Chronicle of Ages (6 page)

Samson withheld his protest on that count, knowing it would be a waste of breath. The only way he would succeed in returning his lost brethren to the ways of Christianity was to expose the Dragon's hoax. After he had attended to the King, that was exactly what Samson intended to do.

 

The rocking motion of her head brought Cara to consciousness. Her body felt stiff, so she attempted to reposition herself only to realise that her hands were shackled to something. Her head felt heavy to lift, but as her legs were free, she wriggled herself into a seated position.

She was chained to a small, forged iron bunk bed in the cargo hold of a boat. Cara knew this as the swaying room reeked of rotten food, fish, animal waste and old wine. ‘Dear Goddess,' she uttered. ‘How have I come to be here?'

The last thing she recalled was leaving Prince Bryce with her daughter.

Please Goddess, let her be alright.

Bryce was a cunning warrior for one so young, who would die defending one of his kinswomen if it came to that. Bridgit was in good hands and Cara sensed in her heart that her child was safe.

She was not as sure about her own wellbeing however. Why on earth would anyone want to abduct her? The throbbing at the back of her head had a large lump accompanying it that was rather tender to the touch. She had obviously been walloped with a heavy object and could only guess at how long her concussion had lasted.

The hatch door above the ladder that led to the upper deck opened. As he was silhouetted against the glare of the sky above, Cara could only make out the vague form of the man who descended before he closed the hatch door behind himself. Due to the burst of daylight, Cara was blinded until her eyes readjusted to the dim light of the cargo hold. ‘Who art thou? What does thou want with me?' she questioned the shadow behind the inky blackness that shrouded her sight.

‘Fear not, Lady Cara, I am thy saviour, sent from God.' He stepped into a ray of light that filtered through the wooden boards of the deck above.

‘Sir Eldred!' she gasped.

‘Otherwise known as Aurelius Conan.' This time it was Conan who smiled at Cara's misconception; those native halfwits still hadn't worked out who he was.

‘Thou art the son of Aurelius Caninus?' She gasped again.

‘Soon to be King of Gwent Is Coed.' He sat on the bunk, placing a tray of food between them. ‘And I am at thy service, Lady. Please eat.'

Cara frowned. If he was at her service than why was she chained up? ‘Art thou going to remove my shackles?' she questioned, trying not to sound too hopeful — with any luck he wasn't aware that she was one of the Twelve Masters of the Goddess.

‘Soon,' he assured.

Cara's immediate reaction was to be enraged, but she realised that from the way Conan was observing her a more subtle form of persuasion might serve her better. ‘So what dost thou intend to do with me?' The Lady turned on the defenceless female charm.

‘That really depends on thee.' He poured her a glass of mead and handed it to her.

Conan described the amazing world beyond these primitive shores and of his plans to return there. He showed Cara the chests full of riches that he had appropriated from the city treasuries at Caerleon and Caerwent.

‘I want thee to come with me, Cara … I am offering thee a chance at a better life.'

Cara sat listening with horror at his intent, although her contempt did not reflect in her face; her outward expression was one of serious consideration.

The hatch door opened and a crew member yelled down to advise the Prince that a heavy mist was descending, thus they would have to anchor ship until it lifted.

Conan wasn't too worried by the delay; if they couldn't see their way out of this bay, his pursuers couldn't possibly see his ship. And even if they did spot it, it was a fair ride from here to reach any of Dyfed's seagoing vessels.

Cara was relieved by the information. It bought her a bit of time to escape Conan's clutches before they headed for open sea. She needed to persuade him to remove her shackles.

‘It looks as if we shall be stuck here awhile … art these really necessary?' Cara held the heavy iron bands out towards him, making it appear a great effort for her to do so.

‘Dost thou accept my proposal?'

It was clear to Cara that Conan wanted her, and so wanted to free her. ‘When it comes to men,' she advised in an amiable fashion, ‘I like to try before I buy. I understand, however, that thou art compelled by thy faith to refrain from such indulgences?'

‘Not at all,' the Prince grinned, searching his person for the key to her restraints. ‘For God in his wisdom created Confession.'

Cara giggled at this, faking amusement when in reality she was hysterical. Conan would not be an easy man to overpower. As he unlocked her bonds, Cara ran through in her mind all the vital points of the body that could kill or cause loss of consciousness — to merely paralyse her opponent would not suffice in this instance. The adrenalin pumped through her being as her chains fell away. She reached out to touch the warrior's face with both her hands, her fingers trailing over his jaw and down his neck towards the vital points located there.

Conan closed his eyes to fully experience her touch, and awaited the taste of her lips with growing anticipation.

