She was stunned herself, but there was no time.
“We need to go!” she said.
“The sword, that sword...” Alistair was staring at her, stunned, as he spoke. “Child, I must see it!”
“Alistair, of course. But...later. We must hurry.”
“Quickly then!”
She lifted the sword so he could inspect it. She had no idea what he thought he might see, but he shook his head.
“It’s—just a sword. An ordinary sword,” he murmured. Then he seemed to realize he was wasting time, and Mary was back in the village, and people were screaming.
They had walked to the lake. They had talked and smiled and even laughed over some silly thing one of the village children had done.
Now, they did not laugh. They did not talk. They ran back to the village of small thatch-roofed homes and rich green gardens and...
Blood.
Death had ridden in. The attackers were well-armed, many on horseback, slashing down those they passed, caring not if they struck men, women, or children.
And Kyleigh really had no idea at all of what she was doing...
She looked to the sky. She thought about Father Peter and the sweet innocence of those she lived among, those from different tribes and different places forging their home together...
“Help me!” she begged to the heavens—or to the sword.
And the sword moved on its own, slashing riders, catching the strikes that would have felled many a man or woman.
And then pitchforks began to rise and fishing knives and the few swords they had in their little community.
Many an invader went down...
There were screams and it was horrible. There were bodies and blood, and the gurgling sound of those who breathed their last, choking on their blood.
Many were the invaders. Miraculously...
Most were the invaders.
And then those who lived, those who could drag themselves away, did so. A horn sounded and the savage attack was over as the remaining invaders fled.
Kyleigh felt sick as she looked around, as the stunned villagers sobbed and looked to find their wounded and separate them from their dead.
She saw her beloved Mary helping the fallen, saw men and women rush to put out the fires that had been started.
Alistair rushed to Mary and they took the time to embrace.
Then they both looked at her and whispered to one another.
Alistair came back toward her, taking her tenderly into his arms for a long moment.
Then he looked into her eyes and seemed pained beyond the savage destruction before them.
“I guess the time has come for me to tell you who you are,” he said.
***
Rowan, Lord Kenzie, signaled to his men.
Wait...
His archers were impatient, but a hail of arrows when the enemy was still too far away for an impact was a waste of supplies—and supplies were dear.
Scouts from the west had told him the invaders were on the way, crushing villages as they moved forward to take the stronghold at Kenzie. They were heavily armed and they were many.
The little village south of him had escaped almost all of the small skirmishes that had occurred during the last years. He hadn’t imagined the enemy would bother with an attack there; they were surely after the fortress at Kenzie.
He had heard tales about these men from those same scouts; he had not wanted to believe them at first. So many had come through over time, but years of fighting and death were wearying. And in time, Britons, Angles, Saxons, and even Picts had formed alliances; and they had settled, sharing some customs and cultures. They had chosen life over death.
And before...
His grandfather had told him tales that his grandfather—and his grandfather, and grandfathers before him—had told about the time when the Romans had come. Then the Romans had been there through generations, and life had gone on. But the time had come when the attacks by the Picts, Britons, Scotia, and various mainland tribes had not been worth holding the island; when the Romans were engaged in wars throughout their empire, and they had left. While any conqueror was first despised, the Romans had built roads, fortifications, aqua-ducts, and more.
And, of course, by the time they had left...
Their place names remained as did their blood. For in that time, men and women being the creatures they were, there were many of mixed descent in a land deserted and ravaged. In time a great king, Arthur, had risen and created a great kingdom, but he was gone two decades now.
The great unity he had created had dissolved, but many had simply lived in peace.
Still, they were ever threatened by others, and Rowan knew he had been born to one of the last great defenders of his people.
Rowan had trained his entire life for the attacks that would come. When Arthur had died, knights had scattered.
There was no longer a true king to guide them.
Rowan had been raised for war, taught to battle with a wooden sword from the time he could stand. Together, they had met and bested small forces that had come to seize the land, the livestock, and all they could from the scattered farms. His father had perished by the sword just years before.
Rowan had always been taught that life itself was barely any kind of promise.
He heard his men murmuring. Of course. The greatest warriors knew fear. Bravery was not the lack of fear. Fear was awareness, and it was necessary. Bravery was not going into battle unafraid; it was going into battle knowing one’s own weaknesses and how best one might exploit the weaknesses of an enemy.
Bravery was going into battle with every ounce of strength and determination, even when a man was smart enough to fear the numbers coming at him.
He lifted his hand high, a signal they all knew.
Wait.
Rowan listened. And even atop his great horse, Xander, he felt for the movement in the earth.
Years of fighting had taught him how to survive.
Haman, his right-hand man, came trotting over to him from his position at the right flank.
