Shadowland (22 page)

The man who claimed the right to rule the Britons
wasn’t a big man. In fact, he had a thin frame and carried himself with a
slight stoop.
What he did possess,
however, was a temper that once unleashed could break a man twice his size. He
felt no fear for the giant Saxon and his men. Deep-set eyes, grey and as cold
as his fortress, stared out at the Saxons over a cruelly hooked nose and a
short black beard.

‘Sit down,’ growled Hengist; throwing the bone he
had been gnawing over his shoulder. Two large dogs that had been waiting
patiently, drooling with anticipation, pounced on it, growling and fighting
over the offering. Sucking the meat juices from his fingers, the Saxon leader
stared up at the glaring Vortigern, clearly unimpressed by the King of the
Britons. ‘Sit down. You are blocking whatever heat the fire offers.’ He wiped
his hand down his heavy tunic, adding to the variety of stains already upon it.
‘We will keep looking for the children, although I still fail to see why. I
place little store in the visions of these mages.’ His eyes flickered to the
two hooded figures. ‘We should just meet with this Ambrosius and drive him into
the sea. My men are warriors, while most of his
rabble have never even held a sword!’

‘You gather the children because I wish it so!’
stormed Vortigern. ‘When we kill Ambrosius and you leave, I do not want any
other members of his line remaining to threaten my rule. We shall find the brat
and end the line of Constantine
for good. As for the girl, I have it on good authority that she is important to
my enemies, she must also die. Do not question me, just do what I have paid you
for, and find them. Also, be aware that my intention is to march upon Ambrosius
within one cycle of the moon. Be sure that you and your men are ready!’ He
turned and strode from the hall with the four other Britons hurrying after him.

‘We should kill them all now and take this land for
ourselves. Enough of this searching for children and making happy with blustering
fools.’

‘Hush, brother.’ Hengist scowled at Horsa across the
table. ‘We shall claim this land but only when the time is right. For now, we
shall accept their gold, eat their meat,’ he picked up a rabbit’s leg and waved
it at his brother, ‘and bide our time. Let us use them for a while. Allow them
to kill each other before we grind what remains of their warriors into
submission.’ He pushed the platter of meats to his brother then lifted his
tankard of ale and tipped it back. The little that didn’t dribble onto his
chest made it down his throat and he belched loudly before slamming the tankard
back down onto the table. ‘Nothing has stopped us so far. We control nearly all
land between these gods-cursed mountains and the eastern coast. The tribes of the
Britons are pathetic; any backbone they may once have possessed has been bred
out of them by the Romans. This Ambrosius will fold as all the rest have.’

‘So why pander to this fool Vortigern?’ Horsa
slammed his fist onto the table and rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Why, dear
brother, do we remain in this rat hole of a fortress freezing our arses off?
Why haven’t we stretched his miserable carcass across a rock, cut the living
heart from his chest and fed it to the crows?’

Hengist glanced up at his brother and then picked
over the plates for another piece of meat. Satisfied with his choice he gestured
for his brother to sit down and then reached across and patted his arm when he
did. ‘We do what we do because I say so. I lead and I say it is better to unite
with Vortigern against the rest of the Britons and then, when our boats arrive
with the spring thaw, we can play a different game. For now, eat and drink! Our
hosts would expect nothing less. Later, we get to hunt. Our host complains of
wolves in the area scaring away the game and I have promised we will rid him of
this inconvenience.’

‘More likely his foul moods and sour expression have
scared all the game away.’ A rare smile split Horsa’s face. ‘That or it’s more
probable that these cursed mountains hold little of any nourishment for game.
Beyond the forest there is nothing more than rocks, wind and rain. We are the
only things skulking up here. I doubt there are wolves here at all; he’s simply
running from shadows again. However, if there are wolves, they will at least
prove a diversion until we get to kill… ’ The sentence was left unfinished as
three servants entered and hurriedly dropped more food onto the table. They
were obviously frightened of the Saxon guests, which pleased Hengist and his
men. They backed out as quickly as they could, followed by a string of threats and
laughter. As the heavy door slammed shut, the dogs resumed their squabbling and
the Saxons returned to their feast.

