An Incongruous Sunset
Photo © McCann.
We've seen worse, Cousin. Hell. We've done worse."
"Not to children, Gareth."
Gareth stayed silent as they walked through the remains of a once prosperous farm. 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.
"Survivors?" Evan rasped the question, voice gritty with dust. Gareth passed him a wineskin, and his cousin took a long pull. His reconnaissance of the surrounding hills had produced nothing; Thom's troop had yet to return.
The day died around them as Evan's men reassembled with Gareth's. The horses picked their way through the char and shied past bodies on the ground, the corpses bloated and stinking with heat. The carrion eaters had been at work.
"All dead but one and he’ll 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. "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 signs 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," he said. "A tidy haul for a quick raid, though it looks like the crofters put up 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. 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. 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. What is this?” Evan 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 cloak aside. "I thought they had earned a bit of privacy."
Evan paused a long moment, staring at the bodies. The two had lain at least a day, attacked by heat and other creatures. Gareth was correct. It was much less than pretty. He let the picture burn into his mind, nodded to his cousin to replace the makeshift shroud, then turned.
The air, still hot, stung the throat, smoke, thatch and purulent flesh mingled in suffocating emanation. To his right, a blackened 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?” he 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, pulled slabs of rock out 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. A small, grubby child squatted nearby, one fist clenched tight around something Evan could not see.
Cynan glanced up, his fair hair a glint in the gathering dusk. The wheaten mane had produced 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. Cynan, with hard-won tolerance, ignored them. His eyes met Evan's as he flipped a wood shaving onto the grassy turf.
"Cynan Nursemaid, they will call me now." He sliced a few more chips from his handiwork and passed the result to the child: a miniature war lance, complete to the etched cross on the shaft.
The boy accepted the offering and compared it to something 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 been elected for his present duty by virtue of supposed experience.
Cynan measured the child with his eyes, then shrugged. "No idea, Lord Evan, something more than one summer; a woman would know better." Then, with dry appreciation, "He has a few teeth. He bit me, when I took him 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. "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.”
Evan's thoughts grew darker as he watched the child mouth the soft wood of his sword. "Can he speak at all?"
"Not much, my Lord, he listens, though. I’ve been sharing stories and some hardbread from my pack." At the mention of food, 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. "I think the mention of food brings back the mother."
Evan watched while the child attacked the hardbread, diminutive head cocked to one side. The dirty face showed lighter patches where tears had tracked down the round cheeks.
"A pity the mention of food cannot bring back the mother.” The call of a hunting horn split the evening air. "That will be Thom.” Evan stood.
"Ah…Cynan. What do you plan to do with it?"
"It" was engaged in extracting bits of drybread from his mouth and coughing. Cynan deftly administered a drink from a wineskin.
"A taste of ale," he said. "It stays down fine and he's calmer now than he was. A few more and I expect him to sing."
Evan shook his head. "From the look of him choking, I guess he's not weaned any number of teeth notwithstanding." He sighed. "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 with ready breasts."
Cynan glanced up, yellow hair falling back from his square face. "One of my brothers lost a boy about this size, from a fever. His wife might want this one."
"Fine, if you want to take him the whole way. Though you may want to dip him in a stream before we leave,” Evan said, then turned away.
Now the big guard sniffed agreement. "He is a bit ripe." Cynan shot a sidelong look at Gareth. "Though I've smelled worse." His teeth flashed in a grin.
Gareth scowled. "You are referring to your own obnoxious odor.”
"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 boy, who grabbed the wineskin for another drink, hands splayed round the leather. "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 against the wall and fished in his pack for a round of cheese. He cut some 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 hand for more.
Cynan patted the small back with approval and stretched his legs.
"Better than building cairns," he said aloud as stars began to wink down from the heavens.
Comments (5)
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Cynan is great with this kid
...
I also adore the description. It's so vivid.
Love this story.
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