As the knight cast eyes on Gerwyn, the late brehyrion’s son saw him and came storming across the ground towards him, hands curled into fists. His eyes shone a deep amber in the firelight, lending him a feral, almost demonic look. “What happened here?” he demanded, his voice loud and strident. “My father is dead and I want to know why.”
Dodinal looked beyond him to the two men guarding the old man’s body. Standing close to them, awkward and fidgety with nerves, were the brothers Gerwyn had taken on his hunting trip. It came as no surprise to him that they had returned empty-handed. One of the brothers shrugged helplessly as Dodinal held him in his gaze. The knight ignored him and returned his attention to Gerwyn.
“We were attacked.”
“Really?” Gerwyn spat. “You think I have not worked that out for myself? I am no simpleton, no matter what you think.”
One of his hands now clasped his sword hilt, but as yet he had made no effort to draw it. Dodinal tensed. He was willing to forgive the man his hostility in the light of his father’s death, but if he spilled over into outright violence, the knight would put an end to it. “I did not intend to suggest that you were,” he said. “If you let me speak, I will explain what happened.”
Gerwyn dismissed the words with an angry gesture. “You are alive. My father lies cold on the ground. Even a simpleton can see you were more interested in saving your own hide than protecting his.”
“He had no duty to protect your father, you gutless bastard.”
Dodinal turned his head at the unexpected interruption.
Rhiannon marched towards them, wearing a furious expression. “He had no duty to protect anyone, but he did because he chose to.” The words tumbled out of her in a torrent. “He led the fight against the creatures that attacked us. Yes, your father is dead, but know that he died valiantly. If it were not for Idris and Dodinal, and the other brave men of the village, we would all be dead and our children would all have been taken.”
Gerwyn assumed a condescending air. “‘Creatures’? You must have taken a knock to the head, woman.”
“That’s enough,” Dodinal growled, but the words were lost as Rhiannon drew level with Gerwyn and, without breaking stride, slapped his face with the palm of her hand, hard enough to rock him on his feet. She thrust her face into his, spraying him with spittle. “Where were you when all this was happening? Far from here, shying away from hard work, just as you have always done.”
Gerwyn was frozen in place.
“It’s a pity you weren’t around to help defend us when we were attacked. My son might still be here if you had been, and your father might still be alive.” Rhiannon jabbed a finger hard into his chest. “If you want to blame anyone for his death, then blame yourself.”
With that she spun on her heel and stormed off, leaving Gerwyn thunderstruck, with a livid welt on his face. The fight had gone out of him. When he turned to Dodinal, he appeared to have just surfaced from a sleep filled with confusing dreams. “What did she mean about Owain? And what is all this talk of creatures? Has the world gone mad?”
Dodinal was too weary to care whether Gerwyn understood what had happened or not. “Believe me, I am deeply sorry about your father, but my place is with Rhiannon. Find someone else to tell you what occurred here tonight. You will find it hard to believe, but believe it you must. And, yes, the world has gone mad.”
He had no more to say and so he left, to find Rhiannon and do whatever he could to help her through the long night ahead. She had commandeered another of the huts whose occupants had been killed. One by one the injured were carried in for her to assess their wounds, and stitch them or bind them as necessary. Candles had been lit all around to boost the light from the fire.
It was ceaseless, demanding work. Dodinal watched her with increasing concern, she seemed to age years as the night passed. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was wan and taut. He could have wept at the sight of her.
Midnight came and went and still she was not done. Her hands were painted red with blood, her clothes were spotted with dark patches. She was so tired her body swayed, and she had to pause from her work while she rubbed her eyes into wakefulness, smearing blood across her face. Her fingers trembled as she stitched torn flesh with needle and sinew until the only way she could hold them steady was by gripping one hand with the other.
Finally Dodinal could bear it no longer and insisted she rested. “You have seen to the most badly injured,” he told her, ignoring her protests and guiding her away from the healing hut towards her own. “The others have but minor wounds. They can wait until morning.”
Once inside, he ordered her to lay on the pallet. He found a cloth and used hot water from the pot to wash the blood from her hands and face despite her weak protestations. Then he pulled the furs up over her. “I will not sleep,” she insisted in a drowsy voice. Her eyelids drooped. Only her anger and fear were keeping her awake.
“No matter, as long as you rest. You have been through a terrible ordeal. You need to take time to regain your strength.”