This was her cue — having located the pressure points, Cara dug her fingers into his neck and paralysed the huge warrior. His eyes burst open and she saw the realisation of her betrayal in them. She shut her eyes to summon forth her courage and focus all her striking power to the first joint of the middle finger of her right fist. The smaller the striking surface of her blow, the greater the force of penetration would be. Drawing back her right arm, Cara smashed the chosen body part deep into Conan's third eye. She had never before had to use this strike and was rather stunned when the huge warrior dropped like a stone. ‘Oh Goddess!' Cara uttered aghast. Her mind was a blank as to her next move; she hadn't really expected to be still living after her retaliation attempt. She thought to shackle the warrior, but as he still held the key clenched in his hand, Cara figured why waste the time or risk waking him up? She headed straight for the ladder and having scaled it, raised the hatch door only enough to peek above deck.

A light mist swept over the vessel but it was not yet dense enough to cover her escape to the side of the boat. She could still see the vague outline of land in the distance and noting its direction decided that she should take her chances regardless.

Fortunately most of the oarsmen were facing away from her, but as the boat was going nowhere, they were at leisure and more likely to glance her way. Still, the rest of the crew were all around the helm, at the stern of the boat.

Seize the moment. Cara roused the courage to make her sprint and flung the hatch door open, but she was
suddenly yanked back into the cargo hold. Her head rebounded down the rungs of the ladder as she came crashing to the timber floor, and a warm fluid began to flow from her mouth and down her cheeks.

Conan came to stand over the top of her and crouching down, he grabbed hold of her face to direct her bleary eyes his way. ‘Thou shalt pay for that, my Lady.' He grabbed hold of a clump of her hair, dragged her to her feet and flung her at the iron bunk bed. ‘Thou shalt pay for it dear.'

As Cara collided with the timber hull and slid down onto the bed, she was coherent enough to realise that her death was imminent. Never again would she make love to her husband, hold her child or laugh with her friends. Goddess make it swift, Cara prayed as Conan's shadow fell over her.

F
rom up above the scattered cloud at Craig-y-Ddinas, Maelgwn was granted a greater insight into the developing situation in Gwent Is Coed and Dyfed. Waves of mist billowed forth across the landscape from the heart of their designated landing site. Through the dense, white, fluffy blanket below, belts of blue energy radiated out from the mist's centre in circular, wave-like pulses every few moments.

‘Dear Goddess!' cried Maelgwn, and bethought the dragon beneath him:
What hast happened here? I have never seen anything like this.

Etheric world leakage,
replied Rufus casually.
Judging from here, one would guess Gwyn ap Nudd hast gained
control of territory well into Dyfed. I wonder what he wants there?

Maelgwn considered the dragon's question a very good one.
Take me down.

It will be thy funeral.
Rufus complied with the King's wish.

On the ground the mist was so dense that Maelgwn couldn't see his hand in front of his face. The blue pulses of energy were not at all apparent from down here, but the atmosphere had an eerie stillness about it that was very unsettling.

‘I cannot see a damn thing!' Maelgwn grumbled, fearful of putting a foot wrong and stepping off a cliff.

Rufus inhaled a deep breath and then blew, creating a gale force wind that cleared the mist for some distance ahead.

It was hard to believe the scene the mist concealed. Hundreds of men lay mutilated around the construction site, all impaled on their own tools and materials.

‘Goddess forbid,' Maelgwn uttered. Even the bloodiest battlefield he could recall did not compare to this slaughter. ‘Who hast done this?'

Rufus eyed the carnage, refraining from licking his lips.
Looks like the handiwork of the Tylwyth Teg.

‘The folk?' Maelgwn looked at the dragon in disbelief. ‘Nay, they do not maim like this.'

True,
Rufus conceded,
but they can drive a man to such distraction that he would mutilate himself in this manner. The Tylwyth Teg en masse would be capable of this and much more.

Maelgwn was momentarily stunned by the threat this posed to his kin. As he watched the misty veil
descend once more to cover the holocaust around him, the King sensed a movement behind him and drew his sword. ‘Who goes there?'

Rufus exhaled in the direction that concerned Maelgwn, and the mists parted to disclose a lone figure. It was Selwyn.

Maelgwn strode towards the Druid, who was very obviously exhausted. ‘Selwyn. Praise be. Thou art alive!'

‘Put the sword away,' Selwyn beseeched him, ‘and do not draw it again in this mist. It will kill thee.'

Maelgwn committed his sword to its scabbard at once. Was that why Selwyn was the only man living on the landscape, for as a Druid he carried no tools or weapons that could inflict mortal injury? Maelgwn was distracted from his thought as he noted the tears that were streaming down Selwyn's face.

‘Hurry.' Selwyn began to hobble back in the direction he had come.

‘Stop.' Maelgwn caught the Druid up and pulled him to a standstill. ‘Tell me thy woes first.'

