Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3) Page 29

  “Onward!” Bran shouted to his men, pointing his horse south. Gareth and Idris rode to their positions on either side of him. He noticed—or imagined, perhaps—that Gareth sat a bit taller in his saddle.

  They could not travel as quickly as Bran would have liked. The weather was damp and cold, signaling the coming winter. A constant drizzle rendered the roads muddy and hard to negotiate. Whenever Bran felt himself growing impatient, however, he reminded himself to be grateful. He glanced back at the slow-moving wagons bearing their wounded. Taliesin rode alongside them, keeping a close eye on all who lay within. They will all live to see their families again, thanks to him. Though Taliesin had not fought upon the battlefield with them, he had saved far more lives. His skills were beyond any healer that Bran had ever known. Between that knowledge and the blessing of his music each night, he had kept the flames of life and hope ablaze in all their hearts.

  “I’m eager to get back to my forge,” Gareth said, his eyes gazing far off in the distance.

  Bran smiled. “Ready to hit something that doesn’t hit back?”

  Gareth laughed. “Yes. And to eat some proper meat and get out of this bloody wind. It never lets up.”

  “Right you are.” For the first time since leaving Mynyth Aur, Bran allowed himself to daydream of the comforts of home. No more dry, tasteless rations. No more wind-burned skin, cracked bloody lips, or blisters from marching and gripping hilt and spear. No more sleepless nights on the cold, hard ground. He salivated at the thought of feasting on wild boar and fresh-baked bannocks, making love to Lucia in a warm bed, and then falling asleep with her head on his chest.

  ***

  After four days of staring at the horizon, Bran caught a faint glimpse of Mynyth Aur in the distance. His heart leapt. He pointed to the mountain and cried, “There she is, men!” It was all he could do to resist galloping the rest of the way home.

  Within a few hours, the village winked into view. Bran gave the command he had been anticipating since leaving Caer Ebrauc. “Raise the banners!”

  The men cheered and held aloft their proud sigil. The wind lifted the banners and held them high, seeming eager to welcome them home. Bran looked up at their green and gold dance in the wind and felt a rush of pride.

  Bran smiled knowing word of their return would spread through the village like a brush fire. By the time they were within a half-mile of the village walls, a large crowd had gathered to welcome them home.

  Bran rode through the gates into a river of their clansmen and women, but there was only one face he longed to see. It took him but a moment to spot his beautiful wife, her hair blazing like a torch. She was crying, smiling, running and waving all at the same time as she struggled to make her way through the crowd toward him. He dismounted and pushed toward her, eager to hold her in his arms. Soon, he was burying his face in her curls, breathing in her smell.

  She clutched him tight, as if she meant to lift him off the ground. “Oh, gods, I’ve missed you.”

  He squeezed her. “Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

  She pulled away and scanned the crowd, her eyes suddenly filled with terror. “Where’s Gareth?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s here.”

  “Did he fight well?”

  “I couldn’t be more proud. Idris trained him well. He wasted no blows and suffered only a few broken ribs, some cuts and bruises.”

  “I can’t wait to see him,” Lucia said, craning her neck and searching among the riders for her son. “And Seren? Is she well?”

  Bran could not bring himself to tell her the entire truth, because he could not bring himself to speak it: Seren stayed behind with Aelhaearn. “She chose to stay and serve Emrys,” he answered bluntly. “And before you ask, Taliesin is fine as well. As for the rest of us, we’re starving and gods-weary of the cold. Please tell me we have plenty of ale.”

  “Of course we do,” Lucia laughed. “You’ve all been gone, remember?”

  Bran laughed and raised his hands in the air. “Then let’s light the fires, feast, and take our women to bed!” Cheers erupted all around them. Lucia did not pretend to be offended. “Done.” She pulled his face to hers and gave him a kiss so passionate that he nearly picked her up and carried her home right then. Before he could grab her, she disappeared into the crowd and began giving orders. Within the hour, she had sent women to nurse the wounded, boys to fetch extra wood and water, and girls to start the food preparations.

  Bran watched her and smiled. Gods, I love my wife.