****

‘They
were hard times for all, what with the Romans leaving. It left our Britain
open to all sorts, but then I have Saxon blood in my veins, as do many here, so
I can’t complain about that.’ There were murmurs of agreement in the room and
Uther glanced up, only just realising he had been interrupted again.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your story, I remember my grandfather talking about
it when I was a child. Course it were long before his time as well, but I like
the way you tell it as if you were really there.’ There was silence around the
fire as Uther blinked across, trying to make out the old woman’s face. It was
the farmer’s wife this time, her husband smiling quietly, beside her.

‘I was there.’ Uther looked across at Calvador Craen
who had turned around to observe the exchange.

‘I’m sorry, storyteller, but the times of which you
speak were... ’

‘Please allow my old friend to continue with his
tale,’ interrupted Calvador. He stood up and placed a hand protectively on
Uther’s shoulder. ‘I promise you won’t be disappointed.’ Thunder boomed outside
and the sound of a loose shutter banging came from another part of the inn. The
storm was getting closer.

‘Don’t you worry none, sir, I’m happy to listen to
the tale; I was only pointing out where it just couldn’t be right, but don’t
you mind me.’ She settled back down and her husband whispered something in her
ear that made her smile.

Ignoring them, Calvador Craen addressed his friend.
‘The Saxons led a fine wolf hunt, eh, Uther? Tell us about that. I for one
would like to hear more about the wolves.’

Chapter Thirteen – Cry of a wolf

Cal
lifted his nose and sniffed
at the damp air. People smell; an odour thick with stale sweat, cooked meat,
ale, mead and smoke. It was drifting faintly through the trees, mixing
unpleasantly with the fresh and earthy aromas of the forest. He turned his head
and sniffed again, seeing several of the other wolves do the same before
whining and glancing his way. Fear of man was a deep primal instinct for the
wolves and they wanted to leave.

Padding forward to the edge of the trees, Cal gazed up at the
stone fortress. It was ugly, a small mountain of piled rocks set starkly apart
from the surrounding land and forest. It
put a bad taste in his mouth just to look at it. He licked his chops.
A breeze rustled the trees
bringing more bad odours. Glancing to either side, he searched for the source
of the offending smell. There, moving close to the edge of the trees, a small
group of men, blind to the darkness of the night beyond what the light from
their burning torches revealed. They were hurrying along, trying hard to keep
up with two large dogs that were pulling hard against the ropes that held them.
The dogs had their noses pressed to the ground, their tails wagging furiously
as they followed the scent of the wolf pack.

Hunters again. Three times over the last eight nights
that the wolves had kept their vigil, the doors to the fortress had swung open
and Saxons and Picts had come out seeking to hunt and kill them. So far, Cal had managed to keep
the wolves one step ahead, combining his instincts as a wolf with his memory of
being human, once again, he knew it was time to leave. Giving a short bark, he
turned and led the pack on a steady run south through the dark forest, crossing
and re-crossing their path to confuse the dogs
and finally following a small stream for a stretch.
As the sound of barking
faded into the distance, they slowed to a steady lope having enjoyed the
exertion of the run, their tongues lolling happily from the side of their
mouths, their breath steaming in the cold night air. They continued towards what
had become their regular daytime lair, a series of small caves, high up amongst
a rocky outcrop that offered a good viewpoint should the hunters ever manage to
get this close.

Dawn was lending a rosy glow to the eastern sky by
the time they arrived. After a last check to see that the pack was together and
safe, Cal lay down in the entrance of a small cave; the sound of the pack
howling, calling the few stragglers to catch up, fading as he fell into a
contented sleep.

