Dawnflight (38 page)

She stood in flex-kneed wariness, her sword’s ruddy point leveled against his approach. Despite her grief for the fallen monks, first and foremost she was a warrior and vowed to conduct herself as one no matter what befell her, or those around her.

“I order ye to surrender, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.”

Her eyes narrowed to glaring slits as she buried the surprise sparked by his knowledge of her name, her rank, and Breatanaiche.

“You must be mad,” she snarled. “I would rather die than surrender to a Scotti cur!”

The Scáthinach commander refused to acknowledge her insult. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, surely ye realize that resisting is pointless. I can kill ye, if ye wish. Then we shall slaughter everyone else, and raze every building on the islet. But if ye surrender, the others shall be spared, and we willna break so much as an eggshell.” He lifted his sword in a salute. “By Scáthach, I swear it.”

With every muscle tensed for combat, she reflected upon her options. That the Scáthinaich wanted her alive was obvious. The question was why. To be made a slave and probably concubine for one of their chieftains seemed the likeliest answer. Inwardly, she grimaced at the thought of being raped by a Scáth.

Never! She would kill herself before that could happen. Perhaps even take a few more of the michaoduin with her. Yet her most important concern was the safety of the monastery, the Chalice and its Keeper, Brother Stefan and his students, and Morghe and Dafydd.

The irony was that she was being forced to trade her freedom for the lives of others, including one man who knew firsthand what slavery was like.

She thrust the sword point into the nearest Scáthinach corpse, released the hilt, and lowered her arm. The blade stood upright, quivering. By not delivering the sword directly into her captor’s hands, she had only surrendered the weapon, not her inner self. She froze in an attitude of proud defiance as the Scáthinach commander jerked her weapon from its grisly scabbard. At his signal, four warriors drew their swords and closed around her.

Surprisingly, the commander showed every intention of honoring his part of the bargain. He ordered some of his men to pick up the score of warriors Gyan and her men had killed. The second-in-command was designated to take charge of the monastery, with half the remaining soldiers.

As the Scáthinaich fanned out to take up positions around the compound, the Breatanach civilians dispersed. Several monks went to retrieve their dead. The others began filing into the church in subdued silence.

“Commander Fergus, see what I have found!” One of the warriors held a bundle of auburn braids and flailing fists.

“Let me go, you oaf!”

“Bring her to me,” ordered Commander Fergus. As the man shoved her forward, the violet eyes widened in alarm. “Ye be nae monk. Give me your name, lass.” He grasped her arm to peer into her face.

Gyan’s spirits plummeted. Discovery of Morghe added the final stanza to the dirge of the day’s failure.

Morghe drew a deep breath. “I am—”

“Nobody! An orphan.” Gyan was pricked into silence by the sword of one of her guards.

Fortunately, Morghe possessed sense enough not to disagree.

“Being sheltered by the good brethren, is she?” Grinning wolfishly, Fergus thrust Morghe back into the warrior’s hands. “Then I imagine they willna mind having one less mouth to feed.”

“No! You promised—” Gyan’s outburst was rewarded with another pointed nudge.

“Chieftainess, permit me to remind ye that ye be in nae position to protest anything.” The Scáthinach commander strode up to Gyan, eyes sharp as dark daggers. “The lass comes with us. In good time, we shall find out who she really be.”

“I KILLED him, aye,” Angusel admitted evenly.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“Because I thought sending the signal was more important.” He locked his gaze with Bohort’s. “Wasn’t it?”

“I’ll be asking the questions here, lad.” The centurion’s tone was not unkind, but he regarded Angusel under narrowing eyebrows. “Do you realize that murdering a Bryton is punishable by death?”

A ghostly claw clutched Angusel’s heart. He drew his best weapon: truth.

“I didn’t murder him, sir. We fought, and I won.”

“Why did you fight him?”

“Sir, he was a spy.”

“A spy?” If not for what Angusel guessed to be at least a decade of military discipline, Bohort’s surprise might have forced him back a pace. “How do you know?”

“I saw him meet with the Scots on the beach. He told them something and was paid for it.”

“What did he tell them?” Bohort’s face loomed closer.

Angusel’s thoughts raced. Should he make up something to lend support to his story? Nay. A lie might destroy what little credibility he owned.

“I don’t know, sir. I was too far away to hear.”

The centurion stroked his chin. “You said he was paid. How?”

“I’m not sure.” Angusel bit his lip and frowned, trying to recall the elusive scene. “All I saw was a bright flash as the thing caught the sun. It was small. Maybe a buckle.”

“But you never saw it up close? The patrol noticed signs of a fight but didn’t report finding anything unusual on the body. You didn’t take it from him, did you? Maybe that’s really why you killed him.”

“No, sir! I didn’t even think about it.” Angusel wanted to quip that maybe the men of the patrol hadn’t made a complete report but decided the suggestion might buy him more trouble than he could afford. “I swear.”

Bohort paced to the window, which overlooked the brooding sea. To the north, a dark finger of Breatein thrust above the foam-speckled waves. The commander of the Ayr Point detachment slowly shook his head.

“I’m afraid this doesn’t look good. You say the man was a spy, but you have no proof.” As he faced Angusel, his countenance was as stern as the gray waters at his back. “I’d like to believe you, lad, but without evidence in your favor, I cannot let you go free.”

“Proof! You want proof?” Forgetting his swollen knee, he took a step toward the centurion. The knee collapsed. He stumbled into the work table, clutching it to brace himself against the agony. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, but he shook it off. Through clenched teeth, he growled, “My word as a warrior should be all the proof you need.”