At that, she cried out and sat bolt upright. “What about Owain? How can I sleep when he is all I can think of?”
Dodinal gently pushed her down. “Rest, I said. Think of your son, by all means. Only, think of the joy you will feel in your heart when I bring him safely back to you.”
She looked deep into his eyes, seeking the truth of his words and finding it. Satisfied, she nodded and settled down, turning onto her side and pulling the furs up to her chin.
Dodinal busied himself with tending to the fire, then sat at the table and stared into the flames while he slowly sharpened his sword. He went over his memories of the attack and asked himself if there was anything he could have done to have altered the outcome.
After a while he noticed Rhiannon’s breathing had slowed and was deep and steady. The anxiety had fallen from her face, and she looked once more like the kind and beautiful woman who had tended to his wounds. He would do anything for her, and for her son. It vexed him greatly to be sitting in the warmth of the fire while Owain was in the forest at the mercy of the gargoyle creatures. Every fibre of his being demanded he should be out searching for him, and for the girl. Now he knew what to look for, he would be mindful of signs of the creatures’ passage. Yet for all his gifts, he could not see tracks in the dark. Blundering off blindly in the wrong direction could set him back hours, or even days.
It was frustrating, but he had to wait.
He rested the sword against the wall and sat in silence.
Finally he drifted into sleep too.
He woke with his head at an awkward angle, his neck stiff and sore. Weak grey light seeped like watery gruel through the gap between door and floor. He had slept straight through until dawn. He stood and stretched, twisting his head from side to side until he could move it freely. It was cold. The fire had burned low. He fed it wood and banked it until it flared into life.
He warmed his hands above the flames, then crouched by the bed where Rhiannon slept, her chest gently moving, her lips slightly parted.
He let her remain undisturbed, holding on to that image of her while he pulled on his cloak and fastened it at his shoulder. There was every chance he would not survive to see her again. This was how he wanted to remember her. Restful, without the weight of the world on her shoulders. He gathered his sword and the spear Idris had given him before slipping silently from the hut.
To his surprise, Gerwyn was waiting outside, leaning against the wall close to the door, bow held loosely in one hand. Judging from the dew that glistened on his cloak, he had been there for some time, since before sunrise, waiting for Dodinal to emerge. He had a pack over one shoulder and a quiver bristling with arrows over the other. When the knight stepped out, he straightened and cleared his throat nervously. “How is Rhiannon?”
“Asleep,” Dodinal said shortly, setting off for the gates, not only because he was anxious to make a start but also to draw the other man away from the hut so their voices would not disturb her.
“Good.” Gerwyn hurried after him. “I… I wanted to apologise.”
“You should be apologising to Rhiannon, not me.”
“I will, the next time I see her. But I didn’t just mean about last night, though I admit I spoke out of turn. If you want to know, I am ashamed of myself. I’ve been less than courteous to you since you arrived. My behaviour has been unforgivable. Even so, I hope you will forgive me.” He shrugged helplessly. “Give me a second chance.”
Dodinal pondered this as he passed the remains of the Great Hall. It was a charred wreck: the roof gone, the walls reduced to the blackened bones of their frames. The air around was still rank with the acrid stink of burning. Would anyone have the heart to rebuild it now that Idris was dead?
He had no reason to trust Gerwyn, but the man sounded sincere enough. Of course, he was now aware of what had transpired while he was away hunting. Perhaps the shock of losing his father had rattled him sufficiently to bring him to his senses. If so, it was encouraging. There could yet be hope that Gerwyn had it within him to one day follow his father as brehyrion. One day. He still had a long way to go.
“I forgive you,” Dodinal answered flatly, hoping that was the end of it and he could be on his way. He had a long journey ahead.
“Really?” Gerwyn sounded almost pathetically grateful.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“You really don’t mind if we travel together?”
Dodinal halted and glared down at the younger man, who defiantly stood his ground. “I said I forgave you, nothing more. Anyway, what makes you think I am going anywhere?”
Gerwyn raised an eyebrow. “You creep out of here at dawn with sword and spear, and expect me to believe you’re not leaving?”
“I could be going hunting, for all you know.”
“But you’re not. You’re going after them, aren’t you? Owain and the girl, and those… whatever they were, that took them.”
There was no point pretending otherwise. “Yes, I’m going after them. Thank you for your offer, but I prefer to travel alone.”
