Dawnflight (41 page)

“Quiet,” Fergus rumbled. “Nae one gave ye leave to speak.” He thrust the garment at Gyan. “Ye shall put this on. Now.”

“No.”

“Lady, donna test my patience. Put it on yourself, or I shall have your guards do it for ye. And I guarantee they willna be gentle. I think they’ll like that verra much.” He smirked. “Mayhap you like it rough too.”

“Call them over. That’s the only way you’ll get me to wear that saddle blanket you call a cloak.”

As Gyan donned an insolent grin, murder flashed across the commander’s face. He poised his hand to strike. She gazed at him through unwavering, unrepentant eyes.

Evidently remembering his orders regarding the prisoners’ treatment, the Scáth relaxed his arm. He spun and motioned to the guards. Each man gripped one of Gyan’s arms while Fergus draped the cloak around her shoulders and settled the hood over her head.

“Much better. After all, we wouldna want Urien to think that ye’ve been mistreated, would we?”

“The thought had not occurred to me.”

“Indeed.”

In silence, he escorted Gyan across the camp, followed by the two soldiers. One man carried a coil of rope slung across his chest. Both walked with a spear at her back.

A sharp pounding punctuated the wet late-morning air. Gyan turned her head toward the sound but saw nothing in the immediate vicinity.

Fergus’s mustache twitched as his lips twisted into a wicked grin. “Ye shall find out about it soon enough, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.”

The pounding grew louder as they approached the rear of the camp. Then silence. On the rise beyond the tents stood a platform made of pine logs. Another log, stripped of branches, stood upright in the center of the platform. The soldiers who had built the structure were trudging down the muddy embankment with their tools. Of the Scáthinach sentries Gyan had seen stationed on the ridge the night before, there was no sign. She presumed they had been withdrawn to the back slope.

Encouraged by the spear points, Gyan began the slick ascent, followed by her guards. When they reached the top, the soldiers hauled her onto the platform and shoved her against the stake.

“I always thought you Scáthinaich were madmen,” she growled as she was bound to the stake. “Now I have proof. Urien will never fall for such an obvious ploy.”

“We shall see. Comfortable, my dear?” Smirking, Fergus reached behind her and jerked the hood away. The raindrops began to dot her face and hair. “Well, we canna let it look like ye be enjoying yourself out here.”

Commander Fergus and his men walked down the hill, their laughter muffled by the curtain of mist.

ABOARD THE Scotti warships rounding Maun’s northern tip, the soldiers seemed to ignore the approaching swarm of fishing boats. Perhaps they believed that anyone the fishermen might be able to warn would arrive far too late to prevent them from taking control of the island.

Squinting against the glare, Cai watched the more than two dozen Scotti vessels until the headland blocked his view. It wasn’t difficult to guess where they were going, hugging the coastline as closely as they were. But he did not signal Arthur for instructions. It mattered little if those fish got away; if all went according to Arthur’s plan, Bedwyr would be dealing with the Scotti fleet in Dhoo-Glass Harbor soon enough. Cai and Arthur were stalking a bigger catch, one that probably was entrenched at Tanroc.

Cai languidly licked his lips as the anchored Scotti ships bobbed into view. Only three; this was going to be easy. He gripped the fishing boat’s rail and grinned with fierce anticipation.

Arthur had ordered Cai to wait until the fishing fleet was in position to cut off the Scotti vessels’ escape. For a man of action, this was nigh unto impossible when there was real fighting to be done, not all this frolicking about in the water like a gaggle of silly children.

Finally, he judged the time to be right and ordered the hoisting of the red signal flag.

The herring boats dropped anchor. Arthur’s warships shot forward, oar-driven, to engulf the remnant of the enemy fleet.

THE SOAKING rain rendered the use of flaming arrows impossible for both sides. Arthur, however, had no intention of conquering the Scotti vessels by fire. He was more concerned with preserving as many of their warships as possible to swell the lines of his own fleet.

As he’d expected, it didn’t take long to overwhelm the three lightly manned enemy ships. After loosing a few token volleys of arrows, which caused only minimal injuries to Arthur’s men, the Scots surrendered. The worst delays were imposed in the wake of the encounter by having to tend the wounded and secure the captured men and ships. Arthur’s most difficult tasks—ridding the island of the invading army, and making good on his vow to Peredur of Caledonia—were yet to come. Like Cai, Arthur was eager to begin.

The first group of Brytons to make landfall was a scouting party. While the rest of the relief force came ashore, Arthur ordered the scouts to determine Tanroc’s status. They returned to the beachhead shortly after the landing of the soldiers and supplies was complete.

While the other men rested and ate, the scout leader made his report to Arthur: “Tanroc and St. Padraic’s Island are flying the Silver Wolf, Lord Pendragon. Tanroc’s palisade is badly burned, but the buildings look mostly intact. From what we could tell, the monastery fell without a struggle.”

Arthur absorbed the news without reaction. It came as no surprise. “How many are we up against?”

“In total numbers, sir?” Frowning, the soldier spread his hands. “I don’t know. The enemy garrisons at both sites seemed rather small. Maybe a hundred men at each.”

