Leaping Wolf, page 17
part #2 of Caledon Saga Series
‘Exactly. He must show himself to be bold or they may desert him.’
Gawan had been wondering about that, and whether the legion could survive a charge even assuming that they had good ground, but he was spared from brooding on it by the arrival of more riders. He saw Kyran and Owain, along with the Caderyn druid and a handful of headmen, all following Rhianwyn who was cantering at their head. She was dressed for war in mailshirt, tunic and breeches and even before she stepped from her mount he could see the fire in her eyes. She strode towards the little group, her left hand held relaxed on Silverbite’s shining pommel.
He couldn’t help but notice how well she looked, and how fearsome. Rhianwyn was merely pretty at best, but with battle near at hand something about her seemed to change, her courage and ferocity shining through. For an unkind moment he compared her to Emeryn, who only moments ago had been trembling in his arms like a child. He slapped away the thought with a curse at his own head. It was unworthy of him; shallow and base, and he felt shame rising up in him almost immediately. He loved Emeryn and she was as brave as any warrior he knew, how dare he judge her now for a mere moment of vulnerability! All his life Gawan had detested weakness, in others and in himself, but to look down on one he cared about for something so petty was despicable. All the same, with that fire in her eyes, it was hard not to remember the sight of Rhianwyn’s naked body.
He cursed himself again and looked away from her, ashamed, only to meet Emeryn’s eyes as he did. His thoughts had taken what? A heartbeat? Two? And he was sure that he’d shown nothing on his face. Yet one look at his lover told him she’d seen exactly what he’d been thinking, and a horrid cold feeling crept into his gut. He took a step towards her, ready to ask her forgiveness, but in that moment Rhianwyn spoke, addressing him specifically.
‘Gawan, I take it Boryn has told you the news?’
Her voice was hard and flat and Gawan remembered that for all her sudden appeal the woman was still an over-proud bitch underneath it. She is nothing next to Emeryn, what were you thinking? He answered her bluntly, hoping to show his lover how little he cared to speak to her.
‘The enemy is on his way and we have some good ground to take?’
If Rhianwyn noticed his attitude she didn’t mention it, and Gawan snuck a quick glance at Emeryn before she replied. His lover’s face was as blank as a mask and Gawan wished that he could speak with her alone, just for a moment.
‘Moon Ridge is not steep but it curves in such a way as to be difficult to flank. If we position archers well we can hamper such a movement and further encourage Caserach to attack us head on.’
There were a few nods but no-one spoke, and Rhianwyn continued after a beat.
‘We can hope that the sight of us will make the Breiryn think twice, given that they have not seen a formation like this in action before. With good fortune they will be hesitant but will still move forward up the hill, coming at us in an uncertain charge. Should they choose not to attack we may be forced to charge at them, but we will still have the advantage of moving down the hill.’
Gawan frowned and was briefly distracted from his current dilemma by a shared glance with Tarwyn. No doubt he too was feeling torn between wishing for a battle on the hilltop that they might actually win, compared with the nobler notion of an honourable charge that would probably fail. He wondered if Owain or Kyran had considered the same thing, and whether his fellow First Men were thinking on what Mabonac might think. He only dwelt on that for a moment though before going back to thinking of Emeryn, but then this too was cut short as Rhianwyn began to outline her plan.
The Caderyn chieftain had drawn a blackened stick from the fire and was now drawing in the dust with it, first marking out the shape of a long crescent moon.
‘We will form a line facing roughly southwest along the ridge, the Gorvicae cohort on the left, the Dariniae on the right, and the Caderyn in the centre.’
First Gawan, then Kyran and Owain nodded their heads.
‘Behind them will be those warriors we have who are not part of the legion.’
Gawan saw Alraig dip his head. The Dragon Legion had been formed while warriors were still coming in from across Caderyn territory to face the Gaians. From what Gawan recalled, Alraig himself had been at Bryngarth for council, but most of his people had not joined them until the march to Nantwyn and so had not been trained to fight in the shieldwall. But judging by the legion belt and sword the headman wore, he and his had still given good account of themselves in the battle. Rhianwyn carried on.
