Cymru - Chapter 4

MADOG

Madog placed the stethoscope against the meraden’s side, breathing in the soothing smell of hay. He nodded to the Rider on her back.

“Can you make her hover for me?” he asked. She nodded and nudged the meraden’s shoulders. Black wings of almost three metres each unfurled and swept downwards once as the mare kicked off the ground, trying vainly to hover a foot in the air. Something was definitely wrong – her hind legs dropped again almost instantly, leaving her semi-rearing and panicking slightly. Madog listened carefully. For a split second, as the meraden had kicked off, he’d heard the rush of air filling her hind flight bladders. Now a very low hiss was a tell-tale sign of deflation.

“Okay, bring her down,” he said thoughtfully, straightening up again. The Rider leaned back, and the meraden fell back down, her hooves clattering in the stable yard, wings still outstretched and waving slightly. Madog patted her absent-mindedly.

“Well?” the Rider asked. Madog didn’t know her or the meraden – she must have been from one of the visiting Wings. “What’s wrong with her?”

“It’s strange,” Madog said. “I thought at first that her hind flight bladders weren’t working, in which case she’d never fly again. But they are actually inflating. Something’s making them deflate again.”

“Can you cure her?” the Rider asked anxiously. It was a good question.

“It depends on what the problem is,” Madog said slowly. “But, if it’s just a simple matter of air retention, then yes, we should be able to find a cure for her. We’ll try medication first, if that’s okay – garlic, yarrow and chamomile,” he added over his shoulder. The apprentice girl behind him nodded and scuttled off. “In the meantime, try not to let her get distressed.”

“I knew this would happen,” the Rider said bitterly. “Are you even a Medical Specialist? How can you not know what’s wrong with her?”

Madog looked at her steadily, allowing the blue and gold beads in his hair to swing forwards.

“No,” he said, his voice deadpan. “No I’m not. But you’ll admit that as jokes go, pretending to be one is hilarious. Especially where the life of a meraden is concerned. So, you know; evidently, I’m not a Rider, either.”

The Rider dropped her gaze, realising the social faux-pas. She mumbled an apology and trotted the meraden back to the stables. Madog watched her go. She was just upset, he knew, but in Rider terms she had just delivered a hefty insult. Still, he hoped the animal would recover. He hated to see merod lose the ability to fly – they were generally destroyed, which was an upsetting end to a Rider.

He was crossing back over the courtyard to check on the apprentice when the claxon sounded.

Instantly, activity erupted around him. The apothecarists raced for the shelter of the Castle, their arms filled with whatever basket of herbs had been closest. Stable hands appeared laden with harnesses, some still slick with the leather oil they were being treated with. Riders poured out of every doorway, heading straight to their stables. Madog joined in – his feet had taken him halfway to Calon’s stall before he even realised he’d moved at all. Instinct took over.

As he arrived at the door, she threw her head out, whinnying to him impatiently. Her bridle was already on, and as Madog pushed her nose back to slip inside the stable he saw a stable hand was already inside, expertly buckling on the harness. Calon was standing like an angel for it, Madog noticed with a swell of fondness; despite her flared nostrils and pawing front hoof, she kept her wings down and her back still.

The last clasp was closed, and Madog grabbed Calon’s reins, already pulling her out into the chaos.

“Thanks!” he threw over his shoulder. He didn’t listen for an answer. Already the ten-strong Wing was half assembled, and Madog vaulted onto Calon’s back as he looked for who was ready. Dylan landed and Saluted him, and Madog replied as the stable hand fastened Calon’s harness to him properly.

“Any word yet?” Madog asked urgently.

“Saxons, east,” Dylan said shortly. “Lots of them. They’re marching on the city and taking out anything on the way. Not cool.”

“Invasion?” Madog scanned the Wing. The final Rider was mounting up, her meraden skittering anxiously.

“Another raid, I think, but it’s big.”

Madog nodded. It was still very much a problem, but the number of Saxon raids had increased alarmingly over the past few weeks, and Madog could tell they weren’t coincidence. Something was brewing. The final Rider saluted, and Madog turned Calon.

“Riders, fly!” he called clearly. The beautiful sound of twenty powerful wings opening and beating downwards in unison filled the courtyard, bouncing off the walls and echoing back as the Wing rose as one, falling naturally into v-formation. Calon’s legs curled cleanly up beneath her, tucking carefully under her body. Madog grinned. He loved flying.