“My Lord! A survivor from the south village just made it to the fortress! She has said there was a miracle there—farmers took down a good third of the invaders. She is shaking and nearly incoherent, but somehow, many of them survived and kept the invaders from taking the women and the children. She says a woman...a girl, really, shouted a battle cry, and she caused them all to take arms with what swords, spears, and pitchforks they had and to force the enemies to flee. Farmers, my Lord! These invaders are wounded. We have a chance to not just win this thing and save our stronghold; we can win this and remove the threat!”
Rowan looked at Haman. “Farmers?” he murmured.
He had been sick to hear of the savagery the invaders had been practicing as they moved north eastward.
Haman, who had been a young man at the end of the reign of the great King Arthur, nodded solemnly.
“No one understands. A miracle. No one knows what happened, but...the invaders fled. Their losses were too great, I think, especially since one can believe their real objective was taking the stronghold here and ruling the land from the fortress. Sire, I am sure they want this fortress, and they fled lest they lose the strength to do battle here. But they are weakened!”
Let it be true! Rowan prayed.
Then he listened again, and he felt it—the thunder in the earth.
“Prepare!” he shouted.
Runners hurried with torches to light the tips of the arrows that would first fly against the enemy. The archers lifted their bows.
And the enemy came. They burst out of the great richness of the forest en masse, glimmering in their steel armor.
“Archers—fire!” he called.
Arrows flew in a wide and fantastic arc, soaring into the blue beauty of the sky, falling to create a reign of blood.
His men were good.
The enemy fell; some of those who escaped the barrage went down as their great war
horses tripped and fell over the carcasses of the downed men and their mounts.
“Prepare!”
He gave the runners time to light more arrows.
“Archers—fire!”
The second storm of death went out; more men fell.
“Knights, ride; men, follow!” he ordered, and he kneed his great horse to move, leading the charge of hand-to-hand combat that came next.
He rode hard, using his great sword to slash his way through the onslaught of attackers.
Blood flew, the dead and dying fell.
There was one among them, their leader, he thought, who watched from a distance.
If he was to be able to end this, he needed to take on the leader of the invaders. But the man had remained atop the hill just to the west.
He paused, hearing the clash of steel all around him, the cries of the dying, the shouts of those who were losing in hand-to-hand combat, some falling to the massive battle axes chosen for war by many of his people. Spears were thrown and used to parry blows.
Injury and death were bloody, and the field was strewn with not just the dead but pieces of the dead.
He heard an attacker coming up behind him and whirled Xander around in time to deliver a blow to his opponent’s head, sending him down to the earth.
A long horn suddenly sounded; the leader on the hill was waving his arms.
He was retreating.
Haman rode to his side. “Sire! Do we follow?”
Rowan took a minute to determine his answer. But in that time, he again saw the leader motioning to his troops.
“No,” he said quietly. “They are setting up an ambush in the forest; they were losing on open ground and now they plan an ambush.”
“Sire—”
“Watch the one man with the bright shield on the hill; see the way he gestures.”
“Ah,” Haman murmured.
“Gather our injured. And our dead,” Rowan said. He shrugged. “We still have strong stone walls built with Roman ingenuity before my grandfathers before me became the lords here. We gather all that we have.”
His other knights were gathering around him.
“Take care; they do not seem to have the fine bowmen we do, but they are vicious and adept with their swords. First our injured, then our dead. And third, what weapons we may gather. They will be just behind the tree line, and they will strike any man who wanders too near! Sir Hilliard, I ask that you manage the rescue of our wounded. Sir Col, the bodies of our dead. Sir Matthew, weapons. We return behind the wall tonight; they may attempt a siege, but we will be ready!”
Haman was looking at him and followed as he turned Xander around to return back to the fortress.
“My lord, what would you have me do?”
“Bring the survivor who made it here from the village to the great hall. I want to know more about the warrior-girl who rallied the village to defense. We need to reach out as well. Bring those who survived the onslaught in the village to the walls.”
“That is several hundred people, my lord! We will need food, shelter—”
“Ask them to bring what they have. I do not believe it will be for long.”
“Sire—”
“I will also need someone—a swift scout—to arrange travel. And I want Father Peter found and brought here.”
“As you wish my lord.”
Haman seemed unhappy. Rowan’s father had taught him there was always a fine line between showing true authority and ruling; and speaking in a manner that kept people obeying not out of fear, but out of respect.
“Please,” he told Haman. “We will not leave our brethren to die. As it stands, the enemy will attack us. They will believe they can best us at a siege. When they fail, they will return to the countryside; and they will not care then how many of their numbers are lost for they will be seeking revenge.”
Haman was hearing and nodded, but not really listening.
“They called him Lord Brogan. I heard men shouting about his orders, even above the clash of steel.” He looked at Rowan, giving him his full attention then. “I remember his name, but there was no ‘lord’ before it when I heard it before. He came here; his mother was Roman and his father was a Saxon. They fled together to the mainland when he was a boy. His father slew his mother’s brother who refused to acknowledge the marriage. The brother had a child who grew up and in turn slew Brogan’s father years later. This man’s hatred runs deep.”
