by Headlee, Kim
Fists clenched so hard that her nails stabbed her palms, she spun and returned to the window. Not to look down but up, to ask the One God where her son could be found, why Tira had taken him, and how, and when. She glared at the peaceful heavens, willing them to divulge their answers, feeling anything but peace.
Ogryvan’s arm settled across her shoulders and squeezed, but for the first time in her life, she drew no comfort from the gesture.
Your son will be a great warrior. Her tears failed to wash away the prophecy’s dreadful conclusion: and you shall posses his soul.
Maybe the High Priest had been wrong…and maybe it was better this way. Her battle trophy flashed to mind. As a proven enemy of Caledon and Breatein, Niall the Scáth had deserved his fate.
Her son did not.
Loholt’s wee face appeared in her mind’s eye: smiling, crying, laughing, and sleeping. All his moods seemed infinitely precious, and now she feared they would be lost to her forever.
“No!” Gyan pounded the window ledge, ignoring the sting and shrugging off her father’s arm. Death couldn’t be the only way to defeat this prophecy. Life begat hope. It was all she possessed. “He must be alive!”
“Gyan, we’ll widen the search,” said Ogryvan.
“We must! Tira doesn’t know how to ride. She can’t have gotten far in less than a day.” That, at least, lent some comfort. “But with all the woods and hills, glens and burns…” Hands on hips, she regarded Rhys levelly. “This is nothing against our men; the territory is just too big. We must request a detachment from Artyr to help.”
“Aye.” Ogryvan said to Rhys, “Send Seumas.”
His most trusted bodyguard? Yet it made sense. Seumas could escort a burning candle through a blizzard, and he certainly knew how to be discreet. She gave her father a grateful glance and turned her thoughts to composing Arthur’s message. But the idea of committing the terrible reality to parchment nauseated her. She clutched her belly.
“Rhys, please see that Artyr gets an accurate report.”
“Aye, Chieftainess.” Instead of saluting, he briefly clasped her hand. A breach of protocol, and everyone in the chamber knew it, but she hoped Rhys could read the gratitude in her eyes.
As Ogryvan and Rhys left, she wished with all her heart that she could join one of the search parties, but her place was at Arbroch to coordinate the search, to be here for her son the moment he returned, and to bear the agony of waiting.
Agony no prayer could relieve.
ANGUSEL WOKE to a chilling breeze and dragged a hand across his eyes. The memory of the fight slammed into his mind, followed by intense pain. He tried to curl up and will it away, but nausea forced him to hands and knees, leaving him weak and gasping. His stomach heaved and heaved, but nothing came up.
How long had he lain unconscious?
More important, was anyone lurking about to finish him off? For he doubted he could defeat anything more deadly than a fawn.
He pushed to a crouch and peered into the gloom. The fight might have occurred hours ago or days. Enough moonlight filtered through the trees to show he was alone. The silence, complete save for the leaves’ rattling and the burn’s plash, confirmed it. No cart, no swordsman, no women. No Loholt.
Not caring which god heard him, he fervently prayed Loholt was safe in Gyan’s arms.
While assessing his injuries, his mind returned to the fight.
The assailant had outweighed Angusel by several stones, armed with a sword to Angusel’s dagger. Angusel had evened those odds somewhat with his spear; while he hadn’t delivered a mortal blow, the wound had rendered his adversary’s sword arm all but useless.
Yet not useless enough. He would have spitted Angusel in mid-dive if another man hadn’t taken the blow.
Angusel glanced around again, but of his savior no sign remained. Had he survived somehow, too? Impossible. He’d seen the sword slice through the man’s gut. No one could walk away with a wound like that.
He wished he could have done something to help the man who’d sacrificed his life for him. During the fight, it hadn’t even entered his mind. All too soon, the enraged swordsman had borne down on Angusel as he dived for his spear. The man fought past Angusel’s guard to clout him in the head with the sword’s pommel.
After the initial explosion of pain, the memories stopped.
Carefully, he touched the side of his head where the ache felt greatest. The stickiness confirmed the wound still seeped blood. Why hadn’t the swordsman killed him?