They cleared the buildings by two hundred feet and started to turn. Madog’s mind ticked over strategic points. They were flying east at midday, so away from the sun; if they turned south east and attacked the Saxons from the south, however, they would have a visual advantage, especially attacking from the air. To their left, the Beta and Gamma Wings were heading straight for the raiders. Madog signalled. Alpha Wing turned with him, a slickly oiled machine.

It took barely two minutes to find the several-hundred strong raiding party, and that was worrying, because unless they’d learnt to tunnel they could only be this close to the city with help to cross the border. Madog winced as they flew to meet the Saxons, already engaged with the other Wings. It was a thought to save for later; the Saxons were hardly going to fight amongst themselves as he pondered it.

Their formation changed as they closed the last few hundred yards at speed, going from v-formation to ‘tower’ without any signal from Madog. The heavy fighters dropped down as the ranged fighters went to the top of the Wing. Madog looped the battle reins around the pommel of his saddle and drew the pair of curved swords from their places on his back. The Saxons nearest them finally saw them, and belatedly shouted out a warning.

They were too late. The front three heavy fighters, their merod armoured and bladed, swept into the Saxon ranks like a hand through foam, the barbarians falling instantly. Madog led the second wave in just behind them, his blades and Calon’s well-shod hooves felling any Saxons they’d missed. Above them, the rangers began the aerial assault: arrows and cross-bow shafts rained down with perfect aim, missing the Riders but each hitting their Saxon mark. Most of the raiders had been fighting the Beta and Gamma Wings, and never even saw Alpha Wing coming. They sliced a swathe through the Saxons, and reformed on the other side, turning to check their success.

No one had survived the initial sweep. Madog smiled to himself as the Wing swung around to attack the back of the Saxons. The raiders saw them this time, and turned to face them hurriedly, readying their own bows and missiles. As the Wing swept in to attack, the Saxon’s fired their first catapult.

The boulder shot straight at Madog. The rangers on either side of him split off to the left and right to avoid it, and Madog weighed his options. It was a bit close to the left; as he started to command Calon right, another catapult fired towards him, blocking that exit. Up would be no good anyway –

Calon folded her wings back and plummeted downwards like a javelin. They had only been twenty feet up, but it had the desired effect. The missiles missed, and the Saxons immediately below were suddenly looking at the business end of Calon’s metalled hooves, descending far too rapidly for them to move. She hit three as she landed, killing them instantly, and as two mounted Saxons rode up to either side she simply swept her wings outward, crushing both before leaping forward to the next. Madog looked around for the catapults quickly. With those out, the Saxons wouldn’t stand a chance.

There were two, both being rewound. He spun Calon toward the first, spurring her into action. She spread her wings and with down downward sweep she leapt over the heads of the Saxons, landing squarely in front of the catapult. As she kicked back at the first new attackers, Madog swept one curved sword in a tight arc. It sliced the ropes holding the machinery together; the arm loosened automatically, and having not been fully wound, it merely took out a line of Saxons. Madog kicked Calon back into the air and aimed for the second.

As they were airborne, he suddenly felt the harness give way. Madog cursed violently. One of the Saxons must have cut the girths: he could feel himself slipping off of Calon, the harness suddenly a hindrance as it acted like a roller. He sliced the straps around both legs expertly and pushed Calon down into a swoop.

She obeyed perfectly, and at her nadir Madog sprang from her back into the waiting Saxon throng. They roared and leapt at him, blades out and shields up. Instinct again took over.

He ducked neatly under the first swords, slashing out with his own and severing several legs before the Saxons lowered their aim for him; Madog’s body reacted, and he was springing over their heads, arms sweeping and slicing at the unprotected faces. He leapt from shoulder to shoulder as nimbly as a cat, arcing from one Saxon to the next, cutting them down in the elegant, balletic Rider style. He reached the catapult and whistled shrilly, the high sound carrying easily over the screams of battle, and landing lithely on the fully-wound firing mechanism Madog cut straight through the ropes. The arm discharged forcefully, sending both missile and Madog into the sky. As his descent began, Madog whistled again, and Calon’s broad back appeared beneath him. He landed neatly astride her, and flew up to join the Wing as they wheeled back into formation.

Dylan flew into his right.

“Only losers don’t use harnesses,” he yelled, the wind whipping his curly hair wildly, hiding his beads from view. Madog grinned.

“Whereas some people have harnesses and are still losers,” he called back. “You see those? Those are Saxons down there, attacking Wrexham. Why aren’t they dead yet?”

“Because you ran off to kick their faces,” Dylan said, loading his bow again. Three arrows clipped onto the string, and glinted in the sun. “We should kill them now.”

