Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (49 page)

Fróech—stung by Withred’s words—shoved Elowen towards him. ‘Hold fast Cillian, I’ve changed my mind. Just keep hold of the girl.’ Fróech drew his sword and eyed Withred.

Cillian lifted his knife to Elowen’s neck and looked to Druce who sat mounted and unsure of what to do, nearby. ‘Don’t you even think about helping him,’ said Cillian to Druce.

As Withred and Fróech came together, Dominic shot his first arrow towards the group of three who rushed up the hill to engage them.

The arrow found its mark, hitting the leader in the hollow of his throat. The man fell, but the two remaining Hibernians were quickly upon Dominic and Flint before any more arrows could fly.

The ensuing melee saw Hibernian axes pitted against British swords. Amidst much grunting and clanging, Dominic and Flint weathered a brutal torrent of frenzied ax swings. Although wild and enraged, the Hibernians were accomplished combatants.

Flint had spent many hours in Brythonfort academy under the tutorage of Erec—a hardened warrior and weapons instructor. Trained relentlessly to defend and counter-attack against every type of weapon including the ax, Flint fought now upon raw instinct.

Erec’s words came to him—‘a
llow an aggressive assailant to tire himself, then strike when his muscles scream for mercy
,’—just as his challenger paused after delivering a combination of relentless ax swings. Flint had deftly avoided all of them.

The Hibernian’s arms, now leaden, dropped a mere moment, but it was enough for Flint. A powerful and swift horizontal swipe cut cleanly through the flesh of the man’s ax arm, leaving the limb articulated and useless. Quickly, he strode close and thrust his sword through his opponent’s chest, finishing him.

As his man dropped, Flint’s side vision caught the other Hibernian fighting with Dominic. Without pause, he spun and delivered a powerful sideways slash to him. Cold steel cut through clothing and back bone. Paralysed, Fróech’s man dropped to the ground. Dominic fell to one knee beside him. Quickly, he slicked his knife across Hibernian throat flesh.

He pushed himself up off the dead man and stood up. ‘Tough bastard, that,’ he panted to Flint. ‘Lucky you were here.’

But Flint was preoccupied as he signaled to Maewyn, who sat bestride his mount further up the hill, to hold his position. The boy had seen what had happened on the wharf side and was itching to ride down to Elowen and Mule.

Dominic, also aware of Maewyn’s unease, shouted up to him. ‘Stay exactly where you are, lad! We’ll deal with this!’

As Maewyn reluctantly nodded his compliance, they turned to witness the conclusion of the fight between Withred and Fróech.

What they saw caused Flint to bellow. ‘NO!’ He set off to run down the hill. Aghast, Dominic followed him.

Earlier, Withred had watched Fróech closely as he shuffled towards him. Crouched and wielding a broadsword similar to his own, Fróech jabbed and feinted, looking for an opening in Withred’s defense.

Unblinking and intense, Withred bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to let Fróech show his hand first. He would assess the man’s fighting ability by defending his first strikes.

A sharp intake of Froech’s breath gave notice of his opening move against Withred. The subtle hint readied Withred, who was surprised at the speed with which Fróech delivered his first attack—an overhead swipe, delivered rapidly and skillfully towards his exposed neck. He barely parried the hack, its force knocking him backwards. Fróech followed it with a backhanded slash aimed at his midriff.

The double maneuver was standard fare. Withred—who was almost balletic, such was the grace of his movement—deftly swept his sword upright, elbows uppermost, to meet a blow he fully expected.

Fróech repeated the two strikes (neck then midriff) and again Withred met steel with steel.

Withred knew a sword-slash would not breach Cillian’
s
knee length hauberk. However, such a blow
would
knock the stuffing out of him. A momentary opening was all he needed. He landed a heavy sword strike past Froech’s defenses and into his ribs. 

Fróech exhaled a huge ‘whoeff’ as the blade crunched into him—his chainmail managing to halt the blade. Staggering backwards with several ribs now broken, Fróech fought the desire to scream his agony at Withred.

