The Beast of Caer Baddan (11 page)

Chapter Nine: Destruction of Holton

Leola limped all the way to the town’s main road, before she stopped to take a deep breath and regain some composure.

I’m alive! I’m alive! I’m alive!

She shivered, first at the thought of her close brush with death and than again for the chilly night breeze.

Leola gazed down at her soaked dress, bodice, and apron. Even in the dark night, she knew that she was a mess.

He tried to strangle me!

As she steadied her whirling head, she found herself surrounded by the bustling movement of a busy town. The women of Holton were scurrying up the road around her, dragging their sleepy children in tow and pushing her out of their way as they went. The very air they breathed seemed filled with panic.

“What?” Leola gasped, the burning from the stream water still consuming her desperate lungs. “What is it?”

“Leola!” one woman cried. “There’s the battle horn! War!”

War?

At first the words were incomprehensible.

“War!” the women cried.

“But that’s not until morning,” Leola said, stunned.

She listened to the bristling blasts of the sentry’s horn. It signaled battle, either for the warriors going to fight or if an enemy made war on the town.

“We are under attack!” she gasped, and her right hand made the sign of a cross from her head to her heart and from her right to her left.

“Into the mead hall!” someone yelled.

The women went, carrying what they could and dragging their sleepy children along. Leola had no time to return to her own house for belongings and so followed the rest of the women into the security of the mead hall.

The grand feasting room of Holton, that had only a few hours before held every warrior in Gewisland, was now the sanctuary for the frightened women and children of the town. They went in and found places on the benches or along the walls. When all were inside, the women lifted the bar and placed it on its hooks across the door to keep anyone else out.

Leola went to the back wall and curled up on the floor. She was more exhausted than before, and now half drowned. What had happened but a moment ago played over in her mind until she wept.

“Leola,” came Ardith’s soft voice. “Are you scared?”

In spite of her shock and fear, Leola was impressed that Ardith had found her hiding place in the fireless room. Perhaps it was only because the Ardith had discovered Leola there so many times in the shadows under the hanging banners, that the search, even in the dark
,  prove an simple task.

“No, Ardith,” Leola said, wiping her eyes. “My head hurts terribly. Do not worry for me.”

Ardith sat down by her side, and Leola could see the terror on the younger woman's face.

“Yea,” Ardith whispered. “We were woken so suddenly.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“The guard said it was the Britisc. I heard him talking to Father. Father was dressed in an instant and left. I hope he is safe.”

Leola sighed.

She knew they must sit and wait until the battle was over, but waiting seemed an endless nightmare.

The screams and yells of war loudly echoed, and the harsh crash of metal and shattering wood resounded.

Ardith jumped at the noise, as if the walls were reaching out to grab her.

“Shh,” Leola said. “It is a battle. That's simply what they sound like.”

Leola had never actually heard a battle before but wished to calm her young mistress.

She tried to close her eyes and rest, yet the pounding of her heart would not be calmed. Her right hand moved to embrace her young friend, but there in an instant she realized that something was wrong. She held out her knife before her and stared at the drying blood, Raynar’s blood. She had not left the knife in the warrior’s back but had kept it firm in her grasp.

Leola took the underside of her apron and wiped the knife. She couldn’t very well throw it away for she knew now how handy a knife was, and yet she would not let Ardith see the dark black stain.

I killed a warrior
.

What a strange thought that was.
Strange and horrifying, and perhaps a little gratifying.

Leola shoved the idea from her head and focused on the younger woman by her side.

Owain went, sword in hand and voice loud with the cries of war. The soldiers around him, following his lead, plunged into the grouping Gewissae warriors. The Gewissae were no strangers to war, but it was clear to Owain that for this battle, they were not yet prepared.

Owain came on each warrior and cut him down with clean simple strikes, until his armor was splattered with blood and his painted face wet with perspiration. His mind was on the task before him, and how to most efficiently complete it. He would not stop until the enemy was completely annihilated. He could not even pause for a moment. For if he did, he felt he would have failed his mother once more.

