CHAPTER SEVEN #3
Brynach did not waste time on further words.
He ran at the man, diving in close to overcome the advantage his opponent had with the reach of his sword.
He swiped at Stew-face’s body but the man proved more nimble than he looked, a lifetime of avoiding rather than delivering blows standing in his favour on this occasion.
He dodged sideways. Brynach was too experienced to be off balance, but the change of position meant he was within range of the sword now curving through the air.
Rhiannon heard herself scream as the sword caught Brynach a glancing blow on his back.
Mercifully, the angle and Brynach’s homespun, wool-padded jacket meant he was not cut, but forced to the ground, bruised and winded.
Rhiannon sprang forwards, putting herself between him and his attacker.
Stew-face cursed.
‘Get away from him, unless you want me to run both of you through.’
‘Leave him be!’ she said, standing her ground. She pulled her dagger from her belt.
The second man curled his lip at the sight of it. ‘Not this time, Cymru,’ he told her, striding towards her with his own axe raised.
At her feet, Brynach stirred, climbing to his knees, fighting for elusive breath all the while, doing all he could to rejoin the fray.
Rhiannon knew both their lives depended on what she did next.
She could not prevail against a sword and an axe wielded by two determined men.
She could not hope to outfight them and defeat them, and it was likely Brynach would pay the price too.
She felt a roaring in her head, like the sound of a river in full spate crashing over rocks.
She needed to summon her magic, to find a force with which to protect herself and her father’s loyal soldier, but there was no time to summon such a thing, she was too unpracticed in the ways of the White Shadow when it came to combat.
Her talents so far had been to nurture growth, to work with nature, not to brandish violence.
Instead she would have to rely on the skills she had learned through the long months on the mountain.
The skills of a hunter, a fighter, a survivor.
She dropped to the ground, flinging herself forwards at the same time.
The unexpectedness of this move, coupled with its swiftness, confused her assailants, as she had hoped it would.
In one fluid action she slashed with her blade as she rolled to one side, catching first Stew-face and then the taller man across their ankles as she went, her sharp knife finding flesh beneath the lacings that criss-crossed their trousers.
The men shouted and cursed. The wounds were not lethal, but they had the desired effect of buying Brynach time and halting the attack.
Rhiannon saw Brynach get up and lunge at the man with the axe, wrestling him to the ground.
She scrambled forwards, hampered by the skirt of her dress as she too tried to rise.
Stew-face was too quick for her. She felt his boot land between her shoulder blades, shoving her down onto the cold, gritty dirt.
In a moment he was on top of her, one knee in the small of her back.
He grabbed her hair, tipping her head back so that he could snarl into her face, his sword held aloft.
‘I had thought to keep you for myself, but you are more trouble than I have patience for!’
It was then Rhiannon felt a rumbling through the ground.
It juddered her bones. She felt it before she heard it, that pounding of iron clad hooves, heavy and swift.
Stew-face heard it too, but not in time to save himself.
The horse was upon them in little more than a heartbeat.
While she flattened herself and lay still, her attacker turned, attempting to defend himself and rise at the same time, so that the horse’s broad chest hit him full on, even as its deft feet danced safely around Rhiannon.
Looking up she recognised the fine black mount and glimpsed Tudor’s dark, serious face as he wheeled the horse about.
Dazed, Stew-face staggered to his feet, shouting for someone to come to his aid.
His friend was losing the fight with Brynach and in no position to help him.
Rhiannon got up just in time to see her furious attacker lurch forwards and grab at the horse’s reins with one hand, drawing back his sword, his clear intention to deliver a terrible slice into the animal’s neck.
He had not reckoned with the temper of this particular horse.
Objecting to being so roughly handled by a stranger, it snatched its head free of his hold, ears flattened against its head, teeth bared.
Before Stew-face had a chance to react, it lunged forwards, sinking its teeth into his shoulder.
He screamed and fell back, dropping his sword.
Tudor reined in his horse.
‘You made him angry,’ he told Stew-face. ‘You should not have done so.’
A cry made Rhiannon turn. Brynach had won his battle.
The king’s man lay prone at his feet. Just as she began to believe they might flee safely, there came shouts from the direction of the great house.
Stew-face’s call for assistance had been answered.
To her horror, she saw soldiers running from the gates of the house.
There were at least four on foot, and she could hear horses following.
There were two archers who started loosing arrows.
In a moment, her hope for escape was dashed, as Brynach was struck in the leg by an arrow.
‘Brynach!’ she shouted, starting to run towards him with no clear idea of what she would do.
Behind her came the sounds of soldiers moving at speed, the ones with mounts covering the ground with terrifying swiftness.