The battle was intense, but with the catapults out it was also short. They swept the battlefield once it was over, looking for survivors to question. There were none; the Wings had been efficient and thorough. They flew back to the city at a more leisurely pace, calming the merod down from the adrenaline rush. Calon was sweating awkwardly, making it slightly tricky to hold on without a harness. Madog mused over the battle in his head.

No Saxon should have come this far without border warnings. Madog shuddered, and focused on the flight.





AWEN

The Sovereign’s Residence in Tregwylan was the most elaborate building Awen had ever set foot in, and she’d been to many elaborate buildings in her time. The Residence was in the centre of the city’s top level – the farthest away from the sea below with the most escape routes toward the stables. People on the Archipelago knew their histories: they were mindful of the sea. Nonetheless, it featured prominently in their decorations – the walls now surrounding Awen were covered in a beautiful mosaic of greens and blues, waves tumbling into silver merod as they peaked. There was a fountain in the centre of the reception room. It was clearly a decadent sign of wealth and importance.

At this time of night there was only one clerk about, scratching details onto a long roll of parchment with a fancy quill in that tiny writing clerks always used. He’d barely glanced at Awen as she’d entered; as he wrote, he informed her that the Sovereign was readying herself, and would soon be present. The minutes stretched.

After fifteen, the clerk raised his head like a dog hearing its master and looked over at Awen.

“Her grace will see you now,” he informed her in a voice that was either sneering or naturally repulsive. “Just through the doors there. No need to knock.”

“Thank you,” Awen told him. She resisted the urge to squint pointedly at his tiny writing, and strode past him to the magnificent double doors set into the back of the reception room. With a small effort, she worked one open and slipped inside.

Lady Gwenda sat at her desk, a middle-aged woman in her sixties feigning thirty with her hair and make up absolutely impeccable despite their intricacy. She’d set out to impress, clearly; her dress was a glorious fusion of russets, browns and golds that had skirts wider than the table and a tightly corseted bodice that left far too little of her slightly wrinkled bosom to the imagination. It was possible the colours of the dress were supposed to high-light her red-dyed hair. In fact, it clashed slightly; and as Awen stepped into the light the Sovereign’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she noted Awen’s own hair colour. It was a tiny lapse that would have gone unnoticed by most; but Awen was highly trained.

She smiled at the woman, and bowed the Rider-to-Sovereign bow that always pleased Sovereigns. It had the desired effect.

“Good evening, Sovereign,” Awen purred. “I am Leader Awen of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Not at all, Leader,” Lady Gwenda simpered. Evidently she was also pleased by Awen’s rank – most would have continued to use ‘Rider’ as a title. “Welcome to Tregwylan! And thank you for coming.”

She waved one overly-ringed hand at a plush velvet covered chair in front of her desk, and Awen neatly took her cue to deliberately misunderstand and stand behind it as formally as the situation allowed. Over-familiarity with Gwenda would be a mistake.

“I bring news from Lord Flyn, Sovereign,” Awen said. She watched Gwenda’s face as casually as she could. “Lord Pedr has pledged Abertawe’s support to the cause, and both Lord Peredur and Lady Ienifer are considering his proposition.”

“I assume Trallwng and Wrexham are behind this also?” Gwenda asked. Her tone implied that asking was merely a formality to obtain the obvious answer.

“Trallwng was first to pledge support, Sovereign,” Awen nodded. Gwenda snorted.

“Of course they are,” she said, more or less to herself. “Border cities sticking together, eh? And Flyn comes from Old Family border stock. They still believe in all that, you know. Some of them.”

Awen tried not to think about that. It was a hideous thought.

“Here, though, Sovereign, we have some potentially problematic news,” she said. Gwenda looked up at her sharply. “Wrexham has yet to pledge. Lord Iestyn is deeply uncertain about my Lord’s proposition.”

Gwenda laughed, a short, unpleasant bark of a laugh.

“Really?” she said, her expansive skirts rustling as she shifted position, leaning forward to put her elbows on the table and prop her chin on her hands. “Well, the Wrexham Wing arrives here tomorrow, doesn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question. It was, in fact, the whole point of Awen’s presence there in Tregwylan at night alone. Secretly. She said nothing.

There was a pause as Gwenda stared off into space momentarily, her eyes shrewd and calculating.

“Tell Flyn,” she said slowly, “that I shall inform Wrexham of Tregwylan’s support.”

Awen bowed. “Thank you, Sovereign,” she murmured. She wondered what she’d just done.