Withred’s eyes widened with surprise when Fróech, ignoring his pain, came at him again. Processing his thoughts rapidly, Withred decided to take a risk. Quickly, he dropped his broadsword and removed a short slender stabbing sword from his belt, just as Fróech, who seemed to have limitless reserves of stamina, swung another powerful swipe at his neck.

Withred fell to his right knee as deadly steel whistled above him. Seeing an opening, he lunged forward with the seax. With his full weight behind the weapon, it pierced Fróech’s hauberk a hands width above his navel. The tip razored through chainmail and continued through the Hibernian’s midriff, its progress halted only when the sword’s cross guard hit Fróech’s abdomen. The blade emerged slick and bloody behind Fróech.

Fróech’s mouth dropped open as he looked down at the handle of the seax sticking from him. Never had he fought anyone like the man before him. Phantom-like, the man had avoided or blocked his best moves, then in the blink of an eye, run him through with a subtle combination of grace and power.

Standing back as Fróech dropped his sword and fell to his knees before him, Withred retrieved his discarded broadsword. Now he looked at Cillian, who stood mortified after seeing the defeat of his lord—a man he deemed immortal. Cillian backed towards the wharf, still holding Elowen.

Withred kicked Fróech’s broadsword over to him. ‘Let her go and defend your master or I will remove his head here and now,’ he said.

Cillian hesitated a moment, knowing as sure as night followed day and day followed night, that he would die if he took on the man before him. The alternative was to plead for his life like a coward and that was
worse
than death. After a moments further hesitation he chose to fight. He let go of the girl.

Mule dreamt that Maewyn clashed two pans above his head to wake him as he slept in his warm bed back at the monastery. He opened his eyes in a series of blinks as his blurry vision cleared. He discovered the clashing was not pans but swords, then winced as he felt the bump on his head and realised what had happened.

Not far from him, two men fought—neither of whom he recognized. He watched the fight with fascination, his eyes widening as one of the men fell to his knees and quickly and skillfully thrust his sword through his challenger’s belly. Standing a distance away, holding a knife to Elowen’s throat, stood another man. As Mule watched, the man released Elowen and started to shout to the kneeling man. Mule was up at once.

He knew the man could yet harm Elowen, and acted without further thought. He rushed the man and hit him full on. He grasped him as they fell a full second through the air before hitting the cold brown water of the docks.

Cillian gasped and grabbed on to Mule as the weight of his hauberk dragged them downwards. The Hibernian’s lungs filled with water as he spiraled—still clamping Mule—down to the seabed fifteen feet below. Then the last of Cillian’s air emerged in a procession of gurgling bubbles as he lay on top of Mule on the rocky floor of the harbor.

Mule, kept his mouth clamped shut in an effort to keep the water out (and his breath in) as he tried to heave Cillian’s dead weight from him. A muffled splash had him look to the surface. Another man had entered the water.

After his fight on the road, Flint had watched as Mule had run at the man on the quayside. His only thought when he saw his brother tumble out of sight was to save him. Knowing Mule couldn’t swim, he sprinted down the road and crossed the plank decking of the dockside.

Briefly aware that Withred stood over a man near to the edge of the wharf, he leapt from the decking, his legs still running as he dropped through the air. The air left his lungs as he hit the water, reducing his buoyancy and causing him to sink. Panic hit him then as he realised that, like Mule, he could not swim.

Disorientated, he spiraled downwards, not knowing his up from his down, until he saw his brother trapped under another man. A single, wide bubble came from Mule’s mouth as their eyes met. Knowing he was about to drink dock water, Flint turned and kicked his way back upwards. Gasping, he broke the surface, took in a lungful of air, then started to sink again.

Mul
e
had mouthed the word
‘Flint
’ as he watched his brother sink to within an arms distance from him. He noticed that Flint’s eyes were wide with terror as tiny bubbles escaped from the corners of his mouth. Dismayed, he watched as his hero twisted round and returned to the surface in an effervescent rush. Then, unable to free himself from the dead weight of Cillian and thinking that Flint had left him to drown, Mule took in a watery breath.