  ***

  Taliesin had not ridden to the village with the rest of the Oaks. Instead, he left the road and made his way to the Sacred Grove. He longed to see Islwyn.

  He found him hard at work replenishing his apothecary. He turned around and smiled. “Oh, you’re back.”

  Taliesin chuckled, because he had said it as if they had only been gone a few hours. “Yes, just arrived. I’ve come to fetch you for the victory feast. And don’t say you’re not coming.”

  “Oh, bah.”

  “Please, for me.”

  Islwyn shook his head. “Fine, if you insist.”

  Taliesin helped Islwyn finish his chores, and then offered him his arm. They made their way along the path, moving very slowly, but Taliesin did not mind. It felt peaceful. Besides, one saw so much more when he moved in a way that did not disturb or startle the world around him.

  “So Hengist has fallen,” Islwyn summarized, once Taliesin had finished relaying all that had happened.

  “Yes. Our clan lost men, but not nearly as many as some.”

  “I imagine much of that is to your credit.”

  Taliesin took a deep breath. “I did what I could. I wish it could’ve been more. Never have I seen so much blood. War is wrongly glorified.”

  Islwyn clucked his tongue. “Careful, my boy. It’s not war the songs glorify but rather the courage to fight for your land and family no matter how strong and terrible the enemy may be.”

  Taliesin nodded. “Yes. But we must ever ensure that’s truly what we’re fighting for. And not simply greed and pride.”

  “Now, there, you’re right.” Islwyn patted his arm. “So right.”

  The entire village was waiting for them by the time they arrived, cheering as they entered the great hall inside the mountain fortress. Rows of torches burned along the walls, creating beautiful displays of light and shadow on the veins of gold that ran through the hall’s high ceiling. The smell of roasted boar and woodsmoke filled the air. Taliesin’s mouth watered.

  Someone cried, “Music, Taliesin!”

  Bran scowled and held up his hands. “Arawn’s balls! Let the man eat, you selfish bastards!”

  Lucia punched her husband in the arm, eyes wide with shock, and Taliesin laughed. All of them had acquired rougher language from moons of sleeping in barracks with no women around to scold them.

  After all had eaten, and eaten some more, Taliesin gave in to the relentless requests and took up his harp. Clapping and hollering echoed through the hall and Taliesin could not help but smile. He never tired of making people happy with his music. Most especially his own clan. He looked over at Arhianna, who sat beside him, and Gareth, who was making his mother laugh. I’m so glad to be home.

  He began by honoring all in their clan who had fallen, naming them one by one, for he had not forgotten any of them. He sang traditional songs of valor in their honor, glorifying their triumph, but saved the tales of their recent battles for last.

  “Before he leads his men to the field,” Taliesin began, “Emrys speaks words of inspiration and comfort. He entreats us to take back our land from our enemies, lest we be forever slaves to them, and our children slaves after us. With those words ringing in their ears, our warriors storm the battlefield at Maes Belli, where they show great bravery and courage and suffer no small loss of blood.”

  Tables, walls and the ground were thumped amid cheers of pride.

  “Emrys puts his troops in order with concise command,” Taliesin cont
inued once the cries died down. “He sends three thousand to attend the cavalry. The Dimetians, he sends to the hills, and the Venedotians, to the woods to prevent the Saxons from finding refuge there.”

  “Eldol, Duke of Caer Glou, beseeches Emrys for the honor of taking Hengist’s head in battle, so that his soul might at last know peace by avenging his fellow clansmen murdered at Ambrius. This privilege is granted to Eldol with one condition—that Hengist first be brought before him as a prisoner, and his fate decided by his council. If they decide Hengist should die, Eldol will be granted his wish. Eldol agrees, and, greatly encouraged, readies himself for battle.”

  Cries then went out for Eldol, praising his prowess on the battlefield.

  “The gods are with Emrys and his loyal commanders and chieftains, and our warriors seize the advantage. Encouraged by their valor and the turn of fortune on the field, Eldol regains all the strength and bloodlust the battle had drained from him that morning. He cuts through the Saxons like a scythe in a field of barley, his sword thirsty for Hengist’s blood. Yet, he finds no opportunity to taste it, for Hengist, seeing our impending victory on the field, flees, like a frightened rabbit, for the nearby city of Caer Conan.”

