An Arthurian Fantasy Novel Series
Shadowland by C.M. Gray
Series Excerpt
A soft warm light filtered through the trees, blessing the morning mist with an ethereal quality as the woodland birds welcomed the dawn with their chorus of celebration. It was cold. A breeze rustled through the leaves overhead, whispering a promise of rain later in the day, but for now, dawn had brought a sunrise. Down on the path, two boys plodded onwards, noticing little of the new day awakening as they dragged along confusion, despair and tired minds in an exhausted daze.
The tracks weren’t hard to follow. The Picts travelled the main path without any fear of pursuit and had made their way through the woods and on into the lowlands; brazenly marking the trail with items they had looted, inspected and finally discarded. Each item serving as a stabbing reminder to the boys of the horrors visited the night before.
‘What are we going to do if we catch up with them?’ Cal asked. He kicked a stone and it bounced along the dry rutted path. It was the first thing either of them had said in some time and it brought Usher up with a start.
‘What?’ Usher’s mind had been unconsciously reliving the terrible scenes of the previous night, leaving his feet to find their own direction as he tried to ignore the pain in his leg from the wolf bite. The wound wasn’t too bad, they had managed to clean it in a stream and had bound it in torn cloth, but it still hurt and made him limp. He glanced about, surprised to find they had passed through the meadows and low brook and had now re-entered the woods.
He turned to look at Cal. ‘It’s when we catch up with them, not if and I’m not going to forget what the horseman looked like, and when we catch up with him…’ he stopped for a moment, wondering what they would actually do when they caught up with the Picts. Neither of them had killed anything bigger than a deer, and they hadn’t done that many times.
‘We’re not warriors,’ broke in Cal. ‘We can’t fight those Picts, even if we do catch up with them.’ He slumped down at the side of the path and lay back in a clump of bracken. ‘What are we going to do?’
Usher looked down at his friend’s face, and saw misery and fear staring back at him.
‘We have each other, Cal, and when we catch up with the Picts we’re going to find Nineve, and maybe some others from the village, and then…then we’re going to get them to safety, somehow. After that… I don’t know. We’ll have to trust in the spirits and see what they offer us.’
They continued to walk until late afternoon, emerging once again from the trees of the Weald, the great rambling forest that stretched across the width of Britain. They must have been walking uphill for some time because the view that presented itself as they passed through the last few elm and beech trees was from high on a hill and breathtaking in the afternoon light. Grassland spread across a valley in a pattern of hedged cultivated fields, appearing before them like some huge sleeping-mat thrown down by a giant of legend. It wasn’t a site they had seen before. The small fields planted by their village had been hard won from the forest and nothing compared to the scale of this area of sectioned and worked land. Usher took it all in, studying the small communities that dotted the valley. A Roman road ran straight and true from one end to the other, and smaller, local paths snaked between the settlements. He studied the road and surrounding land, eager for any sight of the Pict raiders, but could see little movement of any kind, and certainly no column of marching warriors. For Cal’s sake, he suppressed his feelings of disappointment.
What looked like a Roman villa was dominating the far end of the valley and the closest settlement of tribal huts was just a short walk further down the path. Smoke trailed up from a group of familiar round dwellings and they could just make out a few cows grazing, with chickens pecking the ground round their legs. By the largest building was an old man was chopping wood, a halo of long grey hair billowing in the breeze as he raised and dropped his axe. The sound of each strike only reaching them up the hill as the axe lifted to the top of each stroke. With a sigh, they shouldered their packs and walked down into the valley.
The path from the forest was well trodden and led directly past the nearest settlement. It was only as they got closer that someone noticed them. ‘Get away, leave my chickens alone!’ The cries of a woman broke through the calm of the day as they neared the first hut. She was running towards them with skirts flying, bringing the boys up short, confused as to why she was screaming at them. A clod of mud landed close to Cal and they watched in amazement as she stooped to gather more stones and lumps of mud to throw at them.
‘We’re not after your chickens,’ called Usher. Refusing to be intimidated, he turned to Cal. ‘Maybe we should just move on, she doesn’t seem too happy to see us.’ The woman stopped running and began pelting them with anything she could lay her hands on. Finally, a stone hit Cal on the leg and he gave a cry.
‘She’s mad!’ he yelled, clutching at his leg, but before they could either run or stop her from throwing anything else, another figure joined the exchange.
