Preludes: The Penllyn Chronicles, #1

By Troy A. Hill

Previously published as "The Penllyn Chronicles Collection" All Novellas and Novelettes now collected in this volume.

 

When a mysterious deity seeks protection for her vulnerable land, can a wise nobleman and skilled warriors meet the challenge?

Wales, 7th Century.

 

Tempting Fae: Returning from another of Penda's wars, Afon and Mihangel draw the ire of a fae. Can Afon recover to achielve his dream of studying under Penllyn's master swordsman?

 

Penllyn: Young Lord Bleddyn longs to come up with a strategy to keep his realm out of war. And with Britain bereft of a champion, he's eager to secure a diplomatic bride to help him safeguard his people from imminent danger. 

 

Penteulu: Younger brother Neirin vows to protect the royal family who adopted him and gave him shelter after his family was slaughtered. Determined not to let the same terrible fate befall his lord, he's trained his whole life to be the deadliest swordsman in all of Europe. Although he earned the title of Master, Neirin is still uneasy his meticulous training won't be enough to stop Fadog's treachery.

 

Cursed: Ruadh flees from his home clan, trying to outrun his treacherous shifter brothers as they compete for the Clan Leader's chair. But, an emisarry from the Celtic Goddess has plans for him. If she can survive long enough to convince him.

 

To Run at Night: Brother Mihangel, retired from war by taking a monk's vows, travels a bumpy road. His carriage in the merchant caravan is commanded by an infirm noble lady. The two priests who join them aren't the biggest challenge to his sanity, when brigands attack. How can he, the former warrior prevent their demise? 

 

These stories are interspered with interludes that reveal the machinations of the goddess. Alarmed by whispers in the Otherworld, she realises that Britain is about to face it's greatest challenge. With Arthur dead for a century, she summons a new champion, as she begins to pull the key figures together for the battle that will determine Britain's soul. 

 

This volume sets the stage for the rest of the Epic Dark Fantasy Series

 

Preludes: Book 1 of The Penllyn Chronicles contains these post-Arthurian Urban Fantasy prequel stories. If you like mythical figures, rollicking action, and unique twists to dark fantasy stories, then you'll love Troy A. Hill's legendary adventure.

 

Buy Preludes to begin a mystical journey today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troy A. Hill
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386341697

Troy A. Hill

I was not fortunate enough to have been born to Welsh parents. Instead, my melting-pot American roots run to both Scotland and Germany. I did, however, find a nice American girl with solid Scottish ancestry to marry. My interest in Fantasy literature began as an offshoot of reading Science Fiction. One of the first fantasy novels I read was Robert A. Heinlein's Glory Road. From there, I graduated to J.R.R. Tolkien. Then I discovered the works of David Eddings, Glen Cook, Laurell K. Hamilton and R.A. Salvatore.
 When I decided to begin a career in writing, Hamilton's Anita Blake series, as well the works of R.A. Salvatore's Drizzt series made me want to combine vampires and dark fantasy along with a historical setting. I chose to explore Arthurian mythology.

Book preview

1

THE OTHERWORLD I

IT BEGINS

Arthur was dead.

Another protector of Britain gone. But, something was different about this death. There was a shadow there. Lingering. Unseen in the darkness. She had glimpsed it as the shadow receded into darkness. It tried to hide as Arthur fell.

Now that she was aware of the shadow, she moved back through time and searched each occurrence, each death. She watched each of their ends, even her that of her son Mabon, the first champion, again.

What she found unsettled her. A shadow in darkness was there for each of the falls. No wonder she hadn’t noticed before. How does one see darkness without light?

She would have to search the otherworld, and the mortal realm, and look for traces of its presence. Why was the shadow lurking at the fall of each of her champions? What did it want?

Don’t be silly, she told herself. You know the answer.

She knew the challenge would come. How could she best prepare?

2

A WALK HOME

Near the border between Powys and Mercia

Approx 641 CE

I’m hungry, old man, Afon said.

That is obvious, Mihangel replied. I can hear your belly rumble up here. He used his long wooden staff to steady his passage across the rocky ground.

You think Penda could have spared another loaf or two for us, the man behind him added. Silver is good and all, but coin won’t fill my belly.

A short walk yet, Mihangel said. Just up that slope, near that stand of trees will be a good place to camp. Looks like a spring in the rocks there.

Always know when we’re back to good ole Cymru, the man behind him said. Rocky and hilly. Not like the Severn Valley. Penda had us in enough rocks this time didn’t he? Oswald didn’t know what hit him when Penda got done with him.

Oswald knew nothing, boy, Mihangel breathed. His companion had been non-stop jabber for the last week, and it had worn even his battle-hardened nerves thin. Once Penda got done with the King of those North Umbrian lands, he was dead. Having your body parts impaled on half-a-dozen waelstengs takes the knowing right of a corpse.

Those pagans and their rituals, the man behind him prattled on. I understand you want to celebrate a victory, and Oswald had it coming. But, to chop him up and put his parts on long poles. Superstitions. Parade your enemy about on dead body poles, that's their meaning for waelsteng, isn't it? He should have been given a proper church burial. He should have.

Mihangel glanced back. The young warrior crossed himself, forehead to chest, then touching each shoulder.

Everyman has their superstitions, lad, Mihangel said with a chuckle. Now shush and give an old man his peace for a while.

You’re not old.

Over forty winters isn’t old? And you’ve been calling me old the entire campaign Mihangel shook his head. Every joint in my body aches after that last battle. Gwent is a long walk from here lad. I'm gonna feel every step. Now shush and let my achy joints enjoy the noise of their creaking.

For once his companion kept his mouth shut. The lad's stomach, however, chose that moment to rumble again. Mihangel smiled and kept his pace brisk through the shallow valley.

