Redemption, page 11
“Offal,” Bertram added in a low, menacing rasp. “You’ll not rape a woman of Avalon, nor any woman ever again.”
Dylert’s cheeks colored an unpleasant orange. No doubt his drink-sodden innards couldn’t manage a proper flush of rage. Lygnel ground her teeth in disgust.
“You’ll do well to learn to hold your tongue.” Dylert’s tone turned deadly as he squared off with Bertram. “I’ll not train a mouthy bastard brat, skill or no!”
“I have no need for what you teach,” Bertram declared. “I’ll serve the master of this castle, and I’ll serve Avalon, but not you. Your time here is finished.”
At that, Davyd started walking. Lygnel went with him, step for step, and he didn’t protest. She could see his thoughts as sharply as the facets of a jewel, and she understood his intent to flank the training master and put himself in a position to defend his son if need be. Her throat felt dry and tight, but the glamour held close around them, doing its work as if she cast and maintained illusions all the day long.
Dylert shook his head, then dismissed Bertram with a wave. “Take ‘em down,” he ordered his knights. “Hang their bodies on a limb outside the front gates. We’ve no room for superstitious, traitorous fools. Avalon, indeed.”
His knights, naught but moving blocks of wood in Lygnel’s mind, brandished swords, but Alla’s sons didn’t hesitate. In great clanking of metal, three met three, and the battle was joined.
For his part, Dylert slunk to the edge of Lygnel’s tumbledown cottage and leaned against it, watching from a safe distance. She imagined herself creeping up and planting her foot squarely in his backside. No, better yet, slinking forward instead, having at his pathetic manhood with Davyd’s seasoned blade.
Listen to me. She shook her head. I’ve spent too much time at Dore among these thieves and wolves. Davyd and I must proceed carefully, lest our children be the death of both of us!
Another furtive glance at the sword fight told her Bertram was more than equipped to handle himself in a man-on-man battle. The lad used his speed, agility, and wit to best his opponent at almost every turn. Despite the situation, Lygnel smiled. Bertram and Davyd would one day have much to discuss and learn from each other.
For the present, the time for action was at hand.
Davyd reached Dylert first, sword already drawn. He glanced once at Lygnel, who nodded despite a sudden clutch of fear.
Still wrapped in Lygnel’s glamour, Davyd tapped the bastard on the shoulder. Dylert startled and whirled about, and when her husband nodded to her again, Lygnel let fall the illusion and stepped away.
“Hello, you spawn of an arse pimple,” Davyd said smoothly as he advanced his sword with one hand and drew back his unencumbered fist. “Remember me?”
Gods but it felt good to smash the weak, cowardly dirt-sucker right in the jaw. Davyd felt a flash of welcome pain in his knuckles, heard the satisfying crunch of bone, and the even more satisfying yelp of pain as Castle Dore’s current training master slammed against the rough-hewn walls of Lygnel’s cabin, then crumpled to the ground.
“Damn, man!” Davyd strode forward and gave him a nudge with his boot. “Get up. I’ve only started!”
“And finished, it would seem.” Lygnel’s sweet voice made Davyd smile, though he thought it might look more a snarl to the casual observer. He’d been accused of worse in the past.
The sun felt hot against his bare chest, and he felt relieved to be out of hiding, no matter how dangerous that choice might be. Teeth bared, he wheeled on the sword battles and waded in, using the hilt of his blade to crack against the skull of Dylert’s nearest knight. The lout fell like a tree, almost crushing Bertram in the process.
“You!” Bertram shouted as he struggled free. “I didn’t ask for your help!”
“Aye. Didn’t need it from appearances,” Davyd conceded affably, no longer feeling nervous about speaking to the lad. “You’ll have to forgive me, lad. I enjoy fighting too much.”
With that, Davyd took the risk of turning his back on his seething son. A rush of joyous rage powered him as he plowed into another of Dylert’s minions. Davyd heard the big bastard’s breath leave in a pained grunt as his head smashed ribs. They crashed together to the dry earth, and Bertram’s brother let out a whoop as the knight rolled over, groaned, then fell still and silent.
