Morning's Journey (58 page)

She straightened to meet Rhys’s gaze. Blood splotched his battle-gear, face, and hair. He clutched the cohort’s banner. Though its edges were tattered, its emblem of three bent legs arrayed like spokes of a wheel remained intact, and no damage had befallen the staff’s solid bronze Dragon Legion crest.

The signifer’s fate, the One God alone knew.

“I—I think so, Rhys.” She swallowed to banish the hoarseness, but it did little to help. “You?”

“Not a scratch, my lady.” He grinned, released her shoulder, and planted the standard.

She could manage no more than a single nod. Rhys stepped closer and wrapped both arms around her, a gesture Arthur might have offered. Her heart ached. God, how she missed him! His smile, his laugh, his gaze, his touch—the intensity of her longing astounded her but gladdened her, too. Her emotions finally had escaped their grief-walled prison. She pressed her face against the cool bronze of Rhys’s cheek guard, willing herself not to cry—and not succeeding—as the battle’s clamor died around them.

Composure returning, she backed away to survey the field as the last Sasunaich stumbled over the ridge. Her soldiers approached, stepping around the scores of tiny fires spluttering across the valley, scattered among countless shadowy mounds. Some mounds moved feebly in the fickle light. Most did not.

“So many of our own…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.

“But you held the Sasunaich off,” Rhys said with undisguised pride.

Only with the One God’s help, though she couldn’t admit that to Rhys. “Too many got away.”

“With such short warning, in the dark, against those odds—my dear sister, what did you expect?”

She whirled toward Per’s voice. He stood between a pair of horses, a white and a bay, his cheek smeared with blood but looking otherwise unharmed. Mentally thanking the One God and forgetting her fatigue, she ran to greet him. She didn’t bother to fight these tears as she laid her cheek against his breastplate, reassured by his heart’s steady rhythm. Per dropped Rukh’s and Macmuir’s reins to hold her tightly, as though loath to release her. She squeezed him even harder.

As they parted, Per pointed to her battle trophy with its circlet of bronze. “Their war-leader?”

She nodded, unwilling to risk unleashing her grief. “I’ll tell you about it later.” He cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “I promise.”

Murmuring to Macmuir, she untied the trophy from her belt and fastened it to his chest-harness. Nostrils flared and muscles quivering, the stallion whinnied and snorted lustily. As she stroked his nose, his eyes lost their wild look, and he quieted again. A quick examination proved Macmuir had taken no injury. She took the reins from Per, and he mounted Rukh.

With Rhys’s help, she climbed into the saddle. Too tired to ask where Macmuir had been found, she simply thanked Per for her stallion’s safe return and extended a hand to Rhys. “Come. We can look for your mare.”

“No need, Commander.”

Rhys cupped hands to mouth and blew a long, wavering whistle. A tall black shape resolved out of the purple twilight. The mare trotted toward them, stepping neatly over the bodies. Rhys patted her flank and mounted.

Gyan’s bone-deep fatigue couldn’t suppress her laugh. “Nice trick, Rhys. You must teach me sometime.” She rubbed Macmuir’s sweat-streaked neck. “In case this demon-spawn decides to desert me again.”

After the last men returned, Rhys called the roll from memory. One in five didn’t answer. Gyan regarded the ragged ranks. Many leaned on whatever was available: swords, spears, shields, each other—Breatanaich and Caledonaich alike. Few seemed able to hold themselves upright. Far too few for what lay ahead, if her attempt to contact Arthur failed.

Through pain and exhaustion, each pair of eyes glowed at her with hopeful expectation.

Gyan cleared her dust-dry throat, knowing what her men wanted and needed most, but she had no idea how to begin. She glanced at Per. He nodded encouragingly: not much help from her beathach of a brother.

In the strengthening light, she recognized more of her clansmen’s faces. Few had remounted. Most stood among men whom, a mere two years earlier, they would have gladly embraced with steel. Now, some helped their Breatanach sword-brothers to stand; others were the grateful recipients of such aid.

This shared crisis had done more to forge unity than a hundred treaties or marriages ever could.

“Well done, mo ghaisgich!”
My heroes.
The full significance might have been lost on the Breatanach warriors but didn’t go unnoticed by the Caledonaich, who responded with fatigue-muffled claps and cheers. “Well done, my heroes, indeed. Together”—she paused to let the implication sink in for herself, as well as for her men—“
Together
, we have defeated the invaders. Their survivors flee, taking as their only plunder the tale of our awesome prowess.” She signaled Rhys to raise the standard. A breeze ruffled the sigil, making the legs appear to kick. “The Saxons will think long and hard before crossing swords with the mighty Manx Cohort again!”

Husky cheers ripped the morning. Smiling, she beheld the filthy, bloodied faces and noticed one warrior who had remained silent.

Recognition inverted her smile.

He stood apart from the others, feet squarely planted and sword drawn. His helmet was gone, his curly hair formed a dark nimbus about his head, and his armor looked more red than black. He was swaying; apparently, not all that blood was Sasunach.

Their gazes met. He glared at her as though still gripped by battle frenzy. It was all too apparent that he despised her.

Angusel.
Her lips shaped his name but birthed no sound.

Her grief strained at its shackles, but now that she finally felt alive again, she refused to let that emotion control her.

Lips pursed, she looked away and gave the order to return to the fort. As the men obeyed, she slid a glance toward Angusel, but he had disappeared. His absence wrought more sadness than relief.

She reined Macmuir around to lead her troops home, earnestly hoping the enemy had left the island. Not for her sake, but for the sake of her weary sword-brothers.

All of them, even Angusel.