  “Coward!” the warriors cried, followed by a fount of insults.

  “We march in pursuit, killing every Saxon who stands in our way. When Hengist sees us coming, he assembles his troops rather than taking the city, for he knows it will not hold against Emrys—that only by the sword does he stand any chance of victory. So there, on the outskirts of Caer Conan, yet another battle begins. The Saxons steadily maintain their ground, even with their great losses. Again, both sides suffer, their tired warriors struggling to fight on. The advantage we hold begins to wane, for they have more men to replace their dead than we do. This is a battle lost, we think, yet we fight on, ready to die upon the field. But wait? Who is that?” Taliesin pointed off into the distance, and all in the hall turned to look. “Who comes to our aid?” He squints his eyes as if he is focusing on the horizon. “Ah, thank the Great Mother! She’s sent us our faithful, good brothers, the Armoricans! They come riding upon the winds of justice, their horses surge upon the battlefield, breaking through the Saxon lines, tossing the enemy aside with their spears as if they were no more than felled logs!”

  There were Armorican warriors among them that night, and again, the hall erupted with praise and cries.

  “Once divided, the enemy cannot rally. We taste opportunity and fight with renewed fury. Emrys never rests—never doubts—and neither does his loyal brother, Uthyr, the noble Gorlois of Cornwall, the relentless Eldol of Caer Glou, driven by his hunger to send Hengist to hell, or our own fearless chieftain, Bran of the Oaks—they rage into the battle like a pack of wild boars, giving strength to their men as they pass by and forge on. There, outside the walls of Caer Conan, we fight, side-by-side, like thunder rolling through the battlefield, our swords and spears flashing like lightning across the sky.”

  The cries in the hall took on an eerie, spiritual quality, and Taliesin smiled, feeling chills run across his flesh. The spirits have come to listen.

  “Now, as the battle reaches its most desperate hour, the great Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, with our own fearsome Oaks among his ranks, rides down like Arawn upon the enemy to secure our victory.”

  The hall erupted in the loudest cheers yet, and drinking horns were held aloft. Taliesin noticed Arhianna had leaned in, listening with renewed interest at the mention of her good friend’s new husband, no doubt eager to hear good things said of him.

  “Again we gain the advantage,” Taliesin continued, “until, at last, Eldol’s deepest wish is granted. Hengist comes within his grasp. Like a bear who has waited patiently beside the river for the salmon to jump, he strikes with an iron claw and seizes his prize.”

  The men cried wildly, the ale in their blood lending volume to their voices.

  “The fight wages on, but with Hengist off the field, the Saxons fly like wasps from a nest that has crashed to the ground. They flee the field—some to the cities, some to the woods in the hills, and others toward the Humber to sail back to lands still ruled by their own.”

  “With victory secured, Emrys takes the city of Caer Conan and there we stay for three days. Ever merciful and noble, he gives orders for the burial of the slain, brother and enemy alike, the tending of the wounded, and food, drink and beds for all who have fought so valiantly by his side.”

  “As promised, Hengist is brought before Emrys. His fate has been decided. He shall be put to death for his crimes.”

  Bellows filled the hall.

  “True to his word, Emrys grants Eldol permission to carry out the Saxon king’s sentence. Eldol drags Hengist out beyond the city by a rope tied around his traitorous neck. He jerks Hengist to his knees and raises his mighty sword. The sun glints off its edge. None dare breathe. None speak. In a swift flash of justice, Eldol cuts his head from his body, sending it flying in a spray of blood to the ground.”

  Again, the hall cheered. Horns of ale were raised in victory.

  “Still persisting in his honor, even when none would fault him for abandoning it, Emrys commands Hengist be buried according to the customs of his people.”

  Many grumbled that Hengist had gotten better than he deserved. The women began clapping, but not the men—they knew the story was not yet over.