“That is why we must get the villagers here, inside the fortress walls,” Rowan said.
Haman nodded again. “Rumor is the advancing invaders kill every man, woman, and child in their path.”
“Yes. There are many, and they will come,” Rowan said. “We will make do, Haman, somehow we will make do. Our people are gathering all they can; those who come will also bring all they can. But Haman, I also want to repel them in such a way they do not remain here—that they realize they cannot take the fortress.”
“They say this man is like Satan himself, a demon born and bred. He intends more than your fortress, my lord. Some say Satan rides with him, or a demon or sorcerer straight from hell. He wants to go beyond what the Romans held, ride north past the wall and decimate the northern tribes. I will see to it the villagers are welcomed. I will do everything possible, Lord Rowan, by my honor!”
“I know you will.”
There were times when Rowan wished he’d been born a simple man, an excellent farmer or fisherman. The weight of responsibility for the lives of others was a heavy one to bear.
But as he rode back, he was glad to be in command.
For his heart ached as he rode through the blood and death to the great fortress walls. As Lord of Kenzie, he would not have to sort the living from the dead, or struggle to discern what mangled limbs went with the bodies of those fallen.
He would speak for them as they created a mass grave for the dead. But now, he had to see to the fortress’s defenses.
The Romans had brought Christianity to Britain. Many of his people were Christians; some still preferred the old pagan gods while others embraced both. But Christianity had come with wonderful books and learning. The great fortress of Kenzie still contained a Roman library, and Rowan had been schooled there by Father Peter, who had since gone out into the countryside, trying to bring comfort to the villages. He knew there had been a time when it had been outlawed. The Romans had not cared much if the Britons worshipped their pagan gods, as long as they worshipped whoever might be the Roman emperor at the time above all others. But in the year 313, the Emperor Constantine had declared that Christians might worship in peace; and since that time, the religion had grown steadily.
Some still preferred the pagan gods of old. But most here embraced the teachings of Father Peter, who returned every few weeks so he might tell them about Christ and His ways and to conduct his “services” or “rites.”
The people here would want the dead honored in the Christian manner.
He would see that it was done.
But before they could honor the dead...
He had to do what he could to keep those who had survived the first onslaught of the invaders alive. The villagers had to be brought in; they had to gather what supplies they could from the outlying farms.
They would do well enough. The land was rich, and the Romans had taught them alternate farming, to leave a field bare one year while the next was planted. It had proven to be a method that kept food flowing. The forests, too, were rich with game.
They could hold.
They would hold.
Defenses needed to be prepared. He lived in a world where everyone knew a brutal attack could come at any time.
He would be ready.
Chapter 2
The dead were being gathered. The wounded were being tended.
The elders in the village were talking, worried that though they had miraculously held off the invaders, they would come back.
Gareth, one of the young men in the village capable of running w
ith swift speed and hiding behind the smallest bush, had followed in the wake of the attack, trying to discern if the enemy was reassembling to come back or moving on.
Kyleigh knew she needed to be helping with the wounded.
And she had helped, at first, and then...
The sorting of the wounded from the dead had been done. She had bound up several bleeding injuries.
But Alistair and Mary had shared some knowledge with little more than solemn nods, and Alistair had walked her away from the turmoil going on as the able-bodied gathered resources and helped with those who were bleeding or broken.
He had walked her with her into the forest and had her sit down on a rock. He placed his foot upon it and leaned toward her as he spoke, quietly and earnestly.
“Mary and I dearly desired a child,” he told her. “By the old gods, or the new God, it was not to be. But then a stranger arrived at our door one night. He wore long robes and had a great, long, white beard. He said he had heard of us, and he had an orphaned girl, a babe, who needed love and care. I thought at first he had come from the Christian church, that he might be a brother or a...priest like Peter. But he was not just a stranger. He was...” Alistair paused for a minute and shook his head. “Strange in himself. He seemed to be a kind man, well educated. But he also seemed to be of a different world. I am sorry, but that is the best I can describe it.” He paused again. “You see, even what is recent history, we do not really know. It is said the great King Arthur was born because his father, Uther, longed for the wife of another man. Some say that Arthur’s sister, Morgana, then tricked him, and the King’s greatest enemy proved to be the son she bore him from the union she brought about with her abilities as a sorceress. Be that true or not, no man really knows, but a man named Mordred, the son of Morgana, was a leader in the wars that caused the end of Camelot.” He paused again. “Now, others say Morgana was a sorceress who found Merlin, the King’s advisor, known to be one of the greatest sorcerers to live, and became his student causing nothing but ill. Some say Merlin is imprisoned in a cave somewhere and will rise again with the King.”
Kyleigh stared at him blankly. Alistair had taught her known history before—not legend. As had Father Peter.
Daughter of Darkness & Light Page 2
