Between Two Fires (29 page)

A deafening roar from the throng washes over the castle. Even the Saxons across the border must have heard that. Men beat their spear butts against the ground and women stamp their feet. The clatter rises as the people line the walls, taking hold of whatever weapons they can. Stones, pitchforks, spears, and bows line the defenses. Artagan nods at me with approval.

I lead scores of womenfolk up the open staircases along the highest walls. They tote rocks and small boulders between them, many stones simply scraps of the castle itself that have long since crumbled into heavy shards. Rowena and Una take up positions, and even Lady Olwen joins us along the bulwarks. Let's hope her spear is as sharp as her tongue. Only one figure remains among the children in the courtyard. Turning back, I find Lady Annwyn as placid as a sage in meditation. She raises a hand before I can question her.

“I do not believe in violence, young one,” she says. “Peace remains my guiding star.”

“But the Saxons—”

“I will prepare some medicines and bandages. I have a feeling we'll need both rather soon.”

Nodding, I leave her to her ways. We will certainly require her healing skills before the night is through. Perhaps I should do the same, but with a bow in my hand and two thousand Saxons outside, I know that my place is on the wall. My loved ones man those walls, and I must join them.

Ahern and Padraig guard the north wall along with some of Artagan's warriors, and so I accompany them. This looks as good as any place to make a last stand. I draw back my bow, wishing not for the first time that I had more chance to practice. I must make each of my arrows count tonight.

My brother shoulders his shield and spear while Padraig makes a club out of an old walking stick. I almost grin at the sight of a monk playing the part of a warrior, but his grim tone soon drains all the mirth from my lips.

“Many monasteries have fallen to the Saxons over the years,” Padraig recalls. “They do not favor long sieges. They will come at us with all their strength.”

The Saxons drub their shields with knife handles and ax heads. The deafening clamor makes me wince. Their iron helms and long knives glimmer by torchlight, a pair of animal skin banners fluttering over their lines. A foxtail and a wolf skin. My hand trembles on the bowstring. The war-chiefs Cedric and Beowulf are out there somewhere. The very same who first tried to capture me once on the King's Road, and again at the Dean Fort. Tonight, they intend to make good their past failures.

As though in answer to the roaring Saxons outside our defenses, Artagan begins a chant of his own. His men take up the tune. The ancient verse pricks my ears, another line from Artagan's favorite poet, the old Arthurian bard Taliesin. My history of poetry may be a bit rusty, but if I recall correctly, it is an oft-forgotten line recording an ancient conflict known as the Battle of the Trees, when the people of the Old Tribes used both magic and swords to defeat their enemies. Goose bumps ripple my skin as Artagan's men repeat the mantra.

Call me sword, call me spear.

Call me bow, call me fear.

Call me harp, call me steel.

Call me shield to all my people!

The Saxons are quiet a moment and although they cannot understand Welsh, even they know a spell when they hear one. I smile at the Blacksword. Only he would think to use poetry as a weapon against our foes.

Our warriors' chants gradually fade as Artagan disappears from view, moving amongst the throngs of his men as he encourages them with his presence. His woodsmen continue to ready their positions, still piling a few last stones and buttressing the barriers with timbers. They pile dirt around the oxcarts that block the two open gates, makeshift barricades that will have to hold back our foes. They
must
hold.

The Saxons renew the clacking of their axes against their shields once more. The noise reaches a crescendo before suddenly dissipating. I don't know what it signifies, but I doubt it means anything good.

Two warriors stride out between the Saxons and our walls. Broadshouldered and bearded, they wear long capes that snap behind them in the breeze. No one doubts who they are. The barbarians howl at the backs of their two war-captains. Together, the Fox and the Wolf raise a pike with something round atop its head. Squinting across the dark fields, I whisper to Padraig.

“What is that?”

“Not what, but who.” Padraig frowns. “That is the head of King Cadwallon.”

My breath withers inside me. Moonlight emerges from the clouds, illuminating the grizzled features of the former Free Cantref king. I look away, unable to shut out the image of his empty gaze and protruding tongue. The brigands could have traded a valuable man like Cadwallon back to us. They might have used him to barter concessions, maybe even offering to swap me for him. Lord knows, I might have done it to save the good king who once sheltered me. Cadwallon's head on a pike means only one thing. The Saxons intend to besiege us without further delay. There will be no quarter.

