would finally be an end to the bloodshed that had been part of his life ever since he was a boy. Now he feared he had been wrong.
Before turning in, he sat at the table and used the stone Idris had given him to sharpen his sword and spear, running it along each blade in turn until they felt keen enough to cut the air itself. Something in his bones told him he would need them before long.
Sleep did not come easily that night. When it did, it was filled with such tormented dreams as to make him to cry out in despair.
7Clearly an extraordinary position for a medieval warrior to hold, especially in Malory’s world of miracles.
NINE
They set out at dawn, Ellis leading the way. With him were Dodinal and Idris and three of the chieftain’s most trusted men. There was Emlyn, dark of hair and quick to smile, who had the surest aim. Then there was Hywel, dark also, a wiry man who rarely spoke but who was considered their most skilful tracker. And finally there was Elfed, a giant of a man whose blonde hair and beard set him apart from the others and who was said to have once wrestled a bear to the ground.
All three were younger than Idris but older than Dodinal. Each man held a spear, the weapon of a hunter. Their eyes were restless and vigilant, missing nothing. Dodinal carried the spear that Idris had given him, his sword sheathed at his side.
Idris had insisted on bringing his son. Why was anyone’s guess. Gerwyn did not want to be there, and made his reluctance known by constantly scowling and muttering under his breath. He held back from the rest of the party as if to reinforce his displeasure. Dodinal grinned as understanding dawned; Idris was punishing him.
The sky, as before, was steel blue and cloudless. Though it was cold when they set out, the air grew noticeably warmer as the hours passed, though not so warm as to melt the snow that crunched under their feet as they walked. While there was still no game to be found, Dodinal felt renewed hope that spring was finally on its way.
They journeyed in silence, troubled by the story Ellis had told. Children, vanishing as if into the air. Stolen away, so Ellis had said, although Dodinal still harboured doubts. The borderlands were harsh and unforgiving. There were countless ways a man could lose his life, let alone a lost and helpless child. If ravines or rivers did not claim them, there were creatures that could. Dodinal knew that better than anyone.
They had travelled perhaps two hours and the men had drifted apart, following their own paths, certain now that the forest was devoid of any kind of threat. Idris caught up with Dodinal and cleared his throat. “The weather is improving. I suppose that means you will be leaving us once we are done.”
As it was not a question, Dodinal chose not to answer. He had a feeling Idris would fill the silence, and he was right.
“As soon as the thaw comes, you’ll have no reason to stay.”
Dodinal shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You have doubts? I am surprised, sir knight. I would have thought you would be eager to be away on this quest of yours.”
Dodinal raised his eyebrows at
“I am in no hurry. The quest will be there whether I leave at the first sign of spring or wait ’til high summer.”
“I see,” Idris said. For a moment he seemed ready to say more, but then he bit his lip and turned away.
They walked in silence for a while after that. Dodinal watched Idris from the corner of his eye, suppressing a grin at the sight of the chieftain’s mouth moving soundlessly, as though rehearsing the words he wanted to say. Finally Idris shook his head and gave up, perhaps having concluded it would be best to wait until such time as Dodinal announced he was leaving before trying to persuade him to stay.
For a moment, the knight was tempted to tell the old man the secrets he was keeping from him, the story of his life, although he had never before felt the need to share it with anyone. Idris had shown him nothing but courtesy and hospitality. If anyone deserved to hear Dodinal’s tale, it was the white-haired chieftain.
Then again, he thought, remembering all that had happened to him since the Saxons had stolen his childhood, he would also reveal himself to be what he really was: a man with too much blood on his hands. A killer without mercy. Better to save his tale for another time, if at all. But still he remembered, and he let his mind drift…
On a cloudless summer day in Dodinal’s sixteenth year, he heard a distant commotion. With nothing else to occupy him, he went to investigate, moving through the forest until he was close enough to recognise the sounds of fighting.
As yet he could see nothing, as the battle was being fought on the other side of a wooded ridge ahead of him. His movements became more stealthy as he made his way closer; this was not his fight, and he had no desire to get involved.
Upon reaching the crest of the rise he pressed up against a tree for cover and peered around it. The ground before him fell away steeply, providing an uninterrupted view of the combat in the narrow valley below. Dodinal watched for a while, squinting against the flashes of light glinting off weapons and armour.
The melee was furious. There was no telling which side was winning. Bodies were strewn across the forest floor. Around them dozens of men, too many to count, hacked at each other with swords and axes, some blows blocked by shields or armour, others getting through to crush heads or tear through flesh and bone.
Dodinal grimaced as a man staggered away, mouth open wide in a scream that could not be heard above the clamour. His hand was pressed against the ragged stump at his shoulder in a futile attempt to staunch the blood pumping from it.
His suffering was mercifully short-lived, for a moment later an axe blade sunk deep into his throat. His head snapped back, attached to the neck only by a flap of skin, and he took a few staggering steps forward before collapsing.
Another man, almost immediately below Dodinal, was holding off three aggressors, using his sword expertly to divert their blows and jab at them. He drew blood with every swing, yet failed to hurt them enough to bring them down. He was tall and wore fine armour. Dodinal could see, even from his vantage point, that his blade was of the highest quality. It glittered in the sunlight as he wielded it.
The tall man backed away from the three and they followed, circling him warily, prodding and testing with their swords, looking for a way through his stubborn defences but finding none.
Dodinal could not help but nod in admiration. He was no fighter, but he recognised skill when he saw it. What a shame this man would surely die, for the odds were not in his favour.
The stranger edged away until he had backed up into the steep slope. He came to a halt, unable to go any further. “Come on, then, you sons of Saxon whores!” he roared.
Dodinal had heard the name spoken many times on his travels, always with hatred and fear. It was the name given to the people who had attacked his village, who had slaughtered every man, woman and child there… who had killed his father and condemned his mother to an unknowable but doubtless terrible fate.
Fury boiled up inside him. He had been wrong to think this was not his battle. He had sworn vengeance after he found his father dead, and vengeance he would have.
With that, the same red mist that had engulfed him all those years ago descended on him again like a blood- soaked veil. With a bellow of unrestrained rage, he drew his sword and charged headlong down the slope, somehow keeping his footing as earth and stones shifted and tumbled down beneath him. The Saxons looked up, shock clear
