THE FIRST CHAPTER BEGINS

THE COMRADES
Lynne Sears Williams © 2008

"We have seen worse, Cousin. Hell. We've done worse."

"Not to children, Gareth."

Gareth stayed silent as he and Evan walked through the remains of a once prosperous farmhold. The ruins of byres still smoked, gray trails of ash whirling through the air, amid blackened stumps of corner posts.

The sky darkened to violet, framed by incongruous wisps of rose-tinged clouds, hovering in the west. Life could change in an instant, sometimes forever.

The Powys warband had been returning from a wedding feast in Dyfyd when they saw smoke on the west edge of Lord Avlach’s commote. Wind carried the scent of fire and death.

They split the war-brothers into three groups. Lord Thom and his men raced to Avlach’s manor; Gareth’s went straight to the the burn and Evan’s to the nearby woods.

"Survivors?" Evan rasped the question, voice gritty with dust. Gareth passed him a wineskin, and Evan took a long pull. His reconnaissance of the surrounding hills had produced nothing.

The day died around them as Evan's men reassembled with Gareth's, the horses picking their way through the char and shying past bodies on the ground, the corpses bloated and stinking with heat.

"All dead but one and he will not be much help," Gareth said. "Found him hunkered down with … well, you will see soon enough." He ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair, gesturing with the other as he walked. "I doubt they took anyone for slaves, trying to move fast, likely. The animal stocks are gone and the signs show horses herding them away."

Gareth paused at the far edge of the holding to indicate a trail of hoof prints; sheep, cattle and horses, heading west to the mountain pass that led to Gwynedd.

Evan nodded. He'd uncovered the same trail beyond the farm. If the raiders had taken captives, the prisoners were riding. No human prints could be distinguished in the jumble of tracks.

"I make it about thirty cattle and near a hundred sheep," Evan said. "A tidy haul for a quick raid, though it looks like the crofters put up a bit of a fight." He nodded at the ground. A man's corpse lay on the threshold of a still-smoking stable, one hand frozen for eternity on a stout club of wood. Flies hummed thickly over the body, clustering with particular attention over entrails spilling from a spear wound.

Gareth kicked a clump of dirt sideways, startling the flies into the air. The swarm buzzed louder, shivering with malice before they resettled to their task. "Well, this man tried," Gareth said. "Though I've yet to see a club of wood stop a spear." Ravens, interrupted in their scavenging, shrieked imprecations from surrounding trees.

"Tell Steffan's archers to shoot those screaming birds out of the sky," Evan said. Gareth whistled an ear-splitting call. A trooper turned away from watering his horse and nodded when Gareth pointed at the birds. Within moments, a dozen men loosed multiple arrows, streaking through the air. Ravens, vultures and crows fell like a fleet of ships crashing onto a shore.

Gareth watched, hands on his hips. "The best and quickest is always Steffan. I wish I had his ability with a bow."

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," Evan said. "What is this?" He stopped beside a trooper's oil-greased rain cape, overlying a hump on the ground.

"Not pretty." Gareth drew his sword to flip the edge of the cape aside. "I thought they had earned a bit of privacy."

Evan paused a long moment, staring at the bodies under the cape. The two had lain at least a day, attacked by heat and other creatures. Gareth was correct. It was much less than pretty. Evan let the picture burn into his mind, then nodded to his cousin to replace the makeshift shroud, swinging on his heel to survey the ruins.

The air, still hot, stung the throat, smoke, burned thatch and purulent flesh mingled in suffocating emanation. To his right, a blackend hearth showed where the common house had been. Ahead, smoking corner posts gave mute testimony to the prior existence of a large barn and outbuildings.

"How many dead?” Evan asked.

"Fifteen," Gareth said. "Mostly men, some women. The rest, by the size of them, children."

"Who did you say was still alive?"

Gareth jabbed a thumb to the left. "This way."

Evan set off at an angle across the yard, skirting bits of debris as he headed for a drystone fence. Troopers, stripped to the waist, were scavenging slabs of rock to make cairns for the dead. Gareth rounded the fence and pulled up short, Evan a step behind.

"I doubt you will get anything useful from this one," Gareth said. "And I am not talking about Cynan. For a change."

In the lee of the wall, Cynan ap Gryffyd sat at ease, carving a branch of rowan with his knife. A very small, very grubby child squatted nearby, one fist clenched tight around something Evan could not see.