“Whoever you are, well met. Forgive my younger brother’s rudeness. I’m James.” The young man, who looked to be the eldest of Alla’s currently fighting sons, extended a hand and helped Davyd to his feet. “Shall we deal with this last blackheart, or leave my other brother Marc to the task?”
Davyd spit out a mouthful of dust, resettling his sword in his palm. “Why let him have all the glory?”
“A man for my own thinking!”
Yelling like crazed bulls, they charged the last knight. Marc had the reflexes and sense to move aside but keep the bastard’s sword engaged. Davyd felt another surge of inordinate glee as he and James bowled the massive knight backward. Before Davyd could knock him senseless, James pounded him with his fist three times in rapid succession, and the villain lay still.
Panting, sweating, feeling the satisfying sting of a few cuts, Davyd rolled to his backside, jumped to his feet, and grinned at Marc and James.
“Are you really Krell?” James asked, clearly amazed by Davyd’s presence. “Alive despite the boasts of Mordred’s guards?”
“He is,” growled Bertram, who was skulking in the shadow of Lygnel’s hut. Lygnel had him by the arm, and one glance at his son told Davyd how it galled the lad to have a woman hold him back from battle.
Marc’s eyes narrowed and James took a step back. Both men shook their heads.
“He’s my husband now.” Lygnel’s voice rang over the fallen knights, turning all heads toward her. “We need your help.”
Davyd noted the curve of her bare legs under his cloak, and his fight-roused blood pounded hard against his temples. Gods, but he could take her now, just snatch her up, haul her into that excuse for a hut, and make her scream her pleasure for the next hour, maybe more.
For a moment he was proud of the effect she likely had on all present, except perhaps Bertram, who kept his eyes carefully averted. Then a black jealousy darkened his vision, and he felt new heat rising to his face.
Before he could speak, Lygnel moved toward the door of her hovel. “If you’ll forgive me, gentlemen, I must take my leave for a moment.”
She slipped into the shadows and through the door, which settled into its frame at a warped angle.
“It’s an honor, to be chosen by a woman of Avalon.” Marc turned to Davyd and gave him a small bow. James did likewise. Bertram snorted, but he came slowly to stand by his brothers. The lad’s eyes remained defiant, but a grudging respect marked his youthful countenance.
Davyd felt a mild shock, then realized these men truly had been raised with the old ways. Though Lygnel was no longer a royal, they regarded her—and perhaps all women—as sacred vassals of the Goddess, to be protected, cherished, respected, and never ever defiled.
He eyed the three before him, appraising stance, strength, power…and he smiled. “Would you help us, then?”
“To what aim, Master Krell?” James used the term of honor as if it were no issue. Bertram flinched, but Marc punched his shoulder and the lad straightened up—a little.
Davyd eyed the fallen knights and the unconscious excuse for a training master Dore had employed. “Firstly, with ridding ourselves of useless bastards like this. Second, winning who we can to the cause of Avalon in the next few hours. And third…” he paused, trying to keep his voice as sure as when he began. “Third, to either dissuade Grakor from avenging his father’s death, or doing damage to his hired army to give Prator a hope of survival.”
Alla’s sons shifted uncomfortably. “You speak of treachery to Dore’s rightful heir,” Marc said in low tones.
Davyd couldn’t suppress the urge to spit harshly on the ground between them. “Heir to Dore, maybe. But he has no right to the legacy we guard at Prator—all that’s left of good King Arthur’s men…and blood.”
This drew three gasps, in unison.
“Arthur had no heir.” Bertram’s words were clipped, as if he were busy piecing together truths he could barely grasp.
“That’s not true,” said Lygnel from the doorway of her hut. She had dressed herself in the simple garb of a yard servant—white cotton dress with leather over-apron, laced up the front in a modest fashion. “There is one heir to Camelot yet living on Prator.”
“Your babe.” James shook his head. “If they lied about killing one, of course, ‘twould be easy to lie about killing two.”
“Aye.” Davyd nodded. “I took Lygnel’s child away at her request, to see her safe from the curse of this dark place.”
“To fulfill the pledge of Avalon,” Lygnel added, almost whispering. Her words startled Davyd enough to stare at her. “To ensure the line of Pendragon’s survival, upon the word of the ancients to Uther, King Arthur’s father, rest the good man. But such intrigues aren’t worth our time as of now. Only Ysbet’s safety matters.”