Maybe he planned to return. To ifrinn with pain, weakness, and nausea! Angusel wouldn’t give up without a fight.
Dizziness overtook him as he tried to stand. The wind seemed determined to chill him to the bone. Kneeling, he rubbed his arms. The possibility of his surviving the night, to say nothing of more combat, became increasingly remote. On hands and knees, he groped for his dagger, clinging to the hope that he’d provided the distraction the women had needed to carry Loholt to safety.
At last, Angusel’s fingers found the smooth, cool surface of his blade. Fumbling to sheathe it, he breathed a prayer of thanks. The stream’s whisper seduced his thirst, and he half slid, half stumbled down the bank. He eased onto his stomach and plunged his hands into one of the burn’s deep pools. As he greedily sucked water from his cupped palms, he felt the brush of fabric against his leg. He sat up and pulled the cloth from the bush.
His heart lurched.
He fingered a small, soft blanket, slashed and crusted with blood. Moonlight glinted off its silver threads. Though shadows hid the pattern, he knew which clan had created the fabric.
Cursing the darkness and pain, he searched for Loholt’s body. The nearness of the burn—a convenient disposal place, especially for such a tiny body—killed the hope that Loholt was, by some miracle, still alive.
He widened his search to the road, where he found his spear and sack but no trace of Loholt. Unutterably weary, he sank to his knees on the hard-packed dirt, bowed his head, and wept. Not for himself, but for his lost sword-brother.
Rain woke him. Angusel had no idea how much of the night had passed. He clutched the blanket to his chest, gripped his spear, and braced himself on the shaft to gain his footing. After picking up the sack, he began trudging toward Arbroch. The pain, hunger, fatigue, cold, and wet he ignored, driven only by the desire to share Gyan’s grief.
By all the gods, he would not fail her in that.
ACCOMPANIED BY his cavalry prefect and infantry commander, Arthur rode Macsen up the column’s length at a slow trot, wrestling with his own nerves as much as his stallion’s.
The Angli, at last, had gone on the offensive.
As Arthur inspected the troops prior to departure, he mentally reviewed Loth’s dispatch. Several more villages had fallen, some practically within sight of Dunpeldyr, and a unit of Loth’s men had been lost except a few who’d escaped to report the disaster. Even now, Loth’s scouts were attempting to assess the strength, location, and composition of Colgrim’s army. Arthur’s decision to commit half the Horse Cohort and two cohorts of infantry to Dunpeldyr’s relief had been based on gut instinct alone.
No, he corrected himself. Goaded by the Dun Eidyn nightmare, his gut had demanded he throw all available men into the fray. Merlin had advised holding half the force in reserve. Alayna’s fishing and merchant vessels could transport them down the firth, should it come to that.
Arthur, Per, and Gereint had reached the column’s head when a shouted challenge rang out from Senaudon’s gate tower. The rider entered without further delay and kicked his mount into a canter, straight toward Arthur.
“Seumas,” he acknowledged as the man halted his mare and rendered the Caledonian salute. Why in God’s name had Ogryvan sent his most trusted warrior? Arthur’s gut churned its prophecy.
“Chieftainess needs your help, Lord Artyr,” Seumas said, in Caledonian. “Your son is missing.”
Seumas may as well have run Arthur through.
“What?” said
Per. “How—?”
Arthur curbed his panic to silence him with a glare and asked Seumas, “Did she send a message?”
Seumas pulled a folded parchment sheet from his pouch and handed it to Arthur, who broke the dark blue Argyll Doves seal and read.
Bloody hell!
His wife and child needed him desperately.
So did Loth’s wife and children, and the wives and children of every man who looked to Dunpeldyr for protection.
He tightened his jaw and gazed at the billowing gray clouds, loathing his decision. With a jerk of his head, he motioned Per and Gereint out of the formation, and they nudged their mounts to a discreet distance.
In Brytonic, Arthur said, “Gereint, appoint your second to head the infantry cohorts. You have command of the cavalry.” Since Gereint knew the Caledonian tongue and ways, Arthur hoped the change wouldn’t strain everyone’s tempers too greatly. “Per, take one of the reserve alae, and—”
“Go, Artyr. For your son.” Determination conquered Per’s worry. “I will lead the army.”
