The cave gaped at him like a toothless mouth as he sprinted past it. He had a feeling of time running out, and Owain’s life with it. The screeching sounded like it was growing louder again, and for one heart-quickening moment he feared he was too late. Despair turned to hope when he realised it was louder because he was getting closer to them.
The ground sloped upwards, and Dodinal slowed to a fast walk. The cliff was to his left, the deep forest to his right. The trees around him thinned out, and he cut eastwards until the denser woods closed in, shielding him from any watchful eyes. He ran on, reaching the edge of a steep hill.
Beyond the rise was where he would find the boy, he was sure of it. The noise was piercing, almost unbearable, a calamity of howling and yelping and screaming, as if every lunatic that ever lived had somehow ended up in this place of lost souls. It disorientated him, made him feel vulnerable. He spun around, braced in readiness for the horde of creatures he imagined stealing up on him.
The forest was deserted all around him.
He leaned against a tree while his nerves steadied. Once, he would not have bothered. Once, he would have charged straight in, seeing the Saxons as nothing but meat for his sword. He had been younger then and faster with it. Even now — when his bones felt the cold like never before and his muscles grew stiff if he pushed his body too hard — even now, the rage gave him a strength and an animal ferocity that no man could hope to match. But he was not just there to kill. He was there to save a child’s life or to surrender his own trying.
He ran at a crouch, stopping just short of the crest of the hill, where he got down on his belly and lay flat, using his elbows and knees to cover the last few yards. He edged forward until he could look down, the moonlight bright enough to leave nothing unseen.
The ground curved away on both sides of where he lay, sloping down to a deep, narrow bowl; he could have comfortably cast a spear to the opposite side. It might have been natural, a small lake whose waters had long ago run dry, or the hollowed-out remains of ancient stone workings. Forest debris littered the floor. Trees huddled around the lower edge of it, even more decrepit than those in the forest overlooking them. Their branches, bereft of green, seethed with a constant frenzy of motion; creatures, though nothing like as big as those that had attacked the village. These were as stunted as the trees they infested.
Scores of them crawled along or leapt between the branches. Two tumbled to the ground, where they rolled and thrashed about. But they were not fighting. No bigger than children, Dodinal thought, sickened, and already they were rutting.
Halfway across the depression from him was a squat slab of rock, pale as bone in the lunar glow, the cliff a solid wall behind it. Owain was bound to the rock, with vines tied tautly across his chest and waist and holding his arms and legs outstretched. At first, amidst the shifting shadows, Dodinal could not tell whether the boy was moving. While he watched, Owain lifted his head as though he could somehow see Dodinal hiding in the darkness.
He drew back carefully from the edge until the trees concealed him, dry, brittle undergrowth cracking under his weight as he moved. Once out of sight he sat with his back against an oak with his chin cupped in one hand. If he made a move for the boy, the creatures would see him. Assuming the young were anything like the adults, they would attack without hesitation. Dodinal was confident he could fight them off, but less certain he could keep the boy safe from harm as he did so. What he needed was a distraction.
He shifted position in a wasted attempt to get comfortable on the hard ground, and Owain’s pouch bumped lightly against his chest. His hand closed around it. At once, his mind was back in the village, in Rhiannon’s hut, that evening when Owain had proudly displayed his father’s belongings for him to see. Dodinal lifted the pouch over his head, opened it, tipped its contents into his hand.
He grinned when he found what he was looking for. He would have his distraction.
He returned everything except the flint and steel, and their cushion of bark kindling, and tied the pack around his neck once more. That done, he ripped up a clump of bracken, screwed it into a small nest and placed the kindling inside it, then rested it against the base of the oak and worked flint and steel until the sparks brought forth a tiny flame.
Dodinal cupped his hands around the nest and gently blew until it ignited. Then he grabbed more handfuls of bracken and placed them carefully on the fledgling fire, anxious not to smother it. The bracken immediately started to burn, smoke rising from the flames. He nodded.
Using the trees for concealment, he worked his way around the edge of the depression. He had to get as close as he could to Owain before making his move. He smelled the smoke, and wondered how long it would be before the creatures smelled it too. Hopefully they would panic and flee.
The smoke was visible by the time he was close enough to look down directly onto the slab. It spiralled into the night sky, gusting across the moon. Yet the creatures seemed oblivious to it. Dodinal gnawed his lip. Surely they were not so distracted by their rutting and rollicking that it had escaped their attention.
Then it struck him. If the creatures were unaware of the smoke, with luck they would remain unaware of him if he went down to the slab. He could be there and back with Owain before they noticed the child was gone. It was risky, but he would have to act sooner or later anyway. Better now, when there were no adults around. Decision made, he did not waver. He drew his sword and ran at a crouch until he reached the edge and scrambled down it.
The slab was as high as Dodinal’s waist. Owain twisted his head to watch him as he approached. The knight’s boots kicked against fallen branches, and he glanced down, recoiling in disgust. Not branches. Bones. Skulls. Unmistakeable in the moonlight. The ground was littered with them. Despite his haste he crouched to take a closer look. All of them were small. Some were clearly human. Others were malformed. So the creatures killed and ate their own young as well as the children they stole. Outrage flared within him.
Whatever happened, he would not fail Owain, even if that meant taking his life painlessly before the creatures could snuff it out with cruel savagery.
The creatures had forced a cloth into the boy’s mouth, unaware there would be no cries to smother. Dodinal did not waste time with words or reassurance. As soon as he was close enough he slashed through the vines around Owain’s waist and chest, working as quickly as he could.
The blade parted the vines securing Owain’s right arm and leg, and Dodinal hurried around the slab. The air was cool, but he was sweating hard. He wiped his hands on his tunic, and then went to cut the vine holding Owain’s left arm fast.
A screech blasted out, louder and shriller than the rest, and the forest went silent.
Dodinal spun around.
The creatures were motionless, frozen in place, their heads all turned his way. He could see the moonlight reflected in their eyes as they watched him. Smoke drifted across his vision. They must finally have scented it and, looking for its source, had seen him. What he had intended as a distraction had given him away.
He raised the sword to cut through the last of the bindings. Owain might survive in the forest, or he might not, but at least he would have a chance, where he would have no chance at all trapped in the midst of a battle. They would tear him to pieces.
There was not enough time. As one, the creatures shrieked and leapt down from the trees, sweeping across the depression towards him.
“Try to undo the knots,” he bellowed at Owain, then turned and faced the tide that was about to engulf him. He ran from the slab to lead them away from the boy, then stood his ground, sword raised. The red mist swam up, and his heart pounded with exhilaration. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins.