pillow, his clan affiliation couldn’t be discerned, but the loudness of his snores proclaimed him to be in no condition to ride, either.
He cleared his throat. “But, my lord, I am not of Argyll.”
“Not by blood, Exalted Heir of Clan Alban,” Chieftain Ogryvan allowed, “but your heart is Argyll.”
Angusel’s hand went to the scar at the base of his neck, symbol of his oath to the woman whose father regarded him so intently.
That oath made his spirits sink. These three men were the best horsemen of Clan Argyll and stood among the best in all Caledon. How could he agree to ride with them when his skills seemed so pathetic in comparison?
Rather than admit that, however, he tried a more practical argument: “I am deeply honored to be asked, my lord, but I have not done the trial of blood. You don’t want an untried boy on your team.”
“We know the role you played in the Scáthinach invasion. Your choices and courage saved countless lives, Gyan’s included.” Peredur snaked his arm through the clutter of half-consumed food and drink to grip Angusel’s forearm. “I gave up leading my ala’s team for this chance to honor Argyll and my sister.” His smile made him look so much like Gyan that Angusel sucked in a swift breath. “If you join us, she’ll be doubly pleased.”
“Aye!” Chieftain Ogryvan thumped the tabletop. The pewter tankards and plates and utensils clattered. The snoring feaster woke with a startled grunt, glanced blearily about, and grimaced. Head in hands, he slid back into his dreams. The Argyll warriors chuckled, not loudly. Gyan’s father continued, “Young you may be, but calling yourself untried is too harsh, Angusel.”
“My lord, I—” Angusel looked at his trencher, but for once, eating couldn’t have been farther from his mind. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Rhys, grinning at a passing serving lass and elbowing Angusel in the ribs. “Fancy another type of sport, then?”
Angusel shook his head. “I don’t want to make Argyll lose.” He met Rhys’s inquisitive gaze. “My oath forbids it.”
“Nonsense, lad.” The quietness of the chieftain’s tone commanded Angusel’s attention. “Gyan told me what you two were doing in your spare time before the invasion.”
She had been helping him hone his horsemanship skills, but he remained laughably far from claiming mastery. “Then you should know, my lord, that I am the last person to ask.”
“My daughter spoke of your progress with highest praise. She doesn’t utter empty words.”
True, he thought. But Argyll’s competition included not just other Caledonaich, but the best horsemen of the legion and the northern Breatanach clans. If he could have made water at that moment, it surely would have come out cold.
“If we cannot find a fourth,” said the chieftain, “we must forfeit.”
“Think how disappointed Gyan will be, knowing you could have—”
Chieftain Ogryvan’s upraised hand cut Peredur off. “Will you join Argyll, Angusel of Alban?”
Forfeit. Disappointment.
His gut twisted. A fortnight ago, he had sworn to serve Gyan for the rest of his days, a task he desired with his entire being, even if it meant sacrificing his life. Although he could refuse her father’s request, his heart told him it would shake her confidence in him, a thought too painful to bear.
“Aye, my lord. I will ride with Argyll.” Silently, Angusel prayed to all the gods that he wouldn’t fail her.
URIEN MAP Dumarec of Clan Moray of Dalriada watched the departure of the Argyll cavalry team through narrowed eyes. Overbearing Ogryvan and his pet, Peredur. Rhys the Rat. And youngest and smallest in stature but the biggest troublemaker of the lot, Angusel.
To think he might have become kin-by-marriage to those Picti vermin. Well, Arthur could have the whole bloody lot.
He rubbed the woad Picti betrothal tattoo encircling his left wrist, one bitter reminder of the woman who had broken that betrothal so she could marry Arthur. The other reminder he didn’t have to see. He felt its shameful sting whenever he wrinkled his brow.
Reliving the fight soured his mood. He’d lost more than Gyanhumara at the point of Arthur’s sword. Arthur had removed him from command of the Manx Cohort—a thousand foot and horse—and recalled him here, to Caer Lugubalion, to lead the only all-horse cohort. This amounted to about the same number of soldiers, but the Manx unit because of its diversity had been a more challenging command and a logical stepping-stone to greater power. Now, Urien commanded a unit composed almost entirely of accursed Picts; of the eight alae, only First Ala’s roster contained Brytons.
It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Gyanhumara was agitating for Arthur to put one of her clansmen in command of the Horse Cohort. The bastard probably was itching for such an excuse to discharge Urien altogether. He considered resigning his commission; if he left the army, it damned well would be on his terms, not anyone else’s.
Army politics aside, losing Gyanhumara meant losing her lands, which would have doubled Clan Moray’s wealth, and it had destroyed his opportunity to make a bid for the Pendragonship.
No one stole that much from him with impunity.
But the thrust of his revenge would have to wait until after his father’s death. The choice to remain under Arthur’s thumb at headquarters carried a hefty price: the curtailment of freedom. Being chieftain would eliminate the problem. Certain elements of the plan could be accomplished now, however.
He thumbed a rivet on the silvered bronze of his games helm, which his family had owned for five generations. More than a helmet, the exquisitely sculpted Roman cavalry centurion’s mask covered the entire face, with slits for eyes, nose, and mouth.
Too bloody hot to wear in combat, the helm’s purpose lay not in the deflection of enemy blows, but ornamentation.
When Urien had learned that Arthur would be staging cavalry games as part of the entertainment for the wedding guests, he’d quickly selected his
team and commissioned identical helms for them. Not precisely the same, for the bronze of the new helms had tin overlay, unlike Urien’s silvered helm. Even a chieftain’s son had limits.
Silver or tin, the sun’s glare would render them identical.
He grinned at his distorted reflection.
Chapter 2
ARTHUR AND GYAN mounted the stairs of the canopied viewing platform to the throng’s thunderous cheers. There to greet them, garbed in his garrison commander’s ceremonial uniform, stood the man who had performed their Christian joining ceremony the day before, called Bishop Dubricius in his temple and everywhere else Merlin.
“High time you two arrived.” The dark sparkle in Merlin’s eyes revealed the jest. “I was beginning to wonder how much longer I could keep them amused.”
The warrior-priest gestured at the people packed onto the tiered wooden seating behind the fence surrounding the parade ground. More had climbed onto the barracks, smothering the red tile roofs. Gyan noticed that several enterprising souls had perched on ladders or each other’s shoulders, scrambled onto crates and casks, piled into unhitched wagons, shinned trees—anything for an unobstructed view.
On the field, Arthur’s foster brother, Caius, commander of the garrison at nearby Camboglanna, was leading the infantry cohorts through a series of complex formations. Three thousand armored men marching and turning with split-second precision presented quite an impressive sight.
Yet the escalating chants revealed the crowd’s craving for the promised excitement of the cavalry games.
“You ought to get married yourself, Merlin,” Arthur shot back. “Then we shall see how prompt you can be the morning after your wedding night.” Impudence invaded his grin.
“Ah, youth.” Sighing, the warrior-priest surveyed the cloudless heavens. “They never appreciate their elders.” He winked at Gyan. “I am depending upon you to keep him in line, Chieftainess, since he no longer heeds me.”
