Chronicle of Ages

  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.

  4

  The Mists of Gwyn ap Nudd

  From 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 th
at 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?’

  Cara nodded, pulling together the tattered remnants of her clothes.

  Bryce looked about and spied a cape amidst pieces of Conan’s discarded clothing.

  Cara shuddered as he went to place it around her. ‘I would walk to Castle Dwyran naked before I would wear anything of his.’

  Bryce pulled off his own shirt. ‘It got a bit wet.’ He wrung it dry, shook it out and assisted Cara to put it on.

  The concern and heartbreak on the young man’s face and the gentle way in which he aided her in dressing renewed Cara’s faith in humanity. ‘I bless the day the Goddess brought thee back to thy kin, Bryce, for thou art a truly extraordinary soul.’

  Bryce’s throat ached from holding back the tears of admiration he felt for this woman, and the strain of his restraint caused his voice to waver as he spoke. ‘Thou art the extraordinary soul, Lady.’ As he felt the tears escaping his eyes, he placed an arm around Cara to help her to the ladder.

  When Cara saw the slaughter by the dim torchlight on the deck above, she was awe-struck. ‘Bryce?’ She looked to the young Prince, unable to believe him capable of such butchery.

&nb
sp; ‘Nay, Lady.’ He flashed a grin at her misunderstanding. ‘This wast not my doing. An otherworldly army were the instigators … they cleared me a path straight to thee.’

  Cara was enchanted by his words for she had thought, only moments ago, that the Goddess had abandoned her. Visions of Conan’s abuse brought her back to earth, however. Even if the Goddess had seen to her rescue, why did she not save her before the violation of her body, mind and spirit had taken place? Conan had copulated with her, more than once, and Cara shuddered at the thought that she may have conceived a child of his seed. Spare me this, great mother, and my faith in thee shall be renewed.

  Apart from Brockwell’s concern for his boy, every other aspect of the remainder of the journey to Dynevor was enjoyable.

  Trwst had set such an amazing pace on foot through the dark misty landscape that Brockwell had offered the lad a position as his personal scout. The lad had graciously declined the royal appointment on the grounds that his home was in Dyfed and that he aspired to be Vortipor’s head scout one day.

  ‘Then, when this crisis hast past, I shall make sure that thy aspirations be closer at hand, Trwst.’ Brockwell dismounted. Having nearly reached their destination, he wanted to stretch his legs.

  ‘I would be most indebted to you, Highness.’ Trwst smiled to show that he would accept the latter offer.

  ‘Hold up.’ Brockwell thought he spied something amidst the shadows of the forest. He swapped the reins of his horse for the torch his scout carried, and moved to take a closer took.

  ‘What hast thou found, Majesty,’ Trwst inquired, as he moved to follow.

  ‘Stay where thou art,’ Brockwell yelled back to the lad, for he could barely take a step without treading on a corpse or severed body part. The King could only assume this was the remains of Conan’s force, although he was hard-pressed to imagine what had happened to them.

  Guard thyself for true.