The Sword of Wayland

by Gavin Chappell

  * * * * *

  The valley opened out beneath Edwin and his companions.

  Off to the right the peak of Snowdon brooded, occasionally appearing across the swirling clouds of mist, but obscured for much of the time. Freshly fallen snow blanketed the rocks around them and the valley below, eerie in the darkness. But the storm had abated.

  ‘You see the end of the valley?’ asked Hywel. Edwin followed the king’s gaze, rubbing his numb hands as he did so. His teeth chattered.

  ‘Beyond the lake?’ he asked. Past the woods and the wide expanse of water at the far end of the valley, in the lea of Snowdon itself, was a pass.

  Hywel nodded.

  ‘We must get through the pass before we reach Dinas Emrys,’ he said quietly, turning to his men, ‘Are we rested?’ he called. They said an affirmative with little enthusiasm. Edwin eyes the route below them.

  A narrow sheep track zigzagged down through the boulders and scree, leading into the heather beneath the snowline, then down, deep down into the overgrown valley beyond. Where it began to flatten out in the lea of Snowdon, trees grew thickly; there were few near the lake, but more clustered around the cliff overhanging it.

  Anything might live in those woods.

  He shrugged. Nothing was to be gained by putting off the fateful day.

  ‘Come on,’ he said tiredly. He led the warriors at a jog down the mountainside.

  Half an hour later, they were among the trees, following alongside the rushing river that tumbled down from the peak, and fed the lake ahead, which was now hidden from view.

  ‘We must go carefully through the trees,’ said Hywel, panting with exertion. ‘This valley has a bad reputation among men.’

  ‘Nothing we meet with can be worse than the world that will await us if we don’t put paid to Queen Cynethryth’s scheme,’ Edwin said, jogging onward. Briefly, he considered how strange it was that he, Edwin the Lawless, one of the most notorious robbers and rogues in Mercia, should now be striving to save his kingdom. He dismissed the thought, and hurried on through the woods.

  The attack was swift.

  They were nearing the area where the trees began to thin, near the edge of the wide lake, when Edwin heard a muted gurgle from one of the warriors behind him. He turned quickly, to see the man at the rear being dragged struggling into the bushes. The others turned at Edwin’s shouted.

  ‘What is it? Who’s attacking?’ panted Llewellyn.

  ‘Aroo-AROO-aroo!’

  Suddenly, the trees rained woodwoses.

  Someone flung Edwin a sword, and as one, the warriors struggled to hack a path through the growing ring of wild men. Men screamed in terror and pain as woodwoses tore them apart with their claws, sank their teeth into living flesh, splintered skulls and smashed bones. But soon the surviving warriors’ weapons were black with the blood of the beastmen. They began to cut their way through the press.

  ‘Into the open!’ shouted Hywel. ‘We’ll be able to see them coming, there!’

  He urged his men onward, leaving the tattered corpses of the dead lying beneath the trees. Undeterred, the woses surged after them.