The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2)

by C. M. Gray

  The day had been drawn-out and tiring as the shield walls had finally surged forward to meet and then clashed again and again men and women, faces contorted, screaming and howling at each other. Shields met with a clattering crash that shook the ground and then locked together as the straining warriors on both sides pushed and heaved against one another. Spears and swords stabbed between shields seeking an unprotected arm or leg, a wound that might break apart the opposing wall while axes arced over the top, to hack down upon shield and helm and skull. Blood had spilled and sprayed as warriors drove into a state of invincibility fought in a bloodlust until their humanity returned in a rush and both men and women felt the cold, hot kiss of metal then screamed and dropped away, finally alone in their agony. Many died quickly, while countless others, the less fortunate, continued to live. Their screams and cries of their distress and suffering added to the noise of battle as they collapsed to the cold mud and grass of the field, victims of the most terrible of wounds, trampled into the muck and blood beneath the feet of the battling horde.

  Horsemen and chariots joined the throng, the shrieks and cries of both men and now horses filling the air until Uther had at once become deaf to it all, concentrating instead on the steady gasping of his own laboured breathing as he continued his desperate internal struggle to endure.

  Given its freedom, his mind stepped back from the world of man and journeyed back to a time in his youth, to a time where he rode on the battlefield of Mount Badon, upon a war chariot with Samel, a friend now long since dead. It was while he was trying to remember where the little warrior had fallen, that a Saxon arrow had glanced across the cheek guard of his helm knocking his head to the side before slicing deeply across his neck. The searing pain had shocked him from his musing, to be enveloped once more in the stench and roar of battle. His horse was turning wildly in circles beneath him as he cried out, but the sound was lost amongst the cacophony of noise and madness around him.

  'The King has been wounded.' His attention snapped back. He could now tell that the voice giving instruction was that of Maude, the warrior who had attached herself to him back at the camp. He felt her horse bounce against his, steadying it, and her face, creased with concern, loomed into his vision as she assessed the damage that the arrow had caused, pulling his head to the side to expose the wound. A cloth of some kind was pushed against him and held while Maude, and now another warrior tried to direct Uther's horse away from the battle.

  'We have all but defeated the Saxons, King Uther.' Maude rode beside him, holding the cloth to his neck. 'It was as the Druids proclaimed, your presence has brought us a great victory, the Saxons are drawing back, they are leaving.'

  The wound was a deep heavy throbbing that all but consumed him. He wondered if each beat of his heart was forcing more of his lifeblood to the surface to ooze from his body yet it mattered not a whit to him, he realised. His task had been completed; they could lay him down to die in peace now, and Arthur could reign in his stead without the imminent threat of a Saxon invasion. As the sounds of battle receded, Uther Pendragon tried to surrender his life and instead, sought a path to the Shadowland.

  When next he became conscious, it wasn't the sounds of battle that greeted him, nor, to his immediate regret was it to the sights and sounds of the Shadowland, although it was only the realisation that he was still feeling some considerable pain that finally convinced him of this. His neck burned where the arrow had sliced him, but this he only added to the multitude of various pains and discomforts that were his to suffer. The light was hurting his eyes, so he closed them and drew a deep breath, it was rich, damp and earthy and felt good to his aching lungs. He drew another and listened to the sounds of rustling leaves, soft birdsong, and dripping water and slowly opened his eyes again. At first, his vision was blurred, and he could only register that it was overwhelmingly green in this place. Others were here; he could hear them moving softly only a few steps away.

  'Drink.' His head was lifted and a cup placed to his lips. He gazed up into the face of Maude as she tended him and he tried to drink, but couldn't. He studied her, seeing her face dirty and blood splattered, still reflecting an overwhelming concern for him.

  'What have we done to you, my Lord? Yet, still you endure.' He watched as a tear trickled down her cheek, carving a track through the blood and grime. 'Please Lord, you must try to drink. We are at the holy well, close to Prae Tor. You must drink, this is holy water… it will help to heal you.' She glanced up and began to back away as another figure bent down beside them.

