In the midst of this bedlam of angry shout and counter-shout,
an arwein approached Caswallawn from behind his huge and dazzling throne to
whisper something in his ear and the King’s eyes sparkled at the news. His
glittering eyes moved then across the great hall to his left, back toward the
source of the dispute and he caught the eye of Ochor once more. The King in
charge of DunCamulo and the leader of the rebellion snarled back at him through
the smoke but Caswallawn ignored him, looking then to Ochor’s left and at the slimmer,
younger face of Prince Aracorn of DunErb; a close eastern neighbour. A
quizzical look softened this Belgic Prince’s pinched face at that moment, in
response maybe to the smug, satisfied look on Caswallawn’s.
*
* * * *
A barn-owl hooted twice from somewhere in the dark and the
outpost guard turned his head at the sound, toward the forest’s edge behind
him. He never saw the arrow that streaked out from the blackness to thunk solidly into the front of his
skull and as his eyeballs rolled upwards towards it, the sentry fell back to
the turf without a sound.
There was no moon and the heavy cloud cover in the night sky,
obliterated all the stars too. A guard’s vision was compromised for at least
half an hour after coming out from a well-lit thatch and until his night-sight
kicked-in fully. This fact had eased the swift death of this guard and his
three compatriots at the other three points of the compass around this hilltop
Dun that towered over them. The Caer’s guard-shift had just changed and these
unawake and poorly sighted lookouts, had all died without a sound.
A pair of hard, pale eyes surveyed the Caer from the fringes
of this forest to its north, from a high shelf in the bedrock which stepped-up
at this forest’s edge. This long finger of granite outcrop reached south toward
this hilltop fortress, giving a much better outlook of its layout and defences
but its outpost guard was long-dead. The snarling face of a sharp-toothed black
fox hung over this warrior’s head, with its ears pinned back for fighting and
the back legs of its cured body were wrapped around his broad chest, fastened
with a silver clasp. The fox’s forelegs formed a chin-strap and the tip of the
bushy black tail hung below the man’s waist. This broad, powerful looking
warrior on one knee at the forest’s edge was the leader of these two hundred
highly-trained men and not a shred of mercy was revealed in the lifeless and
pale eyes, or in his harsh and uncompromising features as he surveyed the
deeply shadowed fortress before him.
They had all tracked and found their own rare black fox when
they had become men of this elite Demeta force and all wore their hard-earned
tails and fox-fur armbands with immense pride. These simple scraps of black fur
were their badges of honour within their ancient House and they had all sweated
blood to gain them. Their mantles were a dark weave and their round shields
were black with pitch and their faces bore the same black streaks of charcoal
soot. These well-travelled warriors crouched behind their Nêr Galwyn ap Gair, the short but immensely capable man who had led
them here. Ten of his best vassal shadow-stalkers had entered the silent and dark fortress some time ago, using a tall timber
ladder and Galwyn watched for sign of their success from under the black fox of
command.
This black fox strapped to his head and shoulders looked out
above him and whose glassy eyes, stared out across the same hundred reeds of
waste-ground before the Caer and the tall arched northern gate atop a long
flight of stone steps. This stairway snaked up the side of the hill and over
the double ring of ditches to a small walled courtyard balcony, which served
as a high waiting yard for any callers to this rear entrance. The Nêr’s amber
eyes scanned the tops of the battlements again from this elevated position and
the Demetau warrior could see beyond them to the vast swathes of rich
farmland, which this region was blessed with and which surrounded this hillfort
of the Western Trinobantau. His long-scouts had informed him that there were
few other strongholds nearby which could offer timely support to this Caer and
that the whole territory was soft, full of farmsteads and communities rather
than fortresses and warriors and that it was ripe for the taking, like a dark
juicy plum.
DunErb and its surrounding communities had been part of
Casufelawny many generations ago but had been taken by force by the late King
Dunfallawn’s grandfather. This inward bulge in Casufelawny’s eastern border and
the land around this dark Caer, had never really been incorporated fully into
Trinobanta and even the people who lived here had always felt differently. Its
cultural differences from the central lands of Trinobanta were apparent and the
locals with their unique dialect here, had remained more Casufel even to this day. This part of the border had been fluid
for many centuries and it would reform again this night, with violence and a
mercenary force. Unknown to its sleeping werrin, those that survived would once
again become citizens of Casufelawny.
The huge studded oak door in its stone arch frame at the top
of this high flight of stairs, was lit by a torch either side in its becket and
the monstrous black shadows around this pedestrian gate and the stone balcony
around it grew and danced as their flames flickered in the wind. These
invisible and ever watchful, silent killers crouching around their leader knew
the huge double-gates atop the ramp of the western face of this Caer were
firmly shut. Even though they could only see the very bottom of the long, paved
ramp from this part of the forest, they could see well enough that there were
few lights visible from the Caer and it was locked-down and as silent as the
grave, with but a handful of sleepy guards patrolling the battlements.
Nêr Galwyn and his fox looked up to the sky again to get a
rough idea of the time, but the dark night-sky was still smothered with even
darker clouds and the parentheses that framed his mouth deepened, being the
only outward sign of his mounting frustration.