A rough grumble of agreement passed from Marc to James to Davyd, who resolved to himself to ask Lygnel a fair number of questions this night, should they be lucky enough to be alive at sundown. Bertram kept his eyes averted from Davyd’s gaze, but he nodded. It seemed the three brothers had joined this hopeless quest, for good or ill.
“How many of you are there?” Davyd asked. “Alla’s sons, I mean, who might join the effort?”
“Nine.” James nodded in the direction of the battlement wall. “And the other six will come as ready as we. I’m oldest, with Bertram youngest. We’re all a year apart.”
Alla, my dear, you bred a handy army, Davyd thought wryly. I owe you a debt should we meet in the land of the dead.
“All right,” he said aloud. “Let’s hoist these buggers and take ‘em where they’ll give us no more trouble—then, to work.”
James and Marc moved toward the first knight, but Bertram brought them up short with a quick, “Wait.”
The lad turned to Lygnel and lowered his head. “No disrespect, Lady, but if I’m to die for a girl I’ve never met, I’d like to know, and rumors haven’t settled the issue even after all these years. Is this Ysbet of Prator Mordred’s daughter, or Arthur’s?”
Davyd felt a coolness claim his muscles. He thought about being angry, but couldn’t muster it. After all, he had wondered the same for nigh on two decades now. It had seemed indecent to ask, and irrelevant in many ways, as either scenario made Queen Ysbet Arthur’s blood heir. Still…
He gazed at Lygnel, who seemed to have hardened into stone in her uneven doorway.
“That’s rude, brother,” James said quietly. “The lady was ill-used by Mordred, forced into bargains she had no say in meeting—”
“I cast no aspersions on her honor.” Bertram met his brother’s gaze without flinching. “I simply want to know for whom I fight.”
“You fight for my daughter,” Lygnel said coolly. “A daughter of Avalon, a daughter of Arthur’s line. Is that not enough?”
“You will not answer?” Bertram persisted.
At this, Lygnel paled. “I cannot. In truth, I don’t know. Only one living being on this Earth could answer that question, and I doubt he feels inclined at the moment.”
Davyd knew without asking who the being would be. Merlyn. Son of a whore! He could have told me this much as additional payment for using my mind these many years.
“An ancient,” James said with conviction.
“Yes.” Lygnel was now the one with the lowered head, and Davyd felt a powerful ache in his chest. He wanted to go to her and wrap her in his arms, but they had no time for such comforts.
“My love,” he began, uncertain, torn between duties.
“Go,” she said simply. “I will join you shortly.”
With that, she turned away and retreated to the shadows of her hut once more.
* * * * *
In under one hour, Davyd and his three helpers had bundled off their barely conscious captives and left them bound and gagged in a waste pit near the castle walls. It would be days before they were discovered—if they were discovered at all. Alla’s remaining sons had indeed proved a willing bunch, and they gathered their families in one group and their few most faithful friends in another, beneath the trees just inside Dore’s north forest. In hushed murmurs, they explained what they knew of Davyd, Lygnel, and the long-ago lies of Mordred’s soldiers.
These whispers were met with raised brows and reddened cheeks, but no outright disbelief. The faces of the women and children brightened notably, and a look of fevered hope broke out amongst true believers. These were the people who would have resisted Mordred, if they could have done so and lived to breathe another day.
Avalon, their hungry minds seemed to shout as one. Salvation. A way back to the true rhythm of the world…Camelot, regained!
Some of the soldiering group was very young, naught but boys of schooling age. Some were very old, uncles and cousins and sworn brothers. A few were of Grakor’s home guard, and they stood round with swords drawn, scowling to a man. >From what additional conversation Davyd heard, it seemed Dylert was no one’s hero, and it seemed Castle Dore had some good men in its employ. Ruthless, ambitious, cold, but still honorable soldiers and adequate fighters.
Loyalties—now, those were anyone’s guess.