“If you will not let me walk with you, I will follow.” Gerwyn had a determined set to his jaw. His voice was hoarse with emotion. “My father is dead because of those things. Rhiannon was right. I should have been here. That’s something I will have to live with for the rest of my life. I cannot change what has happened, but I can at least try to make amends by revenging his death.”
“A man who thirsts for vengeance grows to despise himself.” Dodinal could not disguise his bitterness. “Believe me. I know that all too well.”
“It’s not just about vengeance,” Gerwyn insisted, his hands becoming as animated as they had been when he talked his father into letting him go hunting. “Owain is my brother’s son. He is blood kin. I may not show it as openly as my father did, but I care for him a great deal. Go ahead, leave alone, if that is what you want. I will not be far behind you and you cannot stop me.”
Dodinal raised his eyes to the brightening sky and sighed long and hard. He could stop him if he wanted to. But even if he knocked Gerwyn down, he would just get back up again. He was a man on a quest of his own now. There would be no standing in his way.
“Why don’t you wait until after your father’s funeral?”
“My reasons are similar to yours. You want to be gone before Rhiannon wakes, because of your feelings for her.”
“I have no feelings for her,” Dodinal interrupted testily, the words sounding false even to his own ears. He turned and walked away. Again Gerwyn pursued him.
“Yes, you do. She has feelings for you, too. It’s clear to see. That is why you leave while she sleeps: if she were to walk out here now, you would have second thoughts.”
“No, I would not,” Dodinal said, although he wondered if, despite having sworn to find her son, his resolve would falter if she did come hurrying after him. “Besides, you still have not answered my question. Why won’t you wait until after your father’s funeral?”
“Because I would be shamed to stand among the villagers while they paid their last respects.” Gerwyn dropped his head. “I do not deserve to be here, not until I have redeemed myself by bringing Owain home. I could not bring myself to look Rhiannon in the eye.”
Dodinal studied him for a moment, searching for any hint of insincerity or duplicity and finding none. Short of killing him, there was no shaking him off for now. Gerwyn may be an ass, but he did not deserve Dodinal’s sword run through him. Fine, then. Let them walk together, if that was how it had to be. Dodinal could always lose him in the wildwood if he began to get on his nerves. “All right.”
Gerwyn smiled. He went to speak, but Dodinal forestalled him. “As long as you keep your mouth shut. If you annoy me any more than you have done, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
He lifted the sword half out of his sheath, then let it drop back.
The smile faltered. When they passed through the gates, Dodinal understood why.
Waiting for them were Gerwyn’s two friends, the brothers whose names he still did not know. They carried spears and had swords in their belts. Like Gerwyn they had packs as well as bows, and quivers, bristling with arrows. There, too, was Hywel the tracker, and with him was Emlyn, who had the surest aim of all the village’s hunters. Both men were armed and carrying packs of their own.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, although the meaning was all too apparent. They had planned it well in advance.
“You were prepared to travel in company,” Gerwyn answered, flashing his teeth in a nervous grin. “So what difference does it make if one man travels with you or several? You have nothing but the clothes you stand in and the weapons you hold. You could not even start a fire. Between us, we have everything an expedition needs. Well, except food. But we will hunt. We will not go hungry.”
Dodinal doubted that, but otherwise Gerwyn’s words rang true. Having lost his pack, he was woefully equipped for the journey.
“Besides,” Hywel said, looking somewhat sheepish, “Idris was our brehyrion. We all respected and loved him. We have come to respect you, too. We will not let you fight this battle alone.”
“Then it’s decided,” Gerwyn said. “There is safety in numbers. We will be safer as a group than we would be going it alone.”
Dodinal’s grumbles were half-hearted. He really had intended travelling alone, but had not rated his chances of success very highly. He was just one man. The creatures had torn through the village. Twenty dead, almost a third of them women, many more badly injured.
The odds were still against him, but not, now, quite as heavily as they might otherwise have been.
“Well, seeing as you’re all here, we might as well set off,” he growled. Giving Gerwyn a last baleful look, he also saw a way of turning the situation to his advantage. If the young man did make it back with the children, the villagers would doubtless be less reluctant for Gerwyn to take over from Idris. So he leant forward to whisper to Gerwyn. “I’ll track, you lead. Show these men you have the courage to become brehyrion.”
Gerwyn jerked his head back in surprise. Then he nodded.
As they set off towards the forest, Dodinal paused to look back at the sleeping village. He was struck by a sudden premonition he would never pass this way again.