I can't see Artagan amidst the eastern embrasures, but I know he is there. Would he even want my hand on his shoulder now? If the Blacksword didn't see red before, he will certainly want to slake his blade in Saxon blood now. Ria, Gwen, their children, and now his father. Most of Artagan's family has fallen under the Saxon sword in the last few days. The Saxons haven't just come to raid and pillage, they've come to wipe us out.

A bloodcurdling battle cry pierces the air as the Saxon troops rush forward. Hundreds upon hundreds swarm toward Aranrhod from all sides, a ring of torches coiling about our walls like a fiery serpent. More than half of them concentrate toward the lowest defenses. Artagan's baritone voice booms out across the fortress, like the unseen voice of an archangel over the din.

“Archers! Make ready!”

A few hundred warriors in green drop their spears and axes, drawing back longbows at Artagan's command. Even some village huntresses and mothers have a spare arrow or two that they notch to their bows. I pull back my bowstring as far as it will go. The longbow, the famed weapon of the Free Cantrefs. Will it be enough against cold Saxon steel at night? May God guide our arrows.

The Saxon hordes draw closer. The clang of their armor and the musky odor of their unwashed bodies make me wrinkle my nose. What does Artagan wait for? The brigands will be upon us in moments! Artagan's voice roars above the crowd.

“Bowmen, loose!”

There is a hiss as hundreds of arrowheads soar into the darkness. Firing blind, I let my arrow go before quickly restringing another. By the time I notch my next feathery dart, the archers around me let loose at every Saxon they see. Some arrows thud harmlessly into timber shields or the soft grass. Others find their mark.

Howls and whimpers of pain surround me in the dim moonlight, like the lamentations of the damned. I never expect to hear such a sound this side of hell again. Bodies of Saxons collapse in heaps at the base of our bulwarks, some writhing with multiple arrows protruding from their chests and limbs. Others lie still in neat rows, piled like cordwood. I continue notching and loosing my arrows, pouring them into the crowd of foes below. As I draw the last arrow shaft from my quiver, my hand trembles so much that I cannot even string the dart.

The Saxons respond by lobbing their torches over our walls. Several fireballs crackle over my head, some landing in the yard behind me whilst others knock Welshmen down from the barricades. Women and children rush to dowse the fires with buckets, wineskins, and anything else that will hold water.

A series of large thuds slam against the stone ramparts. Long timber poles land along the wall beside me. My eyes widen. Ladders! Swallowing a knot in my throat, I stand back as I notch my last shot. My aim hasn't mattered much thus far, what with a multitude of enemies below. Why did I spend my arrows so freely? I'd give half a chest of silver for just a few more deadly quills. Blinking the sweat from my eyes, I raise my birch wood bow. I must not miss. I must
not
miss.

A grizzled Saxon emerges over the ramparts, his dirty-blond beard flecked with sweat and spit. With an ax in one hand and a round shield in the other, he leaps toward me. I loose my arrow toward his heart.

It thuds harmlessly into his wooden shield. I missed!

He swings his massive ax down toward me while I raise my empty longbow overhead. As though a thin birch bow could shield me from the weight of an ax head. I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing before the blow.

The Saxon pauses, his face contorting in pain. A spearhead rises up through his chest before disappearing in a fountain of blood. The barbarian keels over. Enid withdraws her spear from his huge corpse, wiping the grime from her cheek.

Bile rises in the back of my throat. The Saxon's blood pools around my feet. Bending over the back of the parapet, I spew what little food remains in my stomach. Enid pats my back as I wipe the spittle from my face. She knits her brow.

“Artagan sent me to look after you.”

“What for?”

She shrugs.

“I didn't ask for the honor,” she adds.

We've no time to argue. I stand shoulder to shoulder with her as more assailants scale the ladders below. I palm my chest and head, but find no wounds. I'm alive! Before I can blink, more Saxons swarm over the battlements. Enid tosses me the short-sword from her belt. She skewers invaders with her red spear tip while I fumble with the small sword. If only I had half her skill. All the book learning in the world does me little good now. My empty stomach churns over. The raw hate in the Saxons' wild eyes makes my skin crawl.

