One side of his skull had been crushed and was seeping blood and grey matter. No man could have survived such a blow, not even a man as full of life as Idris had been.
The old brehyrion, and this time Dodinal had no trouble remembering the word, was dead. His eyes stared at the stars. Crouching wordlessly beside Rhiannon, Dodinal reached out and passed his fingers over the man’s eyelids to close them.
He was dimly aware of people moving and talking in hushed tones around him, but he paid them no notice. His mind struggled to comprehend the enormity of the man’s passing. He got down on one knee and put his arms around Rhiannon, saying nothing, just holding her, feeling her body stiffen and then relax at his touch. Moments later she shuddered as she began to weep, and he held her tighter still.
They stayed like that for a minute or two, and then Dodinal leant across to lift the old man’s head from Rhiannon’s lap and lower it gently to the ground. “There will be time to grieve for the dead,” he told her as he helped her to her feet. “But that time will come later. For now we must concern ourselves with the living.”
People had gathered round and were standing there helplessly as they looked down at Idris, traumatised both by the sudden ferocity of the attack on the village and by the death of their leader. They seemed to be at a loss to know what to do or what to say.
Then all heads turned as one towards the Great Hall as its door was hurled open with a mighty crash. Dodinal had given the creature no further thought, assuming it had perished in the flames, but it had not. It leapt out of the burning building, alive if not unscathed. Its body was blackened and blistered. It rolled on the ground, yelping in pain.
Rhiannon went rigid and screamed her son’s name.
“Oh no,” Dodinal groaned when he saw why she had cried out. Owain was running past the Great Hall, towards the gates. The boy, oblivious as always of his own safety, was perhaps trying to rescue the stolen girl. He gave no sign of having seen the creature, but the creature immediately saw him. It twisted around on the ground, jumped up and reached out to snatch Owain off his feet. Dodinal had left the gates open. There was no need for it to scale the palisade. It vanished into the darkness in the blink of an eye. Dodinal heard it howl in triumph.
He saw red and went after it.
The smoke in his throat and his lungs was forgotten as he tore between the trees. Their life lights, though dim, were bright enough for him to avoid them even with his eyes closed. Behind him he was aware of the sound of villagers hurrying after him, but he did not slow; he didn’t want them anywhere near him.
The moon bathed the forest in its unforgiving light. Ahead of him, a shadow flitted and leapt high up in the trees. Dodinal’s fury coalesced as he realised it was pulling away from him. The distance between them was growing even though he was running so hard his heart felt like it was about to burst through his chest.
Consumed by the fire of his seething rage, he had no sense of time. So when the mist cleared and he was finally forced to break off the pursuit, throat ragged, legs burning, pulse thudding, lungs puffing like bellows, he had no idea how long he had given chase.
He doubled over, hands on his knees, head bowed, gasping for breath, hearing nothing above his heart’s relentless pounding. When at last it calmed, he realised with dismay that the forest around him was silent.
The creature was gone. He had lost it.
Baying his frustration and anger, he drew his sword and hit out at the tree closest to him, striking it repeatedly, roaring with each blow. The force of the impacts was like a hammer against his wrists, until it seemed the blade must surely break. He hated himself for failing, for letting down the people he had sworn to protect. He hated Arthur, too, for making him take the oath to begin with. Dodinal had not sought knighthood. But neither had he refused it.
Now he would give anything to turn his back on it.
He hurled the sword away and wiped his eyes. Blood and ash and sweat smeared the back of his hand. Then he slid to the ground and sat with his back against the tree, elbows resting on his knees, and held his head in his hands. Men called out to him. Dodinal did not call back. He was too troubled to want anyone near him. It was the first time in his life he had failed. He hated the feel of it. Anger, despair and inadequacy battled for supremacy inside him. He raised his head to stare into the inky darkness of the forest. There was a good chance Owain and the girl were alive; whatever those things were, the children were no good to them dead.
Perhaps there was time to save them, and redeem himself.
Even if there was not, he would go after them regardless. He would not suffer the creatures to live. Not after what they had done and would doubtless continue to do. They would continue probing south, attacking village after village, unless they were stopped.
So he would stop them. They did not deserve to live.
Dodinal nodded solemnly. His mind was made up.
He got to his feet and retrieved his sword from where he had thrown it. Then he set off for the village to say his last farewells.
FOURTEEN
The men did not find him; he found them. He could have passed them unseen had he wanted to — certainly he was in no mood for conversation — but his fight was not with them, and he had no reason to treat them discourteously. Even so, when they asked him what had happened, he gruffly informed them the creatures had gone. With that, he fell silent and did not speak again until they reached the village.
Rhiannon paced anxiously at the gates. Her shoulders slumped when she saw Dodinal had returned alone.
“Owain is gone. I’m sorry,” he told her. The words sounded woefully inadequate. “It was too fast for me.”
“What do you mean, gone?” Rhiannon’s voice had risen in pitch. She was close to hysteria. Dodinal did not blame her.
He reached out and held her by the shoulders. When he pulled her towards him, she resisted briefly and then collapsed into his arms as his words hit home. “I know it’s hard,” he murmured into her ear. “But don’t despair. Owain is alive. He is strong, not like the child they took from Madoc’s village. You have to be as strong as he is.”
She pulled away from him, beating both fists hard against his chest, her voice rising to a shout. “And what good is it to me to know he is alive after those… devils have taken him? How is that supposed to make me feel any better?”
Her voice broke and she hit him again and again, putting all her strength into each blow, screaming in denial. Dodinal said nothing, did nothing to stop her, waiting for the storm to pass, until she lacked the strength to strike him and the screams had dwindled into sobs.
Then he held her tight and pressed his face to her hair and whispered: “Owain is alive. I will get him back, I swear.”
She did not resist when he led her through the gates. The guard’s body was gone. The ground was stained black.
He steered her past the Great Hall, now completely alight.
The firelight painted a picture of hell.
Bodies, battered and bleeding and not all of them intact, lay where they had died. Wives and husbands knelt alongside them, crying and wailing their grief, whispering prayers, holding the fallen even while torn flesh cooled and broken limbs stiffened, as though they could hold on to the life that had been extinguished.
Someone must have taken the children to a place of refuge to spare them further trauma, for there were none to be seen. Many of them were now orphans. Not all of them would yet know it.
Idris had been moved, his body placed before the smouldering remains of his home, with his arms crossed over his chest. His head rested on a folded cloak, his hair arranged to conceal his shattered skull. His sword and shield had been placed next to him. Two men with spears stood, one each side of his body, a guard of honour. Dodinal held back his grief at the loss of a man he had come to regard as a friend. There was too much to do.