‘They will act as a reserve in case the cohorts are pushed back, and will counter-charge if necessary to give the legion time to reform.’
She was talking very much the way Marius used to, and Gawan remembered how frustrated he’d got at the Gaian’s damned chatter of ‘Tactica One’ and ‘Flank Reformation’. In all fairness though, he knew his trade, annoying though he was about it. There was a brief pause as people nodded or grunted in acknowledgement, and Gawan looked to Emeryn again. She was still standing where she had been, perfectly still, and he was pretty sure she’d been looking at him until he’d looked at her. Then her eyes dropped down to the sketch on the floor, her face blank and hard and cold. Gawan started to feel angry. Couldn’t she tell it had just been a look, a tiny moment that was gone before it started? She ought to know by now how much he cared for her, did that count for nothing?
His anger simmered beneath the surface as Rhianwyn looked around at each of them.
‘Are there any questions?’
There was silence from the little group. The plan was simple enough; Gawan just hoped it would succeed with so few warriors to execute it. Rhianwyn gave a curt nod, and judging from her tight expression Gawan suspected that she too was well aware of how hard this would be.
‘Very well. The ridge is only a short way north and west of us, have your people ready to leave as soon as possible.’
The huddle bowed their heads again and set about their duties, the Gadarim all clasping wrists and patting shoulders before heading off. Each one gave the same simple blessing to his brother, regardless of what tribe they might belong to.
‘The Dragon go with you.’
‘And with you.’
After sharing blessings with Owain and Kyran Gawan turned to look for Emeryn, but she had already left the group and was gathering up their saddlebags. Gawan fumed quietly, torn between wanting to apologise and wanting to shout at her for taking offence at something so mild. Damn it all! His frustration must have shown on his face because Boryn appeared beside him and spoke in a friendly voice.
‘Are you alright?’
Gawan shrugged at the grey-whiskered headman.
‘I’m fine.’
Boryn noted where he’d been looking and smiled a little under his moustache.
‘Romantic troubles?’ He gave the First Man’s arm a slap. ‘Take some free advice my friend; whatever it is, assume you are in the wrong!’
He’d clearly meant it as something light-hearted but it did nothing to raise Gawan’s spirits or quell his temper. He was sorely tempted to snap something unpleasant at him but he reigned himself in and simply nodded.
‘I shall keep it in mind.’
He clasped wrists with his fellow Gorvic and the other man bobbed his head before heading away to organise their people. Gawan took a last look at Emeryn, who was ignoring him as she gathered waterskins, and decided he had to put her from his mind. They could talk later when the two of them had calmed down a little and besides, more important things were afoot. There was fighting to be done and if nothing else, he had to be on the lookout for Broad Kellas and the other southern Gadarim. He might not know what to do about upsetting her, but if there was any chance her dream was a portent he could at least make sure she was safe. If nothing else, that’s something you can do well!
Chapter 15. The Dragons Form
Moon Ridge was much as Rhianwyn had described it; barely high enough to be called a proper hill but very wide, curving around so that it faced both the south and the west. At the western end the ridge dropped down steeply while the slope in front of the Gorvicae was comparatively gentle. If Caserach has half the wits the gods gave a goat, this is where the hardest fighting will be. The Gorvicae cohort were already dressed and formed into ranks, though the lines weren’t particularly tight and most of the northerners had left their long shields on the ground. They still had time.
Gawan was the only one of the cohort still mounted, the rest having left their ponies with Alraig’s men at the rear. He would take his place among them once the battle was imminent but for now he waited on his pony and looked around the hillside. To his left the long ridge continued a little way before easing off behind them into a bright, grassy plain. To his right, three cohorts of the Dragon Legion were set out in a long line, Mabonac’s banners flying high over each one. The sky above was grey with clouds, but even in the meagre light the dragons on their shields and banners still stood out clear and fierce. Though the symbol was the same throughout the legion, a dark green dragon with broad wings and sharp claws, each tribe had painted the background of their shields in different colours. The Dariniae on the right showed their dragons on pitch black, the Caderyn in the centre on red and blue, while the warriors with Gawan had painted their shields the bright green of summer grass. The green of the Gorvicae.