Arthur’s paternal instincts declared war on his military logic, and it took every shred of self-control to keep from surrendering to the extraordinarily tempting offer. Finally, he shook his head and reverted to Caledonian. “Thank you, Per. But I cannot.” Arthur forestalled Per’s protest with a brief grin. “Help your sister. Tell her I will arrive as soon as I can. I depend upon you to have Loholt waiting there for me.”
“I understand, Artyr.” Per wheeled Rukh about and exchanged a few words with Seumas before heading toward the cavalry barracks to begin recruiting for his grim mission. Seumas followed him.
Arthur wished his brother-by-marriage Godspeed with all his heart.
“Why not recall Peredur to the cavalry and let me take your place?” Gereint asked.
Why not, indeed? The Pendragon gave Gereint a long appraisal. The suggestion made perfectly logical sense…if the enemy were anyone other than the Angli. Lust for vengeance iced his tone as he said, “You have your orders, Tribune.”
Gereint regarded him stonily behind his salute and rode off to implement the change of command. Arthur kneed Macsen back toward the formation’s head. After Gereint returned, Arthur drew Caleberyllus and held it aloft, and the column surged forward as one.
By midday, cloaked in cold drizzle, he was beginning to regret his choice as he waited on the Brytoni side of the Antonine Wall, watching the cavalry guide their skittish mounts over the temporary wooden bridges and ramps built to span the ditches and dike. At this rate, the infantry was going to catch up soon. This was the most direct route, and to rush the crossing in this weather would invite disaster, but Arthur chafed at how much the delay might cost Dunpeldyr.
Or Loholt.
As the rain slackened, the wind blew the tantalizing smells of the nearby village’s cooking fires toward him. His stomach rumbled. He ignored it. No time to indulge those needs until after establishing the disposition of Colgrim’s force. A measuring glance at the faint glow where the sun was bravely trying to burn through the clouds told him the cavalry could make Dunpeldyr by sundown if the rest of the journey went without incident.
If. He snorted. Only a fool put stock in an estimate containing that damned word.
“Lord Pendragon!”
Arthur wheeled Macsen toward the hail. A detachment of Clan Lothian warriors trailed one of Arthur’s forward scouts at a hard canter. In their midst rode one very red-faced Loth. Quelling his puzzlement, Arthur spurred Macsen to meet them.
“Thank God!” Loth blurted. “Arthur, you must go back.”
He couldn’t fathom how Loth had heard about Loholt. “Not until I’ve assessed the Angli threat.”
Loth shook his head, his color deepening. “There is no Angli threat. But there will be soon if you don’t return to Senaudon.”
“What the bloody—” Arthur cut himself off and said to the scout, “Tell Tribune Gereint to halt the column and report to me.” As the soldier sped away, he faced Loth, brow knotting. “Explain.”
“I lost most of a unit in a skirmish, and the survivors found three deserted villages on their way back to Dunpeldyr. That’s when I dispatched the message requesting your help.” Loth shifted in the saddle and hunched a shoulder to wipe a rivulet from his cheek. “The villagers weren’t killed. They’d gotten wind of the skirmish and evacuated. By the time my scouts arrived, everyone had returned.”
Like a summer brushfire, Arthur’s fury ignited. “Let me make sure I understand this.” He maneuvered Macsen closer, making Loth’s mount whinny and shy. “You had me mobilize based on an unconfirmed report?” When I should have been searching for my son?
“Aye.” Loth had the grace to look humbled. “Forgive me.”
Two words Arthur never expected to hear from this brother-by-marriage on this side of hell, but he had no time to savor them. “You owe me food for two thousand men and fodder for five hundred horses. Two days’ worth.”
Loth grimaced. “Expect the wagons within a fortnight.”
“And when you get back to Dunpeldyr, you’d best start digging in,” Arthur advised. “We must assume the Angli scouts know about this blunder. Even with the withdrawal, you may have an invasion on your hands soon.”
“By God,” Loth said, shaking a fist, “let’s take the bloody war to them now, on our terms!”