The following night, the wolves returned to the
fortress and Cal
immediately noticed a difference as he reached the edge of the trees. A lot
more people had arrived, with more wagons, and there was much more activity
than on any of the previous nights. Behind him, the wolves were nervous, making
small whining sounds as they milled about, unable to settle. Turning round, he
wagged his tail, and then stood, walked out of the tree line to show he had no
fear of the humans’ camp, and sat down to observe what was happening.

There were thousands of men now camped in front of
the fortress, an area that just a few days before had been clear desolate
hillside. As he tried to take it all in, he saw more arriving, Saxons, some
Picts, and a few others he didn’t recognise, lighting their way with burning torches.
This new group were directed to an area close to the forest, and he watched
with interest as they made camp before retreating into the trees to wait.
 

Around him, the wolves grew more restless, clearly
unhappy as the sounds of men throwing up shelters and calling to each other
drifted back to them. When three men entered the trees to find firewood, the
wolves slunk back into the shadows to watch silently. They also watched Cal, waiting for him to
signal them to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, as the men left with their wood,
he trotted forward, snarling when one of the wolves made to follow him, giving
a clear message that they were to stay where they were.

Knowing the humans had limited night-vision, the
silver grey wolf that carried the consciousness of Calvador moved silently into
the Saxon camp.
The humans’ scent was
heavy in the cold night air and was thick in odours most unpleasant. It mixed
with the slightly more acrid smoke that drifted from the camp’s numerous fires
to aggravate his highly sensitive nose.
Moving from shadow to shadow, he padded amongst the
hastily constructed huts and roundhouses, avoiding several stumbling figures,
and listening to the few whispering voices that he came across; but any
conversation he managed to overhear was in a language he couldn’t understand.
Feeling slightly frustrated, he began to make his way back to the security of
the forest. He set off, but then noticed a large fire crackling and spluttering
close to one of the largest huts with several people gathered around it. More
logs were tossed on and glowing embers burst up to float away into the dark
star-filled sky, the sight enticing him closer as the flames forced the
darkness to retreat and dance as shadows, eager to rush back in should the
flames begin to falter. Six men stood about the fire, warming themselves as
they passed a flagon of mead between them, talking loudly and laughing at some
shared joke.

Keeping low, Cal
crept forward.

The language was the same foreign tongue he had been
hearing elsewhere in the camp, which again meant he couldn’t understand
anything. However, something made him wait a little longer, maybe it was merely
the comforting lure of the fire. He contented himself in studying the men.

They were big, bearded and wrapped against the
night’s chill in cloaks of coarse wool. The flames from the fire reflected upon
conical helmets, pulled down over cloth hoods to keep the cold wind from their
ears and necks. A nose guard hung from the front of each helmet, which, as the
light from the fire threw shadows across their faces,
made the warriors appear as frightening apparitions to
the young wolf as he skulked nervously in the shadows.
Stilling his nerves, Cal tried to concentrate
on their conversation. It sounded as if they were complaining and moaning,
probably about their march here, or the cold and the necessity of being at
Vortigern’s bleak fortress, but they seemed to be enjoying the mead. Twice he
heard the name Ambrosius and was just about to move away, believing he could
learn no more, when a figure strode from the darkness making him shrink back
with an involuntary whine when he saw who it was,
 
a Saxon dressed from head to foot in black.

‘Horsa!’ The six warriors jumped to their feet. The
one who had hissed the warning to his fellows stepped forward to greet the
newcomer.

Cal realised he had been gradually edging back and
stopped moving, forcing himself to stay and see what would happen. Horsa had
clapped the warrior on the shoulder and accepted the proffered flagon of mead.
He was drinking greedily, heedless of the pained looks of the others as they
saw their mead flowing so freely down his neck. Another man appeared from one
of the shelters, this one dressed in normal clothes and a felt hat, tied under
his chin. He made to walk past, but then changed his mind and turned to address
Horsa in a crisp arrogant voice that Cal
had no trouble understanding.