The Gadwyr had fired the walls of the barracks
and the back of this fortress, once all the soldiers in it had been chopped to
pieces in their rage, before they charged through the fortress slaughtering
every living thing they came across. Leading the six ghost-warrior’s, the
diversionary force of roaring and grinning Gadwyr had poured through the
fortress killing all, and the corridors were left looking like a butcher’s shop
on market day morning.
They had burst into the central compound with
their blood soaked double-headed axes spinning, where the remaining defenders
had assembled in shock and awe. They were hopelessly outclassed, and these
defending tribesmen seemed to bounce off the mighty Gadwyr to land shattered to
the dirt-packed timbers. Any who survived this massive initial collision were
swiftly dispatched by the wickedly sharp blade of a following ghost-warrior’s
dagger. These unstoppable Galedonians angered beyond all reason by what they
had witnessed, forged forwards without check in this stunning way and none of
the defenders could stand. As the wildly animated and blood-splattered Gadwyr
charged the inside of the gatehouse with the most blood-curdling screams and
their teeth shining white through their red beards, the few scruffy defenders
who were huddled around it scattered.
The bar was soon lifted and removed, and the
heavy timber gates thrown open, revealing the long torch-lit causeway ahead and
freedom. To one side crouched the valiant band of chosen men awaiting them, who
had also clearly been successful this night as they surrounded their royal
prize, in an arc of three long curving blades of glittering Brythonic steel.
The roaring, crackling sound from the swelling conflagration behind them could
be heard clearly now and a dark column of smoke rose into the starlit sky from
the back of this fortress.
With a recovered Eirwen securely ensconced in
the centre, they all made their way back along the pier in a long tight group,
with the Gadwyr out front and the last man toppled the rows of torches behind
him, setting the whole causeway alight. They gained land in a rush and were
about to vanish into the nearby woods as the fire took hold of the timber
crannog fortress behind them with a roar, when without warning, a large,
mounted enemy force crested the hill from the south and thundered down the
drover’s road toward them.
At the head of this armed force was the black
veiled hag and it was immediate to her what was going on, as they heard the
Witch scream from where they stood. Cadwy was about to yell for them to head
for the trees when astonishingly, the Gadwyr exploded into action.
With one guttural word from Brith, they
charged forwards toward the horses without a moment’s hesitation, roaring
bloody murder and swinging their huge axes without pause. There were almost
thirty horsemen now galloping straight at them and they were armed with long
but crude looking spears and clutched the ubiquitous round shield of leather
and lime-wood, but these had been smeared with some foul black stuff, in honour
of their deplorable Queen no-doubt. Most foot soldiers would have scattered in
terror at the approach of this thundering cavalry, but these were Gadwyr and
the legendary Gadwyr turned from no gelyn
alive, and they paused for no force on this earth.
The opposing charge of the Gadwyr although
breath-taking, looked suicidal to Cadwy as he, his cyfail and the six
ghost-warriors who encircled Eirwen watched in awe, as those ultimate northern
giants rushed-in. Those eminently professional warriors were no fools and
capitalising on their uncommon size, they had a long-standing and
well-developed set of moves for attacking a mounted force. The world and his
wife know that the only thing capable of turning a cavalry charge is a well
set-up shield wall or a cliff. The Gadwyr proudly carry no shields apart from
their heavy bronze amulets and so they made their own shield-wall this day,
whilst charging forward into battle with what they carried with them. These
twelve enormous, valiant northern warriors surged forwards in a spread ‘V’
formation, with the giant Brith Fawr at the head. Those watching fearfully saw
the Witch draw back into the enemy’s numbers at this inconceivable development,
calling men forward to the attack at the sight of these grinning, flame-haired
monsters of legend, doing the impossible and running at them.
At a signal from Brith and just yards now from
the quickly closing enemy, they lifted their huge bulging arms as-one, crossing
their axes above their heads and they began to clash their bronze amulets
together. This rolling shield-wall
made a terrific din, and this was no bluff, nor was it any form of diversionary
performance. The fearsome surprise of this instant, seemingly suicidal attack
was greatly added-to by their sheer size and their great roaring battle-cry,
which bellowed out at this unnerving moment, striking terror into the leading
horses and their riders.
‘Gadwyr GrutArd!’ They bellowed at the tops of
their voices, clashing their great bronze amulets together and charging the
enemy horsemen without pause. The first of the horses reared up in fear from
these dauntless leviathans and in a heartbeat, it was chaos, the kind of chaos
these monstrous Brythons revelled in.