Druce managed to grab Flint’s hair as he broke the surface. Having watched as events unfolded, he had earlier slid from the Hibernian pony, then climbed down the hemp ladder to his boat. He jumped onto its oak decking just as Flint surfaced nearby, and so was able to prevent him from sinking back to his death. With both hands grasping the back of Flint’s tunic, he dragged him over the gunwale of the Pelagus.

Flint flopped like a landed herring on the decking of the boat. He gained one knee and looked desperately to Druce. Coughing and exhausted, he said: ‘He’s still down there, I have to … I have to go back in … and get him.’

Druce was having none of it, and knelt between Flint and the open water just as a series of bubbles broke the surface. ‘It’s no use, Flint,’ he said weightily. ‘The lad has just released his last air.’

Some of Flint’s energy returned to him then as he gripped the edge of the gunwale next to Druce
.
He peered into the depths, his screams gathering in intensity. ’I cannot leave him in there. I CANNOT ABANDON HIM!’

Druce gripped Flint’s dripping arm, squeezing it in consolation
and
restraint. As Withred and Dominic reached the edge of the wharf, Flint looked up to them, the world now seeming muted, surreal, and slow moving to him. Druce also looked up, his shake of the head telling them,
The lad has drowned
.

Now, Elowen, who held Withred’s hand, let out her own piercing scream of despair. Dominic, who stood behind Maewyn, had the wits to restrain him before he could emulate Flint and jump into the water. The boy kicked and shrieked as Dominic pulled him away from the edge of the wharf.

Two hours later, a grim-looking Druce and Withred sat with Flint, Maewyn and Elowen in the warehouse beside the wharf. They had deemed it sensible to remove them from the quayside and the temptation to plunge into the water to get to Mule.

At first, Flint had paced the warehouse, wailing and confused, unable seemingly to stick within his own skin, such was the intensity of his grief. Maewyn and Elowen had wept intermittently between bouts of grief-stricken conversation. Now, like Flint, Maewyn merely leaned forward, elbows on knees, palms pressed against his temples, as he looked blankly down at the floor. Elowen, who sat beside them, had begun to weep again.

Outside, Dominic spoke t
o
Guairá as they stood on the edge of the wharf looking into the water. Twenty feet below them, glinting from the bottom of the seabed, Cillian’s chainmail resembled the scales of a dead fish swept in by the tide. Mule was barely visible as a hazy shadow beneath him.

‘You must leave on the ebb tide before Colman arrives, and that means this evening,’ Guairá said, turning to observe the low sun. ‘I will recover the lad as soon as the water has dropped enough.’

‘What will you tell Colman?’ asked Dominic.

‘That you arrived without the children and had an argument with Fróech and his men.’ Guairá looked at Fróech’s body, which lay face down nearby. ‘I’ll tell him the argument got out of hand; that you fought and were responsible for the death of his brother.’

‘What about you? … What will he do to you?’

‘What can he do? My trade is cargo not conflict. I’ll play the devastated Hibernian who could do nothing but watch in horror.’

Dominic looked towards a group of stevedores who laboured nearby. ‘How loyal are they?’ he asked. ‘One loose tongue could lead to your head being removed.’

Guairá pointed to the open sea. ‘See that cold water … they would swim to the horizon for me
all of them
if I asked them to. They are all outcasts from Fincath and they hate him. I was their last hope. In employing them, I effectively saved their lives.’

‘And your nephew, Ingle, and the rest of the monks?’ asked Dominic ‘Will they be left alone?’

Sadly, Guairá looked down into the water … looked at the shadow of Mule. ‘As long as I can get that lad out and hidden before Colman arrives, then the monks should be fine. If Colman has no reason to believe you found the children, he has no need to punish the monks.’

Dominic had also been looking at Mule’s pitiful form as Guairá spoke. ‘What will you do with him?’ he asked.