The First Man adjusted the cloak that he still wore over his ringmail. No-one knew for how long this colour had been sacred to his tribe or even the reasons why, but Gawan had his suspicions. His home was in the north, where winters were hard and good crops often scarce, and for such a people green would always be the colour of hope. He cast his eyes across his cohort again. Thanks to the carnage at Nantwyn nearly all of them had mailshirts, short swords and re-painted Gaian shields. He sighed a little as he remembered the days when a sword had been a symbol of status. His father had often wrought such weapons on his old anvil back at Green Hollow, but he could never have made a living by it because such work was so scarce. Good price though he might get, swords were carried almost exclusively by chiefs and Gadarim, and it was a rare year when he was called on to make three. That general rule was still true for long blades, Gawan supposed, but lately the Gaians had taught them the deadly efficiency of the short sword at close quarters, and then obligingly provided them with plenty to go around. Of course, the reason our legion has so much equipment isn’t just because we scrounged a lot from dead Gaians. It’s because there aren’t as many of us as there used to be.
It was a fairly grim thought and Gawan put it from his mind. The matter of numbers had been discussed and pondered enough already, and a battlefield was no place for defeatism. And anyway, our people here are better trained and better spirited than the Breiryn, and that counts for a damned sight more than mere numbers! He looked again at the lines of Caledon warriors, well-armed and fearsome with blue woad bright on their limbs and faces. The warpaint still felt wet on Gawan’s own skin, having been painted over his tattoos to further draw Mabonac’s eye. Like the other Gadarim of his tribe he had also bleached his hair with white lime, spiking most of it up and backwards like some great albino hedgehog, with the rest tied back behind his neck with a simple cord.
He looked across to see Gwydion and Pryder preparing themselves, the younger man’s hands in his elder’s hair. It was a tricky thing to do, and with a real danger of blindness of course, but the Gorvicae had long ago perfected the art of limewashing, using crownless, broad-brimmed hats to protect the face while the lime was applied. Further up the ridge the Dariniae were doing something similar, only they bleached their hair in streaks that always made Gawan think of badgers. Beside them, the Caderyn’s Gadarim whitened their beards instead of their hair, putting leaves in their mouths as they did so to protect them from swallowing the lime. Pairs of warriors helped each other with this all along the curving hillside, or else applied more woad to one-another’s faces, the better to gain the favour of the gods. The process was one of both bonding and of focus, giving the fighters a time of quiet to settle their minds ready for war. When he and Tarwyn had been painting one another’s battle-marks Gawan had been kindling the dragonfire in his core, and he knew his brother Gadarim had done the same.
For the most part he’d managed that well enough, he’d done so a score of times before at least, but all the same Emeryn’s face kept interrupting his focus. He’d tried to speak with her a few times but she’d avoided conversation and always busied herself with some other task. Right now she was painting woad on Senia’s face, and Gawan suspected she was taking her time about it simply to avoid having to speak to him. Senia had already applied the warpaint to Emeryn and Gawan couldn’t help but think how much more beautiful it made her; strong and fierce and ready.
Again he felt the mix of guilt and anger that had been plaguing him all morning but he shook it off with an effort as he looked down into the bowl below. Covering the grass were the seemingly endless Breiryn; a seething mass of yellow-brown tunics with a cluster of black-clad Dariniae on one flank. Beyond a handful of chariots they were all on foot, and Gawan vaguely remembered that while horses were generally larger down south, they were also fewer in number. He suspected the chariots were there as an attempt to intimidate them as much as for warfare, and that this Asrec character would be watching from one as things unfolded.
They were still a long way off but he could spot individuals among them, and the white hair of their Gadarim shone even in the grey light. From what he could see, the Breiryn elite favoured shaping their hair into horns, and there were far more of them down there than he had hoped for. Enough of such thoughts! We are the better men here; we are Gorvicae! He wondered if Broad Kellas was one of the men he now watched and decided then and there that the Breiryn’s First Man was no match for him. It didn’t matter that they’d never met and that his reputation was impressive by anyone’s standards. Madoc was gone, and no other man of all the tribes had bested Leaping Wolf in over a decade. He thrust out his chin defiantly. Let him try to reach Emeryn. I’ll send him back holding his head.