  'She is right, Uther, drink deeply, and all will be as it should be.' It was Merlyn, smiling happily as if his King was not laying amongst the fallen leaves of the forest, dying. 'It was as I foresaw, Uther. You brought us a great victory today. You gave our warriors courage when they saw you and the Saxon ranks were eventually broken. Even now they are running back towards the coast, and though I doubt they will leave our shores, they will, at least, remain within the East while Arthur is allowed time to mature and take the crown. You have won, Uther. You have done all we could ever ask of you… drink.'

  And so Uther Pendragon drank the water.

  'Come to me and gather around my sons.' Octa gestured for the boys to come, and they leapt up from where they had been busy playing in their corner. 'I shall tell you this night the story of the Sceadugenga, the ones they call the shadow-walkers and perhaps also find a story for you before you sleep.'

  The boys ran to their father's fire and sat at his feet, always eager when he found time to speak to them and truly excited at the promise of a story. The old war hound, the boys' constant companion, also rose stiffly to its feet and moved hesitantly to join them, wagging its tail, aware that it was intruding on a forbidden part of the hall, yet brave enough to approach because its young masters were already there.

  Octa opened his arms in invitation, and the youngest clambered up, beaming happily at the honour.

  'You have heard of them before, and perhaps' – Octa's voice lowered to a whisper – 'perhaps, you have even been close to one yet never knew it.' The fire crackled, drawing the boys' attention, and the oldest placed another log on top of the embers before glancing up to his father to hear more.

  'When a warrior has the ability to draw the shadows of the night about him like a cloak and walk unseen through the darkness, he is known amongst us as a Sceadugenga or shadow-walker. Among the Saxon people, the deeds of the shadow-walkers are legendary, for although every boy, and many of the girls too, are trained, almost from the moment they can walk, to hold a sword and spear, few amongst our people are ever chosen to become shadow-walkers.'

  'I wish to train as a Sceadugenga, father, teach me,' said the oldest jumping to his feet.

  'And me, and me, father, please,' came the chorus of requests from the others.

  Octa smiled and motioned the boys to return to their places. 'It is not for me to call you, to train you in their ways. I promise you that I will make warriors of each of you. I will train you with the spear and with the sword, and when the time is right, I will stand proudly beside you in the shield wall, but it is only the shadow-walkers themselves who can take you to the side, if they see that you are worthy, and then train you in their ways.'

  The boys exchanged glances, and silent pacts and oaths were exchanged to become Sceadugenga at any cost.

  'When the volk, our people, gather around their hearths and fires to bask in the heat and watch the flames devour the logs, we listen to the tales of our poets and scops as they tell their stories of heroic adventure, mighty battles, and the games that the Gods play with us, but boys, we all know it is the tales of the Sceadugenga that we love to hear the most. So train with your spears, fight well with your swords, but if you wish to be a Sceadugenga, move with the softness of the breeze, the silence of smoke, for then you may be chosen to train with the Sceadugenga and become a walker within the shadows.'

  Four shadow-walkers had set out from Octa's village. Slipping silently and unseen thr
ough the forest and fields with the darkness of the night wrapped tightly around them. They had travelled through three nights towards the tribal lands of the Britons, easily slipping past their own patrols and sentries and passing like mist through tribal villages and sleeping communities. On towards the West and the disputed border with the native Britons they travelled, always by night, faces blackened, their clothing no more than a collection of rags. They rested by day, tucked away unseen amongst the roots and leaves of the forest. Only once they reasoned they must be close to the end of their journey did they emerge from the darkness, to locate their final destination.

  Several hours before dawn on the third day of their travels, they abducted a young woman from her path as she walked between two large communal longhouses. They swarmed from between the trees like spreading smoke to envelop her and then silently drew her back into the shadows. She fought because that was her nature, and it troubled the shadow-walkers, fearing the small sounds of the scuffling would be heard and bring others to her aid.