A movement snapped his focus back up to the high courtyard
door then as it opened slowly, and the figure of a man appeared in the moving,
dancing gleam of the torches at either side. Galwyn knew by the size and shape
of this man that it was his Rhingyll Killan and the sergeant raised his right
arm, giving the clear and familiar signal, before repeating the same signal
with his left arm and Galwyn grunted with the release of his tension. His man
Killan, doused both torches at the rear entrance, plunging this high gateway
and its steep approaches into darkness.
Galwyn stood then without a word and began to trot in a low
crouch, down the rubble-strewn slope and across the rough, tussocked ground
toward the bottom step of this long flight of worn stone steps ahead. His men
followed swiftly and silently behind him, moving lithe and low like the
sinuous black hounds of Lug himself, raised to this world for the darkest of
deeds. The elite shadow-stalkers of the Wythonau had taken care of the sleepy
guards patrolling the battlements and in a few short minutes, all the black-fox
warriors had swarmed up the steps to charge through the now unguarded door and
flood into the Dun. An owl hooted a
prophetic rebuke from the nearby forest but nonetheless and under a starless
sky, the killing began.
The terrible screaming tore the silence of this dark night
asunder, but it was far too late to do anybody any good. The off-duty guards
had all died in their sleep in their barrack beds with their throats cut and
all the stewards, the young arwein and squires had been next. These black-fox
warriors were to a-man experts at the dark arts of insidious assault and
assassination, especially the shield less shadow-stalkers of the wild Wythonau
among them. They had broken into the absent Prince Aracorn’s royal chambers,
like a black death-carrying swarm.
The Prince’s two personal guards had put up a tremendous
fight, killing seven of the smaller Black-Fox warriors before they were subdued,
and the royal family were then trapped at the back of the royal bed chamber.
Prince Aracorn’s teenage son had stood before his family and valiantly held at
bay two Demeta invaders with his heirloom sword but fell from an expertly
thrown dagger to his throat by a shadow-stalker. The brave boy died gurgling on
his parent’s bedroom rug, as his screaming mother and sisters were quickly put
to the sword around him. All the warriors of this fortress were then slain
without a word spoken, as there had been nothing on their part to say. They
were here for one thing only, the death of all within this great Dun.
People began awaking to the horror that was taking place in
their fortress, but all too soon any real defensive threat they could mount
against their attackers had been efficiently eliminated. The survivors; the
old men, the civilian women and all the children who lived within these high
walls were then herded together into one corner of the central parade ground.
There they were slaughtered by a grim-faced circle of these merciless sword
and spearmen, who didn’t even flinch at the profiteering bloodshed, as all were
highly experienced in the taking of human life and it meant little to them. The
black-fox warriors of Demeta carved through these screaming innocents with as little
thought as a farmer scythes through his ripe crop under Alban Elfed, the late and merciless light of the Autumn Equinox.
Within the hour, these blood-spattered butchers were manning
the palisaded battlements and their elite Wythonau comrades guarded the strong
room. Every living thing found inside this dark fortress had been dragged out
to the quadrangle and slaughtered like a sacrificial goat.
The Demetau leader Nêr Galwyn, released two messenger pigeons
from their willow cages and his shoulders relaxed a little at their fluttering
launch into flight, as the first part of his mission was successfully
completed. All he had to do now was to hold DunErb until relieved by
Caswallawn’s men, whenever that would be.
*
* * * *
Some busy royals had left immediately the crychiad had ended,
including the deflated nobles and the Belgic Gŵyrd of the unruly northern
Trinobantau, but not before Prince Aracorn of DunErb had taken one final
worried look at his expansive, sharply smiling host who slouched nonchalantly on
his glittering throne, as there had been something troubling in his smug attitude.
Most Brythons had stayed behind and had formed big knots of leaders and
warriors, who talked earnestly about their preparations for the looming war
with the Romans.
Another arwein approached the dais quietly from behind the
throne and bent to whisper in Caswallawn’s ear again and the King of the
Brythonau Dde’s shark-like smile broadened. Stepping down and sharing the news
quietly with his family members at the front tables, they smiled back in
congratulation for his successes this night and raised a toast to his laudable
ambition.
As five hundred of Casufelawny’s bronze-shield warriors
prepared quietly to move-out in darkness from the far eastern gate, a
dark-mantled and solitary rider left the Caer quietly through the front gate,
preceding Caswallawn’s covert relief force but taking a more direct route.
This man’s dress and accoutrements were highly unusual, mostly black fur and leather with bones woven into his long hair and beard, as this uncommon man was one of the Ailyllwr - a shape-shifting tracker of long legend. His lane north-east was the same drover’s lane which the reduced Trinobanta alliance had taken a little earlier and this ultimate, silent hunter set-off easily behind those rebels for the sixty-mile journey, thoughtlessly following their bold tracks in the starlight toward the distant hills, rising ominously in the darkness of the east.
This man’s dress and accoutrements were highly unusual, mostly black fur and leather with bones woven into his long hair and beard, as this uncommon man was one of the Ailyllwr - a shape-shifting tracker of long legend. His lane north-east was the same drover’s lane which the reduced Trinobanta alliance had taken a little earlier and this ultimate, silent hunter set-off easily behind those rebels for the sixty-mile journey, thoughtlessly following their bold tracks in the starlight toward the distant hills, rising ominously in the darkness of the east.
Fox warriors of Demeta.
No comments:
Post a Comment