The Druid shook his head, his emotions bursting forth so that he could hardly speak. ‘How can I tell thee Gwyn ap Nudd hast stolen thy wife, and it wast on my account that he did so.'

It took a moment for the statement to really sink in, but when it had Maelgwn grabbed Selwyn up by his robes. ‘Gwyn ap Nudd hast Tory? Where?'

Selwyn pointed back into the mist and realised he couldn't hope to retrace his steps back to her. ‘I know not.' He bowed his head in defeat.

‘Try harder.' Maelgwn turned Selwyn around and pushed him on ahead to lead the way.

The mist was closing in on them again, and it appeared to gobble Selwyn up as he trudged on ahead.

‘Hold up,' Maelgwn called. ‘I have lost thee.' He walked a little further but the Druid did not reappear nor answer. ‘Selwyn? Selwyn!'

 

To describe the way Brockwell felt as vexed was an understatement. He'd been leading his troops through the thick mist for most of the day. His son's welfare weighed heavy on his mind, but he tried not to let it affect his attitude towards the mission at hand. The sun had set some time ago; thus Brockwell had ordered torches lit and kept the party moving. Many of these soldiers had not had a decent sleep since leaving Powys before sun-up the previous day, and the King knew he would not be able to push them for much longer. He had several scouts that were scouring the trails ahead of the main party, searching for familiar landmarks. It was slow going, which only added to his frustration — they would not make Dynevor this night, that much was certain.

‘Majesty.' Sir Lamorak, Brockwell's second-in-command on this mission, rode up alongside him as they entered a large clearing in the forest. ‘The men —'

‘No need to say it.' Brockwell knew he should really have camped outside of the town at Carmarthen when they'd passed it at sundown. ‘Make camp.'

Lamorak smiled, gratified. He turned his horse around and rode back along the ranks to instruct the men to fall out and make camp.

Brockwell dismounted so that his horse could be attended to, but having no desire for sleep, he had someone chase up Lamorak for him.

‘Majesty.' The knight reported to him as requested.

‘I have decided to go on ahead to assess our situation. Find me a scout who feels up to the challenge and a couple of fresh horses.'

Lamorak bowed to confirm the command and went about Brockwell's bidding.

It was a young scout from Dyfed who came forward to accompany the King; he appeared not that much older than Bryce. ‘My name be Trwst, Majesty,' he bowed. ‘I shall see thee through the night and then some,' he boasted.

‘And thou doth know this area well?' Brockwell had to wonder if the lad was seriously up to the task.

‘I could find Dynevor with my eyes closed.' The lad grinned, confident. ‘We have only to follow the Tywi river.'

‘Then let us depart.' Brockwell mounted his horse and was surprised when the lad grabbed a torch and ran off on foot. ‘Trwst, thy horse?'

‘I need no transport,' the lad yelled back. ‘In mist I am faster on foot. Trust me, Majesty. I shall guide thee right.'

Brockwell looked to Lamorak, sceptical.

‘They say young Trwst be part hound, Majesty.' Lamorak vouched for his choice.

‘I shall see thee at noon tomorrow then.' Brockwell rode off in pursuit of the guiding light of his young scout.

 

Vortipor was experiencing the same problems finding his way through the heavy white veil that shrouded his path to Cara. ‘Lost in my own kingdom,' he growled, driven to distraction by the slow pace they were forced to keep. ‘Conan shall be halfway to Brittany by this.'

‘This mist will be hindering the movements of all within its grasp, Lord Protector,' his scout assured. ‘There be not one breath of wind —'

At that moment, all round them, the mist began to contort into forms, whereby Vortipor brought the party to a halt.

At first the men thought the occurrence was the wind playing tricks in the torchlight, but then the formations in the mist took on a glow all of their own, and a multitude of ghostly warriors manifested to challenge the men in battle.

Guard thyself for true.

The words thundered through every man's mind.

‘What in the Underworld be this?' Vortipor reached for his sword to find it mysteriously absent. Was it possible that in his hurry to pursue his wife's abductors he had left his weapon behind? Vortipor felt for the sword again, it was not on his person.

The phantom warriors took to the air, wildly wielding their weaponry. Vortipor's men drew their swords in response, and the airborne force began to dive.

Vortipor braced himself for the onslaught, but the spectral army passed over him as if oblivious to his presence. With mounting horror the Protector watched as the unearthly force descended on his men. As the fierce apparitions raced around and through the soldiers, the
men became flustered and began butchering each other in their attempts to destroy the illusive menace that taunted them. Vortipor screamed orders for his men to cease their retaliation, but it was already too late — the last of his men dropped from his horse, dead.

The ghostly warriors laughed triumphantly. As they raced off past Vortipor their hard warlike forms transformed into beautiful winged women, who blew him kisses as they passed and vanished back into the mists.

