Morning's Journey (57 page)

She smeared her blood between her fingers, replaced the glove, and gripped her sword in both fists.

Mine is vengeance, daughter. Mankind’s is revenge. Choose!

This Sasun had invaded Maun without provocation, giving Gyan a wound that would bind her to Angusel and torture her to the grave with the very thing she’d hoped to avoid. Angusel’s intervention violated honor. He’d had no right to affect the duel’s outcome.

Angusel hadn’t saved Loholt’s life…but he had saved hers. Again.

A swift glance at the mangled corpses convinced her she wasn’t ready to accept that fate.

But Loholt’s loss and Angusel’s role in it shrouded her heart. Grief demanded retribution. Honor demanded reward. Death for death; life for life. The misery emanating from Angusel’s stance suggested a more prolonged retribution: life for death.

My Way is death for life; choose.

“Leave me alone! Your Way is impossible to understand!” she shouted in Caledonaiche at the murky heavens. “Where were You when Loholt needed You? When I needed You?” She pummeled her thigh, heedless of the pain. “Why didn’t You answer me?”

Were you listening?

A flush heated her face. Sweat chilled her spine. Her fist stilled. She licked her lips.

Were you?

Ignoring Angusel’s confused stare, she whispered, “I am now.”

Then choose.

She raised her sword, clenched her teeth, and chose.

THE SASUNACH commander’s head rolled across the blood-slick ground.

Up jerked Angusel’s head. He half feared he’d be next and half wished he would be. Oblivion never had seemed more appealing.

He met Gyan’s gaze, praying for a sign of forgiveness. She bent to grab the Shasunach head and shouldered past him.

Her newest trophy tied by the hair to her sword belt, spattering blood as it bounced against her thigh, she lunged into the fray without a backward glance, a soul-freezing battle cry on her lips and steel death in her fist.

Through tear-blurred eyes, he watched her disappear, guarded closely by Gawain and other Tanroc soldiers, wishing she’d taken his own head. It would have hurt far less.

Grief collided with anger in his soul, igniting his battle frenzy with lightning-bolt force and searing away the tears. Screaming and brandishing his sword, he charged the Sasunach line.

He had nothing left to lose.

“BEDWYR!”

The son of Bann swatted at the offending hand. Like a hungry horsefly, it refused to go away.

“Bedwyr, wake up,” buzzed the persistent voice. “I need the fleet. Now!” A shove rocked his shoulder.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back. His sleep-crusted eyes gradually focused upon the apparition looming over him. Arthur? At Caerglas? With no advance word? Surely not. He must be dreaming.

No, he wasn’t. Nor was this Caerglas, he recalled. His patrol had docked at Caer Lugubalion the day before to enjoy a brief shore leave.

All too brief, apparently.

He glanced at the window. “Gods, Arthur, it’s nowhere near daybreak.” He pulled the woolen blanket to his ears and turned away from the annoyance he usually was happy to call friend. “Can’t a man get any sleep?”

“Not with an invasion in progress.”

“Invasion?” He sat up. Hair cascaded into his face. From the bedside table, he snatched a leather thong. “Here?”

“Maun.” Bedwyr didn’t miss the concern hiding beneath the hard edge of Arthur’s voice.

“Again?” As his sleep-numbed hands fumbled behind his head, surprise stopped him midknot. “Cuchullain can’t possibly be strong enough yet.”

“Not Cuchullain. Saxons.”

“Saxons? On Maun?” The knot secure at last, he flexed his fingers and stared at Arthur. “Are you certain?”

The oil lamp wavered as Arthur set it upon the table. Light glinted off the bronze rivets of his battle-kilt and baldric.

“At least fifteen hundred in twenty-five ships, according to the signal-beacon report. That’s all I know.” Arthur dug his knuckles into his palm.

“A journey like that would be…” Bedwyr squinted, wrestling with the calculation. “Six hundred miles. A lot more if they follow the coastline to avoid my patrols. That’s a fortnight of sailing at the very least. Weeks to plan the affair, months more to gather men and weapons and provisions and—”

“I know.”

“Why go to such trouble for that tiny spit of land?”

“It seems, my friend, that the Saxons have discovered its strategic value, like Cuchullain before them.” Arthur’s gaze intensified. “They must be trying a night attack on Dhoo-Glass.”

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Bedwyr swore.

“Dress quickly.” Arthur started for the door. “There’s much to be done yet before we sail.”

“I can handle the fleet, Arthur, and the men.” He reached for his undertunic. “You don’t need to suspend the Angli campaign.”

“Yes. I do.” Stark lines of worry creased his friend’s brow.

“Oh, no,” Bedwyr whispered. “Gyan…”

“Exactly.” Arthur resumed his course. “Meet me at the docks.”