With my spent bow in one hand and a short blade in the other, I claw and hack at the bearded, oily-smelling Saxons struggling over the embrasures. Together, Padraig and I send one man tumbling backward over the defenses. Ahern and Enid grapple with warrior after warrior while Welshmen and Saxons fall all around us. Flagstones turn slick with blood.

Women and children pummel the assailants with rocks. Archers down enemies right in our midst. More than one spearhead or dart brushes my cheek, narrowly missing my face before lodging itself in a howling Saxon. An eerie bullhorn booms through the darkness, like a staccato Minotaur bellowing in the night. The wave of Saxon troops recedes from the walls, scores of warriors limping back to their own lines. Others drag wounded no longer able to walk. A cheer rises from our own lines. I raise my arms with the others, jeering at the retreating barbarians. Only Enid looks grim.

“They'll be back,” she says with a grimace.

“You mean we haven't won?”

“Won? That was but their first assault. They'll come again.”

My heart sinks, my limbs suddenly heavy as lead. Furry Saxon bodies litter the barricades, their animal skin mantles bloodied with arrows. A thin line of Welshmen in green remain standing along our own defenses, some with gaps of ten paces or more between them. The color drains from my cheeks. So few remain. Portions of the walls have so little defenders left that the Saxons could drive a herd of cows between our remaining spearmen.

Women carry the wounded down into the courtyard where Annwyn kneels over the maimed and dying, sewing up wounds with needle and thread. Padraig daubs Ahern's brow with a cloth, the guardsman's forehead bleeding from a wide gash. Ahern fakes a smile.

“It only looks bad, my Queen. I gave the Saxons worse.”

He winces even as he speaks, stumbling before he sits down. With a dripping bowl, Padraig washes the blood from Ahern's hair. Enid stalks amongst the Saxon wounded, giving them a speedy end with her hunting knife. I shut my eyes. Some warrior I turned out to be. A frightened, childlike part of me would give anything to be elsewhere right now. But where is there left to go? We are the last bastion of Free Welsh in these mountains. The Saxons will simply wash over us like an unstoppable wave, until we are utterly defeated. Until we are no more.

Pacing the lines, I make my way down toward the east gate, searching every bloodied face for Artagan. He must live, he must. The overturned wagons meant to block the gateways look like no more than piles of driftwood. The Saxons pummeled them to splinters trying to get inside. Lifeless Welsh and Saxon foes lie in each other's arms as though embracing in death. Atop the crumbling walls, Keenan bends before Emryus as he puts the old bard's arm in a sling. My lower lip trembles as I approach.

“The Blacksword, where is he?”

Keenan hangs his head. My heart tightens like a clenched fist. Emryus's pained gaze leads me farther down the ramparts, where piles of corpses lie. Tiptoeing around the mangled limbs and skulls, I pause before a lone figure at the apex of the slaughter. He kneels with his head in his hands, his bloody sword driven into the ground. Countless dead spiral outward from where he sits. Artagan looks up at me, his wet-marble eyes seemingly hard and soft by turns. Only Saxon bodies surround him. He must have slain more than a dozen barbarians all by himself.

“They killed him, Branwen. They took his head. They took my father's head.”

Sinking down beside him, I wrap my arms around his bruised neck. He lays his brow on my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. I shush him, patting his back. The brave warrior seems like a harmless boy in my arms, but moments ago he must have raged like an unchained beast. He silently weeps against my collarbone.

I run my hands through his damp hair, looking out over the carnage. A cold wind stirs the soiled green banners along the walls. Evening mists roll in. Less than half our warriors still stand. A shudder runs through me as I hold Artagan in the darkness. If the Saxons come again, we cannot stop them.

*   *   *

Dawn rises and still the Saxons do not come. Why do they wait? Perhaps they prefer to taunt us, lengthening our suffering as long as possible. Every man, woman, and child within the walls of Aranrhod now lives under the shadow of the Saxons. It is only a matter of time before they overcome our defenses and massacre us all.