They had travelled perhaps two hours and the men had drifted apart, following their own paths, certain now that the forest was devoid of any kind of threat. Idris caught up with Dodinal and cleared his throat. “The weather is improving. I suppose that means you will be leaving us once we are done.”
As it was not a question, Dodinal chose not to answer. He had a feeling Idris would fill the silence, and he was right.
“As soon as the thaw comes, you’ll have no reason to stay.”
Dodinal shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You have doubts? I am surprised, sir knight. I would have thought you would be eager to be away on this quest of yours.”
Dodinal raised his eyebrows at sir knight, but let it pass without comment. If Rhiannon was to be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her, Idris did not want him to leave. Yet the old chieftain was either too nervous or too proud to ask him to stay. Well, then. If he wanted to talk around the matter, so be it. Dodinal would do so too.
“I am in no hurry. The quest will be there whether I leave at the first sign of spring or wait ’til high summer.”
“I see,” Idris said. For a moment he seemed ready to say more, but then he bit his lip and turned away.
They walked in silence for a while after that. Dodinal watched Idris from the corner of his eye, suppressing a grin at the sight of the chieftain’s mouth moving soundlessly, as though rehearsing the words he wanted to say. Finally Idris shook his head and gave up, perhaps having concluded it would be best to wait until such time as Dodinal announced he was leaving before trying to persuade him to stay.
For a moment, the knight was tempted to tell the old man the secrets he was keeping from him, the story of his life, although he had never before felt the need to share it with anyone. Idris had shown him nothing but courtesy and hospitality. If anyone deserved to hear Dodinal’s tale, it was the white-haired chieftain.
Then again, he thought, remembering all that had happened to him since the Saxons had stolen his childhood, he would also reveal himself to be what he really was: a man with too much blood on his hands. A killer without mercy. Better to save his tale for another time, if at all. But still he remembered, and he let his mind drift…
On a cloudless summer day in Dodinal’s sixteenth year, he heard a distant commotion. With nothing else to occupy him, he went to investigate, moving through the forest until he was close enough to recognise the sounds of fighting.
As yet he could see nothing, as the battle was being fought on the other side of a wooded ridge ahead of him. His movements became more stealthy as he made his way closer; this was not his fight, and he had no desire to get involved.
Upon reaching the crest of the rise he pressed up against a tree for cover and peered around it. The ground before him fell away steeply, providing an uninterrupted view of the combat in the narrow valley below. Dodinal watched for a while, squinting against the flashes of light glinting off weapons and armour.
The melee was furious. There was no telling which side was winning. Bodies were strewn across the forest floor. Around them dozens of men, too many to count, hacked at each other with swords and axes, some blows blocked by shields or armour, others getting through to crush heads or tear through flesh and bone.
Dodinal grimaced as a man staggered away, mouth open wide in a scream that could not be heard above the clamour. His hand was pressed against the ragged stump at his shoulder in a futile attempt to staunch the blood pumping from it.
His suffering was mercifully short-lived, for a moment later an axe blade sunk deep into his throat. His head snapped back, attached to the neck only by a flap of skin, and he took a few staggering steps forward before collapsing.
Another man, almost immediately below Dodinal, was holding off three aggressors, using his sword expertly to divert their blows and jab at them. He drew blood with every swing, yet failed to hurt them enough to bring them down. He was tall and wore fine armour. Dodinal could see, even from his vantage point, that his blade was of the highest quality. It glittered in the sunlight as he wielded it.
The tall man backed away from the three and they followed, circling him warily, prodding and testing with their swords, looking for a way through his stubborn defences but finding none.
Dodinal could not help but nod in admiration. He was no fighter, but he recognised skill when he saw it. What a shame this man would surely die, for the odds were not in his favour.
The stranger edged away until he had backed up into the steep slope. He came to a halt, unable to go any further. “Come on, then, you sons of Saxon whores!” he roared.
Saxons!
Dodinal had heard the name spoken many times on his travels, always with hatred and fear. It was the name given to the people who had attacked his village, who had slaughtered every man, woman and child there… who had killed his father and condemned his mother to an unknowable but doubtless terrible fate.
Fury boiled up inside him. He had been wrong to think this was not his battle. He had sworn vengeance after he found his father dead, and vengeance he would have.
With that, the same red mist that had engulfed him all those years ago descended on him again like a blood-soaked veil. With a bellow of unrestrained rage, he drew his sword and charged headlong down the slope, somehow keeping his footing as earth and stones shifted and tumbled down beneath him. The Saxons looked up, shock clear in their faces at the sight of the wild man bearing down on them at such a speed he could have been flying.
When it was over he rested on his haunches, heaving for breath. His hands were drenched with blood; his clothes were heavy with it. Everywhere he looked were bodies. Men moved around the fallen, checking for life. They slit the throats of their enemies8 and delivered mercy blows to any of their own so badly injured as to be beyond hope. Those that could be saved, they lifted up and carried away.
Other men searched the bodies, gathering weapons which they piled up to be removed later. Clothing and valuables too; the former prized by an army on the move, the latter the spoils of victory.
Birds already feasted on the dead, plucking out eyes and thrusting their beaks into rent flesh to reach the soft organs within. The forest reeked of slaughter, the air ripe with the charnel stench of blood, and of faeces and urine where bowels and bladders had emptied in death. Dodinal rubbed at his eyes. It was almost as if he had been somehow sent back in time to his village, the day after the Saxon attack, although there were no huts to be seen and the slain were all men, there were no women and children.
Dodinal had not been injured, at least not seriously. Most if not all of the blood that soaked him had spilled from the veins of others. He looked down at his sword. With a soft cry of regret he saw that it was broken, the blade snapped off halfway along its length. In avenging his father’s death, he had destroyed his last physical tie to him.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to find the tall man smiling down at him. “Are you hurt?” he asked as he helped Dodinal to his feet.
Dodinal shook his head. He was still trembling from exertion and did not trust himself to speak.
“Good. And what is your name?” Dodinal told him, and he took his hand and shook it vigorously. “I am Arthur. And I owe you my life. I will never forget what you did here today.”
Dodinal smiled with grim irony. Neither would he. Again it had felt as though someone else had taken control of his body, a stranger who was far stronger and more tireless than he, who could part heads from necks and limbs from torsos with little effort. Dodinal had no idea how many Saxons he had killed, but it was not enough, not now he had the scent of their blood in his nostrils.