  'Hold her,' the hissing voice was urgent with the need to remain unfound. The girl was bucking and kicking in the arms of one of the walkers like a snatched pig and would probably be squealing as much as a pig if their leader didn't have his hand firmly clasped over her mouth. Grasping her head to stop it jerking, he bent down to whisper in her ear.

  'Silence child, we are the spirits of the night, we are the ones that fill your darkest dreams, but we will not harm you if you hold still.' She continued to struggle, and he gripped her head even tighter, then lifted it and pounded it on the forest floor three times. 'I… said… hold… still… or I will hurt you. I will cut your throat, we will drink your blood, and you will die this night and never reach the Shadowland.' She stopped her struggles and gazed up past his hand that was still held across her face. Her tear-filled eyes reflected her distress, and he could feel the wet of tears and slimy snot on the palm of his hand.

  'We seek the holy well that must be close to here. The place where your Druids gather.' He was aware that his speech would be strange and accented to her, the words these Britons used felt cumbersome and uncomfortable in his mouth, so he spoke slowly. 'Do you know the place I speak of? Is it near?'

  The girl let out a small mewling sound and then nodded. She screwed her eyes shut, gathering her resolve and then stared up at him once more. 'We will not harm you girl, not if you place us onto the right path. How far is this place? How might we find it?' The hand slowly relaxed and lowered from the girl's face, and she drew in a breath before snorting back a sob.

  'It is close, this place,' her voice was high pitched and shaking, the words spat out quickly in her haste. Her head turned from side to side looking for the others she couldn't see but knew were there in the darkness. 'Don't hurt me… please.'

  'The direction, where do we go from here… quickly.'

  'Take the northern road, towards Prae Tor. That's the big hill you can see in the distance. The Druids' grove is upon the western slope… please, please don't hurt me.'

  The Sceadugenga slowly stepped back from the girl, holding her frightened gaze until the shadows set their cloak around him and he was swallowed by the darkness of the forest.

  For a few beats of her heart, the girl lay unmoving, still straining to see the man, not quite sure if he was still there or not and still expecting the stinging slice of a knife at any moment - yet none came. Cautiously, she moved her head from one side, and then to the other, searching the darkness for the men, or spirits or whatever they were, but it was only the shadows and gloom that stared back. A breeze moved through the trees rattling the branches above her and from far off she heard the remote, hooting call of an owl. Fear and relief overwhelmed her, and she collapsed back in a fit of sobbing, finally able to believe that she was still to live.

  Some short time later, when she had blundered through the darkness scratching herself badly on branches and bushes, and she had made it back out onto the path, she looked but there was no sign of her mysterious captors, they had disappeared completely. Wrapping her thin shawl about herself to ward off the shivers of superstitious fear as well as the cold, she set off towards the few clustered huts that made up the settlement she had been taken from, not quite sure how she was going to explain her experience.

  They came across the pool just as the sky was beginning to lighten to the east. It was as the girl had said, on the western slope of the large hill, set within a small copse of trees. Approaching cautiously, as was their nature, they identified a small hut that was home to the few Druids who tended the pool and, believing that the occupants still slept they made their way towards their journey's end guided by the sound of trickling water.

  As they entered the open glade between the trees, they were greeted by an abrupt drop in temperature, and a thin mist that was covering everything, grass, rocks, and water. It swirled about their legs and lapped against the rocky foot of the hill like water in a bowl, twisting and turning languidly, driven by unseen forces that they couldn't begin to comprehend. This was an ancient place.

  Cautiously, their leader, a man named Coenwulf, took a few steps forward, probing out with his foot in search of the water's surface. It was hard to distinguish where the water began, and the grass of the glade ended. Even to their night trained eyes, everything was shrouded in near complete darkness, the mist obscuring any features they might have been able to see. The approaching dawn was delayed in this holy place by the surrounding trees, trees which the more they looked seemed to be reaching out across the mist-shrouded surface of the pool as if trying to protect the deep and sacred waters beneath.