  Taliesin held up his hand. “Stay your hands, sisters—the trials of your brave men are not yet over. The sons of Hengist, Octa and Eosa, have fled to Caer Ebrauc. So, filled with victory and eager to return home, Emrys leads us north to take the city. She falls easily, for her foul husband is no more. Octa, son of Hengist, comes forth on his knees, chain in hand, sand upon his head. He presents himself before Emrys and says, ‘Your God has vanquished ours, and I do not doubt he is more powerful, for why else would so many noble warriors lay down their arms before you? I present myself before you, ready for fetters, and whatever punishment you deem fit. I ask only mercy for my people.’”

  No one cheered in the hall. No one even spoke. All that could be heard inside the mountain was the fire popping in the hearth and the occasional hiss of the torches along its walls.

  Taliesin played a few notes upon his harp. “Emrys is moved by Octa’s surrender. He raises his hands and speaks from the book of the Christians. He says, ‘The justice of the old world would demand the sons of Hengist executed for their father’s sins against us. But not the new world. Not in the world I wish to build by the grace of the Prince of Peace, Christ Jesus. The sins of the son are not the sins of the father.’”

  There were mixed reactions to this within the hall, most grumbling that Octa should have been executed like his father and that the god of the Christians was a weak god.

  “After seeing the mercy granted to Octa, Eosa and the rest who fled the city throw themselves before Emrys and are granted the same clemency. Emrys makes a covenant with them, grants them land in the north, and that is where they now sleep.”

  Arhianna looked over at him, her brow was furrowed. “Until they rise and march upon us again.” She shook her head. “I know, more than any here, the nature of the Saxons. Mercy is seen as weakness. They will not respect it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  From Beech to Yew

  Taliesin noticed Islwyn looked weak at the end of the feast, so insisted on returning to the grove with him. Their breath billowed in front of them as they walked. Taliesin kept him close as they walked the familiar path back, stopping often to hold his lantern high to lead Islwyn safely over the patches of uneven ground beneath the blanket of fallen leaves.

  “Do you truly believe Myrthin is destined to become the next guardian of the grove?” Taliesin asked. He had wanted to ask him that question for some time.

  “Why? Do you wish to take the oath of guardianship?”

  In that moment, the guardianship of the Sacred Grove presented itself as it truly was—not as an honor to covet, but as a tremendous responsibility requi
ring the one who accepted it to never leave the grove for more than a short period of time.

  “If that’s what your heart is telling you to do, then I’ll leave the responsibility to you.”

  Taliesin still did not respond.

  “I assumed your calling lay beyond the grove, upon the battlefield, alongside heroes whose praises you would sing within the great halls of chieftains, and that those chieftains would turn to you for the advice and inspiration only a bard with your gifts could provide.”

  Islwyn paused a moment. “That’s what I’ve foreseen. However, you may choose whatever destiny you desire. If that’s to watch over the grove, then I shall name you her guardian.”

  Taliesin pondered Islwyn’s words, letting them work on him. This is pride eating at me, he realized. I’m acting like a child who only wants the toy another child is playing with. “I’ve been a fool, Master. Pride has driven me to covet another’s rightful place, and worse, to be ungrateful for my own.”

  Islwyn gave him a consoling smile and patted his arm. “It’s not uncommon to be tested in this way. You have great power, and such temptations shall happen often in your lifetime, I think.”

  They reached Islwyn’s hut. Taliesin brought him a blanket and then started a fire to boil some water. Soon, they were sitting together, sipping tea and talking, just as they had done hundreds of times before.

  Islwyn looked up from across the fire. “I have a favor to ask of you, my young friend.”

  “Anything, Master.”

  “When I sail for the Summerlands, which will be very soon, do not burn my body.”

  Taliesin felt a surge of panic at the thought. He reached over to take Islwyn’s hand—more to bolster his own strength than his beloved teacher’s.

  “I want you to bury me here in the grove beneath the yew tree, so a part of me can live here forever.”

  “I’ll do anything you wish,” Taliesin managed to say, his voice trembling. “And if Myrthin fails in his duties to the grove for any reason, I’ll come and take his place. This, I swear to you and our Lady Oak with my blood.” He took a knife and cut his hand, letting it drip into the fire, sealing his oath.