Arthur wished he could. “Even if I had the council’s approval—”
“I’ll make sure you get it.”
“Loth, I don’t have the troop strength. Not enough men have recovered from the pox.” Gereint joined them, and Arthur said to him, “Sixth Ala’s First Turma accompanies me to Arbroch. Withdraw the rest of the force behind the wall and camp here overnight. Return to Senaudon at dawn and put the men back to work on the staging effort.”
Gereint acknowledged the orders with a salute and rode off.
“Arbroch, Arthur?” Loth smirked. “So. The mighty Pendragon can’t stay away from his lovely bride.”
“My lovely bride,” Arthur grated out, “needs help finding our abducted son. Something I should have been doing instead of chasing a phantom Angli army and stirring up trouble neither of us can afford.”
As Loth stammered an impotent apology, Arthur set heels to Macsen’s flanks to collect his escort for the ride back to the decision he should have made at the outset.
NINIANE FELT both thankful and irritated that illness had forced her to ride in a litter. As much as she hated to admit it, her strength hadn’t fully returned. She never would have completed the journey astride horse or donkey, and the litter’s canopy sheltered her from sun and rain. Even if the wind blew the rain at an angle, the canvas sides could be let down and secured for additional protection.
The pace, however, dragged unbearably. Interminable stretches of trees and bushes and rocks seemed to crawl past the litter. The closer she and her Clan Argyll volunteer escort came to Arbroch, the slower they seemed to travel.
She tried to dismiss her feelings as a product of her overanxious imagination. Asking the escort’s captain to increase the pace wouldn’t happen unless she planned to explain why, which remained out of the question.
Leaning against the backrest, she closed her eyes, reminding herself of the Lord’s command not to be anxious about anything. Easier said than done.
An order rang out. Though given in Caledonian, of which Niniane knew little, she had learned to recognize it as the command to halt and dismount. The litter came to a swaying stop. Bracing a hand against the frame, she peered outside, expecting to find signs of Arbroch, but the forest still enveloped them.
Not more than an hour had passed since they’d stopped to feed and water the horses, and it was too early for a ration break. Her impatience grew. Any delay, however slight, might prove costly. She quelled the pernicious thought that it might already be too late.
She turned to her companion, dozing on the opposite bench, and patted the woman’s knee. “Sister Dorcas.” An eyelid flicked open. �
��Please find out what’s happening. Hurry!”
That brought Dorcas fully awake. She nodded her assent. The litter driver helped her down, and she scurried from view.
The look on the older woman’s face when she returned Niniane never would forget.
“Prioress! There’s a—a body in the road!”
Illness or no, Niniane had never moved so fast in her life. She scrambled from the litter and hurried past a startled-looking Dorcas. The soldiers, standing beside their mounts in two neat columns, regarded her curiously but said nothing as she dashed past them.
Dear Lord, not the baby!
The commander and a few of Niniane’s escort had formed a loose semicircle around somebody lying on his stomach in the middle of the road, face turned to one side. He was much larger than an infant yet just as pitifully ill equipped for travel: almost naked and bearing recent, untreated sword wounds. She mouthed a quick prayer of thanks that it wasn’t Arthur’s baby, followed by a prayer for the well-being of the fallen traveler.
Another armed group, she realized belatedly, had joined her escort. These men wore the same saffron, scarlet, and dark blue patterned cloaks. Judging by their position on the road, they had not overtaken her group from behind.
Although she couldn’t understand their conversation, she thought it odd that none showed interest in helping the traveler. Perhaps he’d been injured so badly that no one knew what to do. Surely, then, someone would have summoned her. Her prophetic gift might be a secret, but her skill as a physician certainly was not.
She shrugged off her perplexity and sidled between the men. No one stopped her as she knelt and pushed the curly black hair away from the bloody temple, revealing a deep gash the length of her finger…and the youth’s identity.
“Angusel!”
The color had leached from his face. Cuts covered his arms and torso, the dried blood blackened with grime. Numerous leg scratches suggested a battle through dense brush. He wore a loincloth, and one hand clutched a small sack. An oak staff lay nearby. Its sharp end bore dark stains that could only be blood.