“Where are the rest of the stinking beggars?” This from Cai, who had shed his fisherman’s disguise on the beach. By the fierce way he was chafing his arms, he appeared to be regretting his decision.

“From Tanroc, a wide path leads southeast, General Cai. The grass is bent flat, as though a great host passed that way.”

“Dhoo-Glass. Of course!” Arthur ground his knuckles into the opposite palm. “I should have anticipated this.”

“How could you?” Arthur frowned at Cai. Ignoring it, Cai clapped hand to hilt. “But while we’re here, let’s go clean out the Scotti rats at Tanroc and—”

“No.” Arthur turned to begin selecting another scouting party for the mission to Port Dhoo-Glass.

Cai clamped onto Arthur’s bronze-plated shoulder and pulled him around. “What of your sister? And Chieftainess Gyanhumara—what if the Scots have them at Tanroc or St. Padraic’s?”

The concern in Cai’s eyes stated his doubt that the ladies were alive. It was a doubt Arthur refused to share.

“They will have to wait.” Those were the hardest words he had ever spoken. But once past his lips, the rest came easily enough. “Surprise is our ally. We must deal with the main body of the invasion force, Cai, before they can strengthen their position and become harder to defeat.”

“Ah, but think of how much more fun we’d have that way, Arthur.”

“Right.” Despite the swelling tide of worry, he chuckled. “Send two centuries into the hills east of Tanroc to watch the fort and guard our rear. Then let’s hunt some Scots!”

Chapter 23

U
RIEN HAD NO doubts about the identity of the prisoner bound, facing him, to the stake on the ridge behind the enemy encampment. There was only one person on the island whose presence in the hands of the Scots could mean anything to him.

How on earth had the swine found out?

He uttered a mirthless laugh. So Angusel’s story had held a grain of truth after all. The best lies always did. He congratulated himself for having the foresight to lock the murderer away. With a grin, he imagined what the Pict must be doing in the dank darkness, alone but for the rats and his wicked thoughts.

Shoving Angusel from his mind, he studied Gyanhumara’s tiny form. He was glad to see her alive and infuriated at the Scots for what they were doing to her. But not angry enough to be goaded into attempting anything as foolish as a pitched battle against a force that was twice the size of his just to try to win her back.

It was easy to shrug off that temptation for a while. Some time spent under the merciless skies might even teach the ungrateful wench to be a bit more appreciative of his attentions.

Besides, surely the Scots would recognize the failure of their trick soon enough.

Yet, as he waited in his siege headquarters in the guard tower over the western gate of Port Dhoo-Glass, the crawling hours exacted their toll. Two spawned two more. The unseen sun reached its zenith and started to descend behind the sodden clouds, and still Gyanhumara stayed at the stake. She seemed smaller now than when her torture had begun. Was she buckling under the stress? Urien thoroughly cursed the distance that prevented him from seeing her clearly enough to tell for certain.

Were the Scots planning to let her die up there?

His fist crashed into the timber ledge. No man had the right to deprive him of what was lawfully his! Nor was he about to have his long-range plans thwarted by a pack of heathen dogs. If the Scots weren’t going to give up, then by God neither would he!

He focused his attention upon the steady construction of the Scots’ siege engines and scaffolds. To a man, they wielded their tools with gleeful vigor. Many structures stood close to completion. Whether he went after Gyanhumara or not, he would be engaging them soon.

The fleet that had blockaded Dhoo-Glass Harbor, Urien didn’t want to begin to contemplate, though he knew he must deal with that problem too.

Thus far, there had been no attack on the city, and the invaders had made camp safely beyond bowshot range of the walls. More than once, a knot of the fatherless sons formed at the forefront of the camp to hop about like mad toads, shaking spears and flinging insults. When the dance reached its frenzied peak, one of them would streak toward the wall, leaping and dodging and rolling to avoid steel-barbed death. Those who reached the gates landed a kick to the unyielding timbers before dashing away.

The masters of this deadly game were carried back into the camp on the shoulders of their cheering comrades. The novices were left to rot where they fell.

Watching one of the more successful attempts—the warrior had sustained only a grazed shoulder—it occurred to Urien that perhaps an assault on the camp before their siege equipment was finished was not such a bad idea after all. His miraculous success would win Gyanhumara’s gratitude and warm the chilly attitude she had developed toward him over the past few weeks.

And if he failed…well. A woman’s feelings didn’t matter to a dead man.

The sound of running footsteps in the corridor invaded his thoughts. He turned, feeling his lips thin into a scowl. More bad news on the way, no doubt.

A guard clattered to a halt in the doorway and saluted. “My lord,” he gasped. “The—the eastern lookouts—”

“Come on, man. Out with it!”

The guard drew a deep breath, let it out, and drew another. “Our fleet, my lord. It’s on the way! According to the lookouts, it should arrive within the hour.”

Urien dismissed the man with a wave and returned his attention to the activity in the siege camp, thoughtfully fingering his chin. The signal had gotten through, then. Good. If the fleet could break the blockade to land reinforcements, that would certainly make Urien’s job a lot easier. But he felt his jaw clench as he considered another implication: Arthur would reap all the credit.