‘You’re not really after them chickens now, are you, boys?’ The old woodcutter came out from between the huts and the woman halted her attack. Long past his fortieth summer, the man was breathing heavily and sweating from the exertion of chopping wood. The woman dropped her rocks to the floor and with a scowl towards Usher and Cal, she moved back to her chickens, apparently satisfied that another was dealing with the threat. Usher shifted his pack on his shoulder and tried to decide whether they should just turn and run, but then swallowed nervously, as he realised that running from the drawn bow that the old man was now holding wasn’t really an option. It was no ordinary rough hunting bow either. Its dark wood gleamed in the warm afternoon light, hinting at a weapon built for more than merely hunting deer. Staring at the tip of the arrow aimed towards him, Usher decided he was as close to death as he had ever been. The old archer gradually eased the pressure off the bow; the hemp string singing softly as the strain released and the arrow pointed to the ground. With a hiss, Usher let go of the breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding.
‘Well, you don’t look much like raiders.’ A slow grin crept across the man’s grubby face. He was old, but not as old as they had first thought. The long grey hair had been hastily tied back from a heavily lined face; bushy eyebrows were exposed, drooping down over dark eyes that appeared to lay all the man’s inner feelings bare. From scarcely restrained violence a moment before, they now reflected amusement. ‘I see you wear Iceni colours, but you’re not from round these parts, so where are you from?’ He scanned the surrounding hedgerows and, seeing no others ready to pounce, unstrung the bow with a smooth practised motion.
‘North ways,’ said Usher, finding his voice and waving back towards the woods. ‘We were just passing, we didn’t mean any harm.’ This brought another smile to the archer’s face.
‘I believe you didn’t, boys. The name’s, Meryn Link, and that over there,’ he pointed towards the woman who was now crouched back down clucking at her chickens, ‘that’s my neighbour, Bretta. She don’t mean no harm neither, just loves them chickens, is all. This has been a busy road over the last few weeks, an’ any party of raiders that comes past here has seen fit to take a few of them chickens. Reckon she’s just about had enough.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Not the brightest of flames is Bretta, but she means well. Anyhow, tis late in the day and I can at least offer you shelter for the night, if you want it that is. I try to keep a traditional hearth of welcome in my home; an’ if truth be told, I could do with the company. So please, be welcome.’ He waved them towards the biggest of the huts then set off with the boys trailing behind.
When they entered, the hut was dark, warm, and clean, smelling of the fresh hay strewn across the floor and the smoke rising lazily from the low fire in the centre. It immediately reminded the boys of home and each choked back a momentary reminder of their loss. Meryn dropped some chopped wood onto the fire and it was soon crackling merrily, the glowing embers and flames bringing light into the dark space, showing few possessions, but a neat and tidy home. The boys slumped down and watched dreamily as the smoke rose, curling towards the thatched roof before escaping through the centre hole of the thatch of cut rushes. Usher hadn’t realised until entering the warmth how utterly exhausted he was. The last day and a night without sleep had all but drained him of energy.
‘Please… we’re tracking a group of Picts, led by a horseman,’ said Usher, rousing himself. ‘They... ’
‘Picts? This far south?’ The old man glanced across, and then smiled kindly when he saw their anguished expressions. ‘Well anyway, there’ll likely be plenty of time for questions and then maybe for answers later. Sit and rest or you’ll not be tracking anything or anyone. You look bone tired, the pair of you.’
Meryn took his bow and placed it close to the door. As he did, Usher prodded Cal and motioned for him to look. The bow now leaned against the wall alongside a spear and sword. The sword was big, half as long again as any normal blade of the Iceni. They exchanged puzzled frowns and glanced up to see the archer smiling at their reaction.
‘Tha’s a warrior’s blade.’ Meryn went back and picked it up, pulling the blade from its sheath with a flourish that made them both draw back, suddenly unsure of their smiling host’s intentions. The old man slammed the blade back into its polished black scabbard then held it up in a beam of sunlight that had found its way past the door. The sword’s half-moon finger guard gleamed yellow as they all admired the weapon.
‘How did you come by it?’ Cal asked, in a hushed voice. ‘Are you a warrior?’ Meryn sighed and returned the sword to its place by the door, then stooped down to tend the fire.
‘I once fought with a warrior band, yes, and soon I’ll probably do so again. Unfortunately, I don’t think my destiny lays in farming as I had hoped. There’s an air of change about our land, causing many a man to pick up his sword. Word is, a king of the Britons has risen and like many others, I mean to join his army and fight the Saxon invaders. Fact is I’ve already delayed here too long.’
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