“Hear me,” Davyd bellowed to the soldiering group, perhaps forty in all, holding his sword above his head and commanding a sudden silence. “I would not treason the rightful lord of this castle, lest he menace those I have sworn to protect. In the name of Avalon, I ask you to persuade Grakor against the vengeance he plans for Ysbet of Prator, the rightful heir to blessed King Arthur. Defend her in the name of the sacred island, by words or by arms!”
James, Marc, and Bertram stood beside him, ready to draw blades if necessary. Alla’s other six sons kept close proximity, forming a line between the soldiers and the women and children. A few older men, faces Davyd almost recognized but not fully, offered raspy grunts of assent. In the age-old gesture of swearing fealty, they placed their swords on the ground at his feet.
This seemed to start a flood, as all but two or three men did the same. Davyd found his breath shallow as he studied the last few. They were of the variety Dylert would select, huge and gruff, and no doubt surly. He was almost certain they would attack or turn and leave to cause treachery. As it was, however, they stared at him with sullen silence. At last, grumbling to themselves, they drew their blades and placed them on the ground, joining Davyd without a fight.
He turned to the women and children, and the line of Alla’s sons parted to allow him clear avenue to speak to them. “You lot, we need you safe and out of the way. When my wife comes—”
“She most certainly will not stay safe and out of the way,” Lygnel interrupted from behind him.
Davyd turned, prepared to be angry—and caught his breath.
Lygnel had donned the blue over-robes of an Avalon Adept. Leather jesses adorned her hands and wrists, and a leather belt secured the robes in a modest fashion. Her face seemed flushed, but her eyes were bright and determined. The very air around her seemed to shimmer and crackle.
On instinct, the soldiers closest to her stepped back.
The women and children had an opposite reaction, smiling and stepping forward. “Here is our champion,” one of the women muttered. “She sees our worth, even if you packers of pricks fail to do so as usual.”
And indeed, Lygnel’s not-to-be-brooked expression insisted that she never would dismiss a willing fighter and leave the men to do all the work. That was not Avalon’s way, and all the men present well knew this.
No one spoke against her.
No one would dare, Davyd mused, taking full measure of his wild, magik bride and appreciating her at yet greater depths. Why would any man want a weak, simpering ornament when he could have this…this vision of strength, power, and the finest earthen beauty?
Lygnel studied the women and children with avid eyes, as if recognizing them from some distant dream. Then she turned to Davyd. “We will need tools. Daggers, hammers—anything that will cut rope or challenge wood.”
He gave her a small bow, risking only a quiet, “Aye.”
Chapter 10
The forest seemed to watch as Lygnel led her unlikely band of brigands down well-used paths toward the docks. Her freshly-renewed fey senses nearly overwhelmed her, bringing her each bird’s chirp and mouse’s squeak. She heard the flap of a hawk’s wings as it hunted, and the churlish snuffles of sleeping boars. More ominously, and thank the Goddess still yet from a distance, came a rumble that could only be the hooves of hundreds of horses, bearing an army toward Dore.
In the pit of Lygnel’s belly, a mountain of ice formed to lurch and stab at her insides. The source of the inner freeze could not be denied, and it was the very woods around her. The forest held the imprint of an evil, a darkness so bitter and cold she could barely stand it. She relished each streak of sun, each clearing allowing fresh light and air. What Mordred had got up to in this place, Lygnel didn’t even want to know. No doubt the wicked stain, coupled with the pain of Nimue’s betrayal and the loss of all whom she loved, had conspired to keep Lygnel weak and too full of doubt to use her magik.
Well, no more. She had Davyd now, and soon, she would see Ysbet again. In time, fate willing, she would regain Avalon and perhaps see Merlyn and even her twin Gwenhwyfar, if Gwen yet lived.
Bertram moved like a shadow at her side. They each carried swords at their waists and a dagger in both hands. The fifteen women and three very elderly men with them also wore sword belts and wielded knives rounded up from hut and arsenal. A few had kitchen cleavers. The children, about twenty in all, had smaller knives and hammers, and instructions to stay to the center of the group. Four of the younger boys carried hand-hewn training bows, and tiny quivers bore equally tiny training arrows. Toys, those, and little use they would be beyond stinging, but these children would fight only if forced by the failure of their elders—and if Lygnel, Bertram, and the elders failed, there would be little hope for the smaller fighters.