Vortipor staggered off his horse, shocked to the core by what he'd witnessed. He retrieved a torch from the dismembered hand of its bearer to view the slaughter of man and beast. He realised why he'd been spared; his missing weapon had saved his life. ‘Am I to lose every soldier in my kingdom thus?' he cried into the eerie silence of the dark, misty landscape. ‘Have I been cursed?'

Conan carries a sword.
Vortipor entertained the thought, which eased his feeling of dread, momentarily. ‘So does Prince Bryce.'

This realisation found Vortipor back on his horse.

The Goddess has spared me once this night … I place my trust in her.

The warrior dug his heels into his trusty steed and crouching low to the horse's body, blindly took off into the night.

 

When Bryce awoke to the tortured wails of a woman, he threw off the animal skin that concealed him in the end of the small rowboat. He'd managed to hide himself here
when Cara's abductors had been driving off their horses. They'd taken the rowboat down the Du river to the bay at Aberdaugleddau to rendezvous with a larger seagoing boat that was anchored there. The Prince had thought it best to wait until the cover of night before attempting to board the vessel and execute a rescue.

‘The damn swaying of this boat must have put me to sleep.'

Again the agonised cries of the woman rang out through the dark misty night.

‘Lady Cara!' gasped Bryce, vaguely recognising the voice behind the contorted screams.

Without hesitation Bryce lowered himself into the water, keeping hold of the rope that tied the small rowboat to the larger vessel. He followed the slack of the towline to the stern of the large boat and then shimmied up the rope towards the deck. As the lad got a foothold, the tip of his scabbard caught on his knee and as it was dragged upside down his sword slipped out and fell with a splash down into the water below. ‘Idiot,' Bryce cursed, crouching low on the outer rail of the boat in case anyone had heard his bungle.

The deck of the boat lit up suddenly, illuminated by a light far brighter than anything Bryce had ever known to shine at night.

Guard thyself for true.

The bethought challenge sent every man on the deck scampering for a weapon.

Bryce looked to the sky to see a celestial army taunting the sailors with war cries as they prepared to descend on the boat and engage in battle. All eyes were
upturned to the pending menace above, so Bryce seized the opportunity to steal onto the deck. As the ghostly war band charged the rowdy sailors, Bryce took cover behind a couple of large barrels.

The manner in which the phantom warriors baited their foe was cruel and effective. By possessing the bodies of some of the crew, they fooled the men into warring with each other. In the confusion, who could tell who was possessed and who wasn't?

Cara's tortured wails told Bryce she was close at hand; beneath him, most likely. The light the celestial army was emitting lit up the deck and trapdoor that led to the cargo hold. Head down and on all fours, Bryce ventured through the mayhem. Upon making it to the hatch the Prince reached for the rope handle, whereby he found one of the ghostly warriors in his face.

Allow me.

The ugly war-ravaged warrior transfigured into the most beautiful woman Bryce had ever seen. She smiled at him, and lifted the hatch to allow him entry.

The Prince was stunned only for a moment, and would have mulled over why he had been looked upon so favourably if the Lady Cara's safety had not had his mind fully preoccupied. He crept down into the dark, damp cargo hold and squatted behind a large chest to close his eyes a moment and regain his vision.

Cara's screams had subsided into low, painful, rhythmic groans. Bryce's heart sank into the pit of his stomach when he realised she was being raped.

Conan heard a board creak behind him, and didn't bother looking up from his amusement to investigate. ‘I told thee I wast not to be disturbed.'

‘Dead men do not give orders.'

Conan raised his head to encounter Bryce's boot straight between the eyes.

As Bryce dragged the much larger warrior off the battered and bruised Lady Cara, his senses were numbed by the hatred-induced adrenalin pumping through his veins. He vented his blind fury on Conan, and the outcome was beyond the lad's control. For Bryce's body was a finely-tuned weapon and the power it harnessed was astounding upon finally being unleashed. Bryce's onslaught ceased when Conan's skull caved in under his foot.

Blood-splattered and exhausted, Bryce stepped away from his slaughter, mortified by his own capacity to destroy. He turned back to Cara, who had struggled up to a seated position.

‘Dear Bryce,' she burst into tears and waved her saviour closer.

The lad ran to Cara's embrace, seeking the woman's forgiveness for arriving too late to save her from the savage violation. He also sought a mother's absolution for the grievous murder he'd just committed.

‘The Goddess knows thee had just cause,' she told him as they held each other, seeking solace in each other's strength. ‘I am only alive because of thy bravery.'

As Bryce's horror subsided, the little boy inside him dissolved into a man. Due to his own recent sexual
encounter, he was a little more emotionally equipped to cope with the lamentable situation. His thoughts turned to Cara's welfare. ‘Can thee move?'