  'Get this done brother,' muttered the walker closest to Coenwulf. 'Let us leave this place for something sits wrongly with me here. It may be that we offend the Gods with this task, I…' The man shivered and glanced about him. 'I don't like being here. Just throw the potion. Throw the whole bottle in and we can leave.' He watched the shadowed figure of Coenwulf unwrap the small bottle that he had been carrying ever since being entrusted with it by Octa. As he drew back his arm to throw, a noise caused both men to hiss and crouch. Their two companions who had stayed on the approach path to guard against being disturbed dashed in looking for the source of the sound. It had been a low reverberating tone as if a large bell had been softly struck. For a few moments they said nothing, waiting for the bell-like sound to return or something to happen, but nothing did.

  'What was that?'

  'Shhhh.' Coenwulf held up a hand for his men to be silent, then crouched down to pat the ground around him.

  'What are you… you dropped it?'

  'I dropped it, yes.' Locating the bottle he held it up to the night sky, moving it around trying to see the liquid inside. He shook it by his ear. 'The top fell out, but most of the liquid remains.' Turning, he threw the bottle out into the centre of the mist and was rewarded with a 'plop' as it hit the surface.

  'Most of the liquid remained? Little dropped out? If the top wasn't in there then…'

  Another tone filled the glade, and without another word, the four shadow-walkers backed towards the edge of the trees and melted into the gloom of the forest.

  Moments later, three Druids rose from the mist and walked to where the bottle had been dropped. They were older men, bearded with long untidy hair and dressed in long faded robes. They moved with an unhurried ease, the mist parting with a wave of a hand to reveal the stopper from the glass bottle, a bunched piece of leather still wet from its former contents. Popping the leather into his mouth, one of the Druid chewed it, washing it around making his cheeks bulge as he tried to identify what had been the contents of the bottle and then spat it out. The three huddled together and after a few moments talking in low murmurs they began to chant. The deep chime sounded once more, just as the first rays of sunlight lit the topmost branches of the trees above them.

  Chapter 5

  A Return to Glastening

  'The King returns… the King is coming back… the King, the King, the King!'
A flock of nuns ran in, to gather around the gates at Glastening Abbey, eager for a glimpse of the small procession as it approached across the rolling hills. There appeared to be almost a hundred horsemen in the assemblage, along with several carts, chariots, and fluttering pennons. The larger part of the group was stopping to gather some way off while a smaller contingent and one of the carts continued on up towards the Abbey and were just passing the sentinel elm and its cloud of angry crows. The day was grey and cold, a stiff wind causing the riders to hunch in their saddles.

  'Do you see him? Does he ride or is he stricken?' The nuns craned their necks, seeking for some further detail to brighten an otherwise dreary day and a dull, monotonous life.

  The lead riders carried banners, which could now be seen as white dragons on a dark red background that, as they got closer, appeared to be spitting their flames with each snap of the breeze. The intrusion of the riders as they passed by the sentinel tree sent the crows up in a flurry of feathers to circle above them cawing and complaining.

  A bell began tolling its dirge from high in the wooden bell tower, and the sound of annoyed shouting could be heard from inside the Abbey and, as more nuns came out to run across the yard, chickens flapped and squawked to get out of their way. The nuns, as they gathered about the gate, were doing a good imitation of the clucking chickens as they gossiped, chattered and called to each other; the approaching visitors a very welcome respite from the tedious regulation of Abbey life. Morgana, Abbess of Glastening, arrived, hushing and shushing them as she also tried to see some detail of what was approaching.

  'Sisters, calm yourselves. Kindly recall that you are daughters in the service of our Lord, not maidens seeking ribbons at the Samhain festival.' She clapped her hands, and the nuns gathered around her appearing suitably chastened and even more like chicks surrounding a mother hen. 'Prepare the King's chamber, and we must be ready lest he has been struck down by some injury upon the field of battle.' Several nuns dashed back inside the Abbey while the rest scuttled behind Morgana, to await their guests.