“Lucky thing my patrol was in port tonight.” The undertunic slid over his chest, a welcome shield against the chill. “And that you were here inspecting the troops.” He stood and paced to his armor chest.

Arthur paused with a hand on the door handle. “You know I don’t believe in luck.” The worry yielded to grim determination. “Or coincidence.”

“Come on, Arthur. You have to believe in luck.” Arthur shot him a look that, for all its impatience, invited him to explain. Bedwyr grinned. “How else can you explain the success of your enemies?”

The Pendragon snorted and left.

BELLOWED ORDERS and pounding feet splintered Cynda’s dreams. She sat up, gasping, and peered about the darkened chamber. Seumas, who had escorted her from Arbroch in response to Dafydd’s urgent message, had also awakened and was struggling with the thongs of his battle-tunic. She rose and hurried over to help him.

Bitterly, she had protested Ogryvan’s decision to send her to Maun. Gyan’s accusatory words had branded her heart with guilt and shame. Cynda feared her reception would be nothing like the one she’d received from Lord Artyr the day before.

Seumas girded on his sword, lit a lamp, and inched forward as stealthily as leather and metal would allow. Voices sounded in the corridor, and he cocked his ear toward the door.

Cynda shrugged into her overdress, laced on her shoes, and joined him, gripping his arm. “Is this place under attack?” She hoped the whisper hid the tremor in her voice.

Ogryvan’s best warrior lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “I cannot make out what is being said.” The voices moved on. Seumas straightened and gazed at the ceiling, creaking under the passage of many feet. “They’re aye preparing for something.”

She fetched her cloak, flung it about her shoulders, and strode back to the door. Seumas, arms folded and countenance stern, barred her way. “What are you doing, Seumas? Please step aside.”

“Carrying out my orders,” he replied gruffly. “If we’re under attack, you should not be in the midst of it.”

Hands on hips, Cynda rolled her eyes. “But we might not be. I must know. Lord Artyr promised to secure my passage to Maun. I—” She heaved a breath, suppressing her doubts and fears. “I would rather be at Gyan’s side.”
If she’ll have me.
“Not stranded here, waiting for her consort’s return while he runs off on some mission.”

“Nay.”

“Seumas,” she said, fighting to keep the exasperation to a reasonable level. “I birthed you and taught your mother how to change your swaddling. I also taught her to swat your arse when you misbehaved. If you don’t want me to demonstrate that lesson—”

A sharp pounding cut her off. Seumas drew his sword, lifted the bolt, and eased the door open a crack. Cynda stood on tiptoe but couldn’t see past the warrior’s bulk. He sheathed his sword and opened the door wider, stepping aside.

Lord Artyr stood in the corridor, arrayed in Ròmanach battle-gear, his red-crested bronze helmet tucked under one arm and his short scarlet cloak replaced by the long, hooded black one that Gyan liked to wear. He greeted her with a terse nod. “Gather your gear and meet me at the docks. You’re coming to Maun with me.”

She glanced out the window, consternation and confusion furrowing her brow. “Now, my lord?” Then the greater implication hit. Her heart twisted. “Gyan—is she all right?”

“I don’t know.” Frustration bled through his tone. He said to Seumas, “Your duty to Cynda is discharged. I assume responsibility for her safety. Return to Ogryvan with the report that Maun is under attack, status of residents unknown. I will send word when I can.” He began to turn away, stopped himself, and faced them, smiling faintly. “And thank him for the use of his pigeons. I plan to develop a flock for myself.”

CONFRONTED WITH the death of their leader, the Shasunaich resolve began to waver. The arrival of Per’s troops shattered it. By tens and scores and hundreds, the enemy fled into the predawn gloom.

Gyan stared at her reddened sword. Braonshaffir had served her much better, she thought with a wry smile, than Arthur’s other gift. The One God alone knew where that bedeviled horse had bolted. She stooped to wipe Braonshaffir on the tunic of the nearest corpse. The search for Macmuir would have to wait. With a solemn nod to Braonshaffir’s dead benefactor—whether Caledonach, Breatanach or Sasunach, it remained too dark to tell—she sheathed the sword and shouted to her men to break off pursuit and regroup.

Let the michaoduin run tuck-tailed to their ships, she decided. If they left the island, so be it. If not, she’d deal with them later. Now was the time for assessment and desperately needed rest.

She found the nearest tree and braced a hand against its rough steadiness. Pain flared in every muscle. Her ebbing battle frenzy gave her a fair idea of how an empty nutshell must feel.

Even her grief had retreated. Though she seemed no closer to possessing answers about what had happened to Loholt or why, the questions had stopped tormenting her, for which she felt profound gratitude. Too much of the future lay ahead to expend too much emotional energy on the past.

Closing her eyes, she bowed her head in silent thanksgiving.

A hand gripped her shoulder. “You all right, Commander Gyan?”