Chapter 29

T
HE LAST SHIPS scraped onto the beach beyond Rushen Priory’s walls as Arthur strode toward Niniane across the sand. “Did you bring enough men?” she asked him.

While most jumped fully armed from the vessels, one plump, robed figure descended shakily down a rope ladder, assisted by two soldiers.

“This”—his gesture encompassed the score of vessels and hundreds of soldiers—“is only half the force. Bedwyr’s men are sailing straight to the Saxon beachhead, where we’ll meet them.” Determination creased his brow.

“The sounds we heard last night…” She closed her eyes and shivered, though it wasn’t cold under the midday autumn sun.

“They didn’t try to come here, did they? To the priory?”

“No, thank the Lord. But they passed close.” Directing efforts to douse lights and hide valuables, struggling to remain calm lest the other sisters lose courage, ceaselessly praying the Lord would shield the priory…she shivered again. “Too close. Twice.”

“Twice?”

“At compline, it sounded as if they were heading toward Dhoo-Glass. I made sure the priory was dark to prevent them from getting the notion to visit us.” She shook off a fear-induced vision, the shreds of her prophetic power. “Just before matins, we heard them going the other way. Shouting, running, cursing, screaming…” She drew a sharp breath. “We feared we were next.”

“Did you See anything?” he whispered. “Gyan?”

She winced. Why the Sight had abandoned her remained a mystery. Perhaps because she hadn’t used it properly, God had withdrawn His gift? Whatever the reason, the pain wrought by its absence hurt as keenly as any vision she’d ever experienced.

“No, I—oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry!” Legs weakening, she stumbled into in his arms. “I—I Saw none of this!” Sobs wracked her body.

He cradled her head against his armored breast. The cool bronze doused the heat in her cheeks. When her tears had run their course, and she straightened, she found him looking not at her but at the cliffs hiding Port Dhoo-Glass from view, as if commanding them to divulge their secrets. His left hand dropped from her shoulder to close over Caleberyllus’s ruby. Upon his face, anxiety reigned.

A centurion marched up behind him. “Lord Pendragon?” When Arthur rounded on the officer, his expression of supreme confidence made Niniane wonder whether she’d imagined the anxiety. “Sir, the scouts have returned from South Cove. The Saxons are boarding their ships. Our men are formed up and ready.”

“Good, Marcus. Start leading them up that defile.” He pointed at the draw slicing into the cliffs. “Reform them at the top. I’ll be along shortly.” The centurion saluted and left.

“What will you do?” Niniane asked.

“What I came to do, first.” He sounded as bleak as the wind-ravaged cliffs at his back. “What she would have expected.”

The confidence he’d displayed for his officer withered into resignation, and it disturbed her more profoundly than her failure to See what he’d needed most for her to See.

“Please don’t speak as though your wife is dead,” she whispered. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t know that she isn’t.”

She stared at the sand through moistening eyes, wishing she could burrow into a hole and stay there.

He lifted her chin, compassion flowing from his gaze like a healing balm. “I’m sorry, Niniane. I know you can’t help what you See—or don’t See.” He let go and balled his fingers. “It’s just so bloody maddening! I could take not having her with me when I thought she was safe.” He ground knuckles to palm. “God’s bleeding wounds!”

She laid a hand on his arm. “I will pray for you, Arthur.”

“I don’t need it.” She found his claim difficult to believe. “Pray for Gyan.” She nodded as Cynda approached, muttering and dusting sand from her hands. Arthur exchanged a few Caledonian words with her before he said to Niniane, “Please look after Cynda until I determine it’s safe at port.”

Niniane voiced her agreement. Arms folded, Cynda stood beside her as Arthur quickly moved to join the unit marching past. Discipline forbade the men from audibly acknowledging his presence, but Niniane thought their pace seemed brisker, their shoulders more squared, their chins higher. Watching until Arthur disappeared into the draw, she prayed for him and Gyanhumara both.

Hesitation creased Cynda’s face. Then she spat. “That, for
safe
.”

Niniane felt her eyebrows knit. “What?”

“Gyan there, maybe hurt.” The older woman pointed toward the port. “Maybe others hurt. You and me, we go and heal, aye?”

She fingered her chin. Losing the Sight hadn’t left her utterly useless. Slowly, she nodded. “We will go and heal.”

BEDWYR STOOD at the ornately carved prow of his flagship as it bucked the swells beyond the enemy beachhead. Around him clustered the other warships under his command, awaiting his lookout’s report.

He stroked the snarling wolf’s smooth oaken neck with renewed admiration for the Scotti shipwrights’ art. Between patrolling runs, he’d spent the summer determining what made these vessels swifter and more maneuverable than the Brytoni design and found the answer in their knifelike keels.

Caerglas shipwrights still labored to refit the fleet with the new keel style, obligating Bedwyr and his men to sail the Scotti warships captured during last year’s battle. Though the new additions had taken some getting used to by the crews, the commander of the Brytoni fleet was supremely thankful for this option. And today, gods willing, they’d have another ship design to learn.

“Commander! The Pendragon’s forces are beginning to engage.”

Shielding his eyes, he regarded his lookout swaying in the rigging atop the mast.

“Are the Saxons fighting or retreating?”

“Fighting, sir. Wait—” The lookout craned forward. “The Pendragon is pushing through, and the enemy is breaking off.”

“Report when the first ship touches water.”

“Aye, sir.” The crewman returned his gaze to the land battle.

The cohort breaking through already—that was fast, even for Arthur. The Saxons didn’t expect this, Bedwyr mused. It supported Arthur’s theory of a night attack on Dhoo-Glass, one that apparently had failed.