Cynan glanced up, his Saxon-fair hair a glint in the gathering dusk. The wheaten mane had earned him the childhood name 'Cynan the Saxon', until the boy grew large enough to beat his detractors into repentance. Most of the Powys guard now referred to their fellow trooper as Cynan Yellow-Hair, and only if they felt incautious. Cynan, with hard-won tolerance, ignored the remarks. His eyes met Evan's as he flipped a wood shaving onto the grassy turf.

"Cynan Nursemaid, they will call me now," he said in a mild tone. He sliced a few more chips from his handiwork and passed the result to the waiting child: a miniature war lance, complete to the etched cross on the shaft.

The child accepted the offering with gravity and compared it to the treasure in his other hand, as a dirt-encrusted palm opened to disclose a tiny sword.

"That is a warrior's sword," Evan said. "Very fine it looks, too." He eased down, at a short distance from the weanling, so as not to startle it. For weanling it was, clad only in a much-soiled breechclout and reeking of urine and feces.

"How old do you think?" Evan directed at Cynan. The trooper, the eldest of a dozen brothers and sisters, had clearly been elected for his present duty by virtue of experience.

Cynan measured the child with his eyes, then shrugged. "No idea, Lord Evan, something more than one summer, I would guess. A woman would know better." Then, with dry appreciation, "He has a few teeth. He bit me, when I took him away from his mother." Cynan held out his wrist for Evan's inspection, the imprint of a tiny human bite scored deep on the sun dark flesh.

"What mother?" Evan said, gaze holding steady on Cynan. "The one lying under the rain cape with the dead babe?"

A silence ensued, broken by a discreet cough from Gareth. "Ah, that would be the one," he confirmed.

Evan's thoughts grew darker as he pondered the weanling, now engaged in mouthing the soft wood of the carven sword. "Can he speak at all?"

Cynan regarded his small charge and shook his head. "Not much. He listens, though. I have been sharing stories and some hardbread from my pack." At the mention of bread, the child focused sharply on Cynan.

"Mam!" the weanling yelled. "Mam!" The child rose on sturdy legs, clutching his carvings. His mouth opened wide to emit another distress call, sabotaged by Cynan, who stuffed a bit of bread into the tiny maw.

"Apologies," Cynan said to Evan. "I think the mention of food brings back the mother."

Evan watched the child while the infant attacked the hardbread, diminutive head cocked to one side. The grimy face showed lighter patches where tears had tracked down the round cheeks.

"A pity the mention of food cannot bring back the mother," Evan said and rose. The call of a hunting horn split the evening air. "That will be Thom riding in."

"Ah…Cynan," Evan said. “What do you propose to do with “it?”

“It” was now engaged in extracting bits of drybread from his mouth and coughing with distaste. Cynan deftly administered a drink from an unstoppered flask.

"A taste of ale," he said. "It stays down fine and he's calmer now than he was. A few more and I expect he'll be singing."

Evan shook his head. "From the look of him choking on that bread, I guess he's not weaned, any number of teeth notwithstanding." Evan sighed, a gust of frustration. "Every village and holding we pass on the way home, see if you can find a woman to take him. If not, I suppose he comes to the Keep. We have enough women there with ready breasts."

Cynan glanced up, yellow hair falling back from his square face. "One of my brothers lost a boy about this size before we left for the wedding. From a fever. His wife might want this one."

"Fine, if you want to take him the whole way. Though you might want to dip him in a stream before we leave,” Evan said, turning away.

Now the big guard sniffed agreement. "He is a bit ripe." Cynan shot a sidelong look at Gareth. "Though I have smelled worse." His teeth flashed in a grin.

Gareth scowled. "You are referring to your own obnoxious odor," he said.

"Surely, Lord Gareth." Cynan’s eyes stayed innocent. "What else could I mean?"

Gareth snorted and followed Evan. "I hope the little beggar pisses on your saddle," he threw over his shoulder.

~

Cynan turned his attention back to the child, who tipped the flask for another drink, hands splayed round the leather-bound bottle with determination. "Well, a bit more ale, and I'd say that's likely. Youngling? Do you need help with that?"

The night rose up as Cynan settled back against the wall and fished in his pack for a round of cheese. He shaved a slice for the shadow of manhood beside him, then popped a piece into his own mouth. The weanling gnawed the cheese, swallowed, and emitted a satisfied belch. He thrust out a grimy hand for more. Cynan patted the small back with approval and stretched his legs.

"Better than building cairns," he said to no one, as the stars began to wink down from their path in the heavens.