Watching from the roadway, Cadwy got the
distinct impression that if the horses hadn’t reared up in fear at the Gadwyr’s
counter-attack, Brith and his men would have just bowled them over with a
shoulder charge, but their immensely courageous tactic worked, and the cavalry
charge faltered, the lead horses throwing their heads back in terror. Equine
fear was clearly as infectious as its human counterpart, and Brith sprang into
much-practiced action at that chaotic moment as did the colossal, grinning men
behind and alongside him, with their wild eyes blazing a savage and primeval
joy.
The first cut was with the right axe and it
slashed the rearing, leading horse’s throat to its spine. Then a quick step to
the left and Brith’s left-hand axe was raised and ready for a parry if
necessary. This rider posed no immediate threat, as he was flailing and trying
to remain in the saddle and so Brith chopped down with it into the rider’s
right thigh, severing the leg completely. The heavy axe blade even penetrated
the rib cage of the dying horse under him and it sagged to its knees, throwing
the rider forward again. Brith then threw the right-hand axe forwards for the
final step. He was half a step too close to decapitate the man as planned, so
gripping the shaft tightly, he slammed the heavy iron head of the axe into the
oncoming rider’s face, killing him instantly and knocking him backwards, clean
off his dead horse. This three-step manoeuvre was repeated by all these
warriors and the unique, terrifying chaos of the Gadwyr ensued.
Horses died rearing and screaming whilst
hosing great gouts of blood from their torn throats, amid the swirling,
slashing bedlam, as did their outclassed and completely outmatched riders. As
the momentum of the cavalry charge had been stolen by the Gadwyr’s unique
action, these mounted warriors were stalled and forced to mill around each-other
and they made themselves vulnerable to these spinning, slashing leviathans. Directed
by their screeching black Witch, a detachment of these riders broke away from the
rear of this chaos and galloped toward Cadwy’s meagre force, but Olwydd and his
six ghost-warriors had their own equally brave way of dealing with enemy
horsemen and ran forward to meet them.
As the riders approached, the Galedonian
glimmer-men seemed to explode into action and they were a blur, so quickly did
they move. Each ghost-warrior side-stepped like a mountain goat and then leapt
into the air as a horse came at them, neatly slipping the clumsy thrust of the
spear. In the blink of an eye, they were sitting astride the horse and behind
the astonished rider. Six of them died with that shocked look upon their faces,
as their throats were cut wide open before they were rudely shoved off their
mounts. Whilst more-subtle than the great Gadwyr’s direct approach, the ghost-warrior’s
spectacular athletic counterpart had the added benefit of a ‘gift horse’, which
should by popular wisdom never be looked-at in the mouth. These wise
ghost-warriors of Galedon made the most of their new mounts and set about the
other riders in this group, leaving Cadwy and his men to deal with them once
they were unhorsed. The six ghost-warriors wheeled their unfamiliar mounts with
great skill then, their unnatural mantles swirling around them as they charged
headlong into the Gadwyr’s fray to relieve their heroic allies.
Brast and Hefin strode forward in their wake
and dealt swiftly with the last two enemy horsemen who had been knocked from
their saddles, leaving Bleddyn standing to Cadwy’s right-hand, sword ready and
with Eirwen standing behind them, a loaned dagger held before her in trembling
fingers. Three rider-less horses were milling about and rolling their eyes in
fear, from the din of battle and the great roaring fire from the nearby
fortress, whose heat could be felt from the road. Bleddyn had to help Hefin and
Brast corral them, as they were dangerous and unpredictable in this panicked
state, but more importantly they were going to prove invaluable.
Cadwy and Eirwen watched
enthralled as the now mounted
ghost-warriors joined the Gadwyr and tore into the remaining enemy, unseating
many for the Gadwyr to pounce on and annihilate. The rest they slew expertly
from the saddle with their long killing blades and these Iweriu mercenary
soldiers had no answer to their deadly expertise, hitting the dirt hard one
after the other. Eirwen’s eyes filled with tears at this fearless heroism on
her behalf and she was almost bursting at the seams with pride, as she watched
the last of the hated enemy vanquished on the dusty road before her. These
glorious, hot tears of salvation rolled down her face and she dabbed at them
with a square of linen. The tears almost obscured the sudden movement to her
left, but she caught a glimpse of ragged black wool, a fleeting moment before
the decrepit smell of the hag reached her nostrils.
“CADWY!” She screamed, as the Witch had crept
out from the trees to their left and now she rushed at Cadwy, a big filthy antler-pick
raised for the killing blow above her head.
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