Two strides later she felt herself grabbed and lifted into the air.
Before she knew what was happening, she had been hauled up onto the pirouetting black horse.
Tudor placed her in front of him, his left arm tight around her waist, holding her in place and manoeuvring his mount with one hand, leaving his sword arm free.
‘Take hold, mistress!’ he told her as he turned his horse to face south.
‘No! We must help Brynach!’
Stew-face threw himself at them, swinging his sword down towards Tudor’s leg. But he was clumsy and slow. The more natural swordsman effortlessly parried the blow and then used the flat of the blade to send his attacker sprawling into the dirt once more.
‘Hup!’ he cried to his horse, asking for speed and forward movement.
‘Stop!’ Rhiannon shouted, squirming to free herself from the man’s grip. ‘We must go back. We have to help him!’
But the animal leapt away, breaking into a gallop that swallowed the ground, quickly leaving the foot soldiers, and Brynach, behind.
‘To return would be to die,’ he told her flatly, spurring the horse on faster still.
They left the village and powered on along the rough track, but it seemed those who came after them had fine mounts themselves.
An arrow whistled by. Rhiannon’s stomach sickened at the thought of how close it had come to finding its mark in one of them.
Even at a gallop, they were an easy target.
With horror she realised that they were leading the soldiers straight towards Dafydd. They would catch him up in a moment.
‘We must get off the road! Turn up that path, there, to our right!’ She pointed at a narrow sheep track that twisted away and up the dauntingly steep side of the hill.
‘We will be faster on the road,’ Tudor protested.
‘The carter… with our supplies…’ She twisted to face him and saw that he had understood.
He reined the horse to the side, turning it around his leg so that it bounded from the road and up the hillside.
It did not falter. It did not hesitate. It did not, as perhaps a lesser animal might have done, question the wisdom of what was being asked of it.
Rhiannon grabbed handfuls of the long mane and leaned forwards to help the horse in its scramble upwards.
She heard shouts behind her. The soldiers were following.
‘It’s working,’ she muttered breathlessly.
Tudor made no comment on this. Another arrow fell just short of her leg.
The steep, meagre path allowed no opportunity for Tudor to make the horse swerve to evade further shots.
Rhiannon knew it was only a matter of time before one of the deadly arrows stuck home.
Unless she did something. She searched her mind for what they needed, for what could save them.
Then it came to her. It was not an action she had ever attempted before, but she believed it was within her to do it.
She closed her eyes, not for one second loosening her grip on the sweat-sodden mane.
She turned her mind to the wild landscape, to the wind that chased across the wiry turf, to the rain clouds that threatened in the west, to the watery sun behind those clouds.
She breathed in those elemental things, those fundamentals of her world and her life and the dormant power within her.
She had moved clouds before. The weather listened to her if she could only summon its attention.
She heard the rushing noise in her head again, the pounding of her heart against her eardrums, the pulsing of the blood in her veins.
The temperature dropped. Even with her eyes closed she knew the sky had darkened.
Still what she needed did not come, as if she were not asking in the right way somehow, as if her command of the elements was not yet sufficient.
She opened her eyes then, tilting her head back, leaning against Tudor, so that when the arrow that came and penetrated his back, shattering two of his ribs and lodging there, she felt the reverberations of that terrible injury through her own body.
Tudor gasped but neither cried out nor loosed his hold on the reins and his grip on Rhiannon.
Instead he spurred his horse on faster. She felt the weight of him as he struggled to remain upright in the saddle. She had to act now. She must succeed.
Acting instinctively, she released her grip on the horse’s mane, relying on her natural balance and her companion’s hold on her.
Slowly, carefully, she opened her arms wide, lifting them up to the heavens, before drawing down the very clouds from the sky.
Unbidden, strange words filled her mouth.
Words which she sang out, clear and high, letting the low wind whip them away and up and around until she was surrounded by them.
And as the words enveloped riders and horse alike, so a mist descended.
This was not some wispy river vapour pulled up by a heating sun, rather this was a dense miasma, a heavy, sodden fog, as if the very clouds themselves had dropped to the earth.
Within seconds, they were cloaked in the mist, completely hidden by it.
Ahead of them remained clear, their path plain to see and easy to follow at speed.
Behind them, all visibility was gone. She heard cries of fear and confusion and the whinnying of horses as they lost their footing.
The frightened animals would not go forwards into that supernatural ether.
The soldiers too, fought both fear and blindness, until at last she could hear them no more.
Soon the only sounds were the rhythmic pounding of their own bold black horse’s hoofbeats, its snorting breath, and the air rasping in and out of Tudor’s damaged lungs as they sped on towards the mountain top and home.