Gawan was straining his eyes staring down at them, and wondering which one was their tribe’s First Man, when the sound of hooves behind him made him turn. Rhianwyn, along with Kyran, Owain and the headmen, was trotting towards them on a dappled pony. Having no beard to colour, she had limewashed a long streak down the middle of her hair, a broader band than the Dariniae favoured but not so thick as to make her look like a Gorvic either. The mail and woad looked well on her but Gawan took care not to stare. The Caderyn chieftain gave him a short nod and spoke quickly.
‘It is time.’
Part of Gawan wanted to turn back to Emeryn to see if she’d noticed his lack of interest, but he realised how pitiful that would look and kept facing forwards. He still felt bad for having upset her, but this was no time for such trivialities.
‘Let’s be away.’
Rhianwyn didn’t bother to reply and simply wheeled her mount around to face down the slope. The others fell in behind her and Gawan urged his pony forwards to join them. As they trotted towards the massing Breiryn the First Man of the Gorvicae put his lover from his mind and focused on Mabonac’s fire in his belly. Soon it would be time for battle, but first it was time to get his first good look at Ierryn’s murderer.
*
As the party rode closer to him, the first thing Gawan noticed was how much the man was like his uncle. Like Ierryn he was built both tall and strong with black hair that fell down to his shoulders. His features were a touch sharper perhaps, his nose a little longer and his beard trimmed a bit more neatly, but beyond that only his age showed that this was not the same man. He was older than Rhianwyn but Gawan guessed it wasn’t by much, and he doubted if he’d seen his thirtieth summer. He rode a grey pony and was dressed in dark clothing, a heavy cloak of what looked like bearskin held at his shoulder with a silver pin.
Close by him rode a lanky man with a missing ear and a ragged mark on one cheek that looked ugly even through his woad. He didn’t seem all that formidable but he had a mean and vicious look to him, and he struck Gawan as the sort of man who avoided fair fights if he could. Their Breiryn allies had come up with them in a heavy, two-horse chariot, and a man Gawan took to be Asrec stood and faced them from the wooden platform. He was a long-faced man with straggly dark hair, his beard thin and flecked liberally with grey. The blemished torque around his neck marked him as an old-fashioned sort of chief, but beyond that his dress was fairly plain. Like most of his people he wore a dull yellowish tunic, a sharp contrast to the bright blue of his woad.
But it wasn’t Asrec that caught Gawan’s eye, nor the tough-looking driver in front of him. His focus was purely for the giant of a man who stood grim-faced and steady behind them, his bulging arms straining against the bracelets wrapped around them. He was maybe ten years younger than Gawan himself and at least half a head taller than anyone in either group. His shoulders were broad and his massive chest bare, and he was covered in bright woad painted over his tattoos. Beneath the battle-marks Gawan saw that his forearms were criss-crossed with scars, speaking of a man who’d learned to fight the hard way but had come out more-or-less in one piece. Around his waist was a belt of what looked like green-and-black snakeskin, and the sword that hung from it was as broad as Gawan’s palm. His face was flat, with wide cheeks and a stubby nose, and his dark eyes were hooded under a pair of heavy brows. Like his brothers he had limewashed his hair to a brilliant white and spiked it up into short, sharp-looking horns.
Gawan looked at what could only have been Broad Kellas with affected disinterest, sizing him up ready for potential combat. He’s big alright, and younger than you, and even without his reputation, a glance could tell you the man is experienced. Gawan frowned slightly as he considered how best to fight him. Too many people, generally those who hadn’t done much fighting, believed that big men had to be slow. Gawan wasn’t fool enough to make such an assumption, but at the same time knew that he couldn’t match him strength for strength either, and the younger man could probably outlast him if he dodged and weaved to try to exhaust him. At his size he’d have the reach advantage too, leaving Gawan with precious little left to work with. The only way would be to close in fast and take him to the ground. He was a big man but Gawan was no weakling either, and a grapple would at least remove the advantage of his height. Yes, take his legs and then finish him fast before he can recover and use his strength. The only edge the Gorvic had was his years of experience, and that hard-won knowledge was telling him this was his best chance.