“That might well be, Angusel. But this is beyond my authority. Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir.” Pushing free of the table, he struggled to meet his fate squarely on both feet. He hoped his face betrayed none of the effort’s cost.

The door opened to reveal the centurion’s aide. “Sir, your pardon for the interruption, but the unit is formed up and ready for the march to Dhoo-Glass.”

“Good, Alun. We’re taking Angusel with us. Find a bandage to bind his knee.” As Alun left the chamber, Bohort faced Angusel. A flash of what seemed to be regret wrinkled his brow. “Angusel of Caledonia, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of the herdsman from Clan Moray of Dalriada. Tribune Urien must decide what to do with you.”

THE SCÁTHINAICH breached Tanroc’s outer defense much more quickly than Gyan would ever have imagined. By the time her captors had led her and Morghe across the channel to the Manx mainland, the invaders had hacked through all the thorn hedge’s portals. She saw no other sign of damage to the hedge, as though they had known exactly where to attack. There was no other explanation for this—and the Scháthinaich knowledge of her value as a hostage—than treason.

“Of course, Chieftainess Gyanhumara. What did ye expect?” The commander of the invasion force grinned. “In my position, would ye not also use every resource?”

Gyan refused to dignify the question with a response. If she lived through this, she would never permit herself to be in his “position.” She bore no respect for any leader who led from the rear and left his subordinates to do all the fighting and dying.

Well into the afternoon, the two women were forced to watch the assault from outside the general’s headquarters tent on a nearby rise.

The ground between the hedge and the palisade walls was littered with Scáthinaich who had fallen victim to Breatanach arrows. But that line of defense had to be abandoned as the Scáthinaich used their archers to set the wooden palisade ablaze. A huge section came crashing down amid a great shower of sparks. The greedy flames danced even higher.

One Breatanach archer, faithful to the last, tried to leap clear of the collapsing wall and failed. Of his body there was soon nothing left but a smoking husk. Gyan squeezed her eyes shut but could not blot out the horribly vivid sight or the gut-churning stench of charred flesh.

So this was war. In all her winters of listening to the fireside yarns spun by Seannachaidh Reuel, weaving mental pictures from the glowing words, nothing could compare with this. All the triumphant tales of raid and conquest by Clan Argyll were dead things next to the gasping reality.

Morghe screamed. Gyan glanced at her. Arthur’s sister stood pale and trembling between two burly guards, who were all but doubled over with glee at her terror. As Gyan watched, Morghe’s face hardened in anger, and her shivering stopped.

The Scáthinaich would get no such entertainment from the Chieftainess of Clan Argyll.

The invaders were pouring through the smoldering gaps in the palisade, shields lashed to their backs as protection from the flames. Several times, Gyan watched blazing debris hit a shield and bounce away without setting it alight. Those wooden shields had to be waterlogged. It would explain why, when she and Morghe had been taken from the monastery, the soldiers had dragged their shields through the water as they waded the channel.

Through the ragged curtain of fire and smoke, she could catch only glimpses of the fighting inside the fort. It appeared that anyone who resisted, soldier or not, was brutally cut down. Gyan did her best not to think about what would happen to the feisty Cynda if she tried to defend herself. Or what would happen if she did not.

Both images blanketed her brain. Neither was any comfort.

Sweeping around the palisade, the fire came perilously close to the stables. Frightened whinnies soared above the din. A group of Breatanaich rushed in to lead the horses to safety. There was only one black horse amidst the sea of browns: her Brin.

A Breatanach officer vaulted to his back and began slashing at the unmounted Scáthinaich. Gyan silently rejoiced to see her horse strike down some of the invaders with his deadly hooves. Then fresh gouts of flame obscured her view. When at last it cleared, Brin was down. A spear sprouted from his side. She felt the wrenching pain as surely as though she had taken the thrust herself.

A great shout arose from the battle. Several Scáthinaich were crawling across the roof of the fort’s headquarters, ducking spears and arrows as they scuttled toward the banner of Clan Móran. The Black Boar banner fell. A Silver Wolf loping across a pine-green background was hoisted up in its place. The ensuing cheers, magnified by the soldiers on the ridge, threatened to rip apart the fabric of heaven.

The commander clapped his hands and rubbed them with fierce glee. “Excellent. Now, for even more pleasant business.” He favored Morghe with an appreciative stare. “Who have we here, Fergus?”

“The chieftainess says she be just an orphan, General Niall,” Fergus answered, “but I think—”

“I am Morghe, daughter of Uther the Pendragon and Chieftainess Ygraine.” Her defiance was aimed solely at Gyan. “And I won’t stand for this outrage!”

Gyan wanted to wrap her hands around Morghe’s throat. The two guardsmen latched onto her arms rendered that impossible. So she settled for the next best thing. “Imbecile! What do you think you—” The accusation died at the tip of a Scáthinach spear.

“I’m trying to save my skin,” Morghe quipped. “Since you couldn’t manage it.” Her words too were rewarded with pain.

Gyan’s attempt at a retort was drowned by Niall’s harsh laughter.

“A good day’s work, Fergus. Ye’ve netted us two noble wildcats instead of just one. Aye, a good day, indeed. Laird Cuchullain shall be most pleased, especially with the daughter of Uther.” The coldness of his tone shivered Gyan’s spine. He leered at the women. “But this day isna over yet, my fine lasses.” To Fergus, he said, “Ready the prisoners for the next leg of the journey.”