His pulse beat loudly in his temples and his eyes stung from dirt and salty sweat. His fingertips trembled with every new step he took. Yet he pressed on, dodging the heavy war hammers and long swords of the Saxon men and bringing his swift strikes hard onto their chain-mail covered bodies. He heard their battle cries ringing in his ears at their initial clash and then their agonizing screams of pain as he crushed their collar bones and sliced through their forearms.

“Owain!
Owain! Owain!”

He suddenly realized that those left standing around him were his own soldiers, and the Gewissae lay dead at his feet.

“Go on, Men!” Owain cried to his soldiers. “Take the houses apart. Any man you find, kill him!”

Owain looked over to see a young Gewissae, blinking and staring up at him. The man was bleeding heavily from his abdomen and held a bleeding socket where his right arm should have been. He was younger then Owain, perhaps twenty, but Owain did not take the moment to suppose.

The man was an adversary to be extinguished.

Owain placed his sword into the young man’s open throat and drove it deep within. The man’s eyes bulged and blood spewed from his mouth.

In the distance, Owain heard the high and panicked voice of Annon, whom he had left but a half an hour before.

“Prince Owain!” the boy cried.

“What!” Owain replied, rubbing his painted forehead with the back of his hand.

“Prince Owain!”

Owain turned from the ending skirmish and with backwards glances, went to the spot where his soldiers had first lined up for battle. He found Annon standing on a bounded pile of hay, exactly where Owain had left him at the start of the battle, so the boy could watch what happened.

“What is wrong?” Owain asked.

“It is dark,” Annon said, relieved. “I could not see you.”

“This is war, Boy,” Owain said, amused.

He took Annon down from his designated high point and started messing up his long hair.

“Ow!” the boy cried.
“Stop!”

Owain laughed. “Let us go.”

“Shall I fight?” Annon asked, his eyes brightening at the thought.

“No. I shall fight, and you shall stay close to me. It is nearly over. Let us find Prince Britu.”

He went into the town to find the last remnants of the battle which had fled therein, and Annon followed close behind him.

One by one the scattered Gewissae warriors would run up to strike them, but Owain's quick movement would not let a blow find its mark. He then sliced through their necks or arms and left them dead.

“You are the most amazing warrior in the world,” Annon said, his awe clear from his voice.

“Not as amazing as the Pendragons of old,” Owain replied. “Now they were great men.”

His thoughts traveled to his grandmother and what she used to say about the Pendragons and their daring feats.

“A little of their souls live in us, Annon,” Owain continued. “If we can touch it, we too shall be great.”

“I think you already are,” the boy replied.

Owain smiled, laughing at the idea, for he had to agree with it. As long as the battle raged and his body was high with energy and anticipation, he felt as though he too was great.

The darkness of the mead hall felt heavy around them, as if they breathed some invisible weight instead of air.

“Do you hear that?” one woman asked.

They listened.

“There is no sound,” Ardith said, with an annoyed frown.

“Yea,” the woman said, and her voice became sharp. “There is no sound.”

Leola understood what the woman meant, and her heart panged inside her from the knowledge.

“What does that mean?” Ardith asked.

Leola lowered her head and looked away, unsure of how to explain it to her young friend.

“What does that mean?” Ardith said again.

“If the men had won, they would now be returning, singing the songs of victory and praising their champions all the way back here to the mead hall,” Leola replied.

“They have lost,” said another woman.

“No!” Ardith screamed and began to weep. “No! No!”

Leola clasped her tightly and rocked her back and forth.

What happens now? What do we do?

There was nothing to do but sit and wait. This would not be too hard for her as she was still tired from a sleepless night. She only wished that she was not so damp and cold from the stream water. The cold air in the mead hall had given her clothing no opportunity to dry.

“What of my father?” Ardith cried. “Where is he?”

“Shh,” Leola replied. “Perhaps he has escaped the battle. Do not think on it.”

But her own thoughts traveled to her uncle, Fensalir, and the uncertainty of his fate.

Is he dead? Are they all dead? What has happened?

Leola
squinted her eyes, as if by trying to see better in the dark, she might hear more clearly. Then the faint cheers and songs of wars consumed her ears.

“What is it?” Ardith whispered.

One of the women wailed aloud.

“What is
it!” Ardith screamed. “What is it!”

“Shh,” Leola said, trying to calm her.