All he wanted was to get back home. Time to spend with his kin. His Teulu. Mihangel was just a simple man, with a simple family. His father had passed. His brothers took care of the farm, and his mother.

Where have you been? she'd ask him. His Teulu. His family. That's why he fought, his brothers and their wives and children. His Teulu. His brothers looked after his mother and their land. He never heard the soil call the way his brothers did. Instead, Mihangel knew weapons and war. The swoosh of a sword as it sliced the air. The clack of a wooden shaft as spear and staff collided. He could see where a squad wanted to go, how a warrior would move. Strategy and weapons he understood. Not plants and animals.

Too many lords had seen his skills and offered to make him part of their Teulu. Their family of warriors.

He shook his head at the memories. Better to be out, fighting for coin against men that weren't his neighbors. Penda, King of Mercia, paid well. Mihangel was one of the first the thegns of western Mercia called on when Penda called his Fyrd forth. With Mihangel's eye for battle, and skill with weapons, Mercia called on him often.

Has Penda caught up with that lord of Fadog, yet? the man behind him asked. Mihangel glanced over his shoulder, just as his companion’s belly issued yet another roar.

What? the man behind him shrugged and rubbed his belly. Oswald and Fadog surely worked together. If you hadn’t seen them coming up behind us, Penda woulda been on those dead body poles instead of Oswald.

Seen? Mihangel said. I smelled them. Traitors always have a reek about them.

They tried to hide their lord’s name, all right. But Penda got it out of them. I guess seeing Oswald’s legs then arms go buy on those dead body poles will loosen a man’s tongue.

Penda has a right to vengeance after that, Mihangel said. He glanced ahead. Just a few hundred more paces. Ahead a stream bubbled and cascaded over the rocks as the water tumbled along the valley.

Still, I hope he leaves the other Powys lords alone, the young man said. What’s the lord who was at Penda’s side? His men fought well. Helped to flank Oswald’s force.

How would you know? Mihangel asked. We were up to our ears in Fadog’s traitorous war band then.

That's what I heard. Said they had a skilled swordsman who had no match. I want to test myself against him someday.

You be talking about Lord Penllyn, lad, Mihangel said. And his brother. If you ever meet Lord Emlyn, keep your blade in its scabbard and a kind word on your lips.

I’ve not found my equal yet, Afon said. It would be fun to cross blades with someone you claim is better than me. I'm happy to fetch and carry, whatever I need to do, to learn from him if he's as good as they say.

Lad, be sure you have a wooden waster and not steel in your hands if you cross weapons with Lord Emlyn.

You think he’s better than me? Have you seen him fight?

Penda has lad, Mihangel sighed and kept walking. If he can impress Penda enough that the high king shares stories about him, he’s a class all unto himself.

You sat around a fire with the high king himself? The young man’s voice was incredulous. Long enough for him to tell stories?

And had him fill my cup from his jug of mead, Mihangel said. A large smile drifted across his face. And cut mutton off the roast for me. Penda isn't pretentious the way most kings are. He values his men. Prove yourself loyal, and worthy of his trust, and he’ll treat you right.

Unlike that lord of Fadog, his companion laughed behind him. Do you think Penda left him alive? Or is he on waelstengs too?

Cross Penda, lad, and that’s what happens to you.

Oh, look at that. Food! the man said and darted off.

Afon, NO! Mihangel called after him.

3

SUPERSTITIONS

W hat? Afon said around a mouthful of cheese.

You fool, Mihangel spat. Some farmer has left that out for the faeries.

Bah, Afon said after a swallow. Silly superstitions. Some animal comes along and eats the food. They farmer feels good for feeding the Fae. Silly peasant superstitions. He took a bite from the bread, then closed his eyes and chewed. Fresh baked, maybe even today. Much better than the stale bread Penda’s men sent us off with.

Idiot! Mihangel shook his head. Lad, that’s for the Fae. You’ll turn them against you and regret it. Put the food back, and go gather some berries to replace what you ate.

Afon popped another hunk of bread in his mouth.

Ain’t no faeries, he mumbled around the food, then swallowed. The priests told me that.

Saxon priest? Back at Penda’s camp?

Afon nodded as he finished the cheese.

You best be listening to one of our Cymry monks than all the Roman Church's priests put together, Mihangel growled. A Cymry priest will tell you straight. They understand the land and its people.

The priest said no such creatures exist. Just superstition. Afon crossed himself again. You’ll see. No harm will come of it. Better that a man eats this food than let some wandering animal eat it.

Mihangel turned away, shaking his head.

You need to sleep an extra arms’ length from me tonight, lad, he said. The fae don’t take kindly to others stealing gifts meant for them.

Silly superstitions, old man, Afon muttered.

Mihangel shot him a hard look.

You called yourself an old man, Afon said and grinned big. I’m just using the title you gave yourself.

Mihangel hated getting his boots wet. The stream was too broad to jump. However, he spied a fish in the clear water.

Come on, lad, he said and waded across the knee-deep water. We’ll camp up near the tree line. You dig a fire pit, and I’ll come back and set a line for some supper.

Afon’s only reply was a belch.

And be sure to look for some berries or nuts while you're gathering wood, Mihangel ordered. We'll set some out as a gift for the fae you insulted earlier.

Waste your dinner if you like, Afon said. He stopped to stand on one leg, then the other. He pulled each boot off and let the stream dribble from them.

An hour later, two smallish trout sizzled over the fire. Mihangel had his boots off, next to the small fire pit, so the soft leather would dry. He hated to sleep in the wild without his boots on.

Save the best cut of your fish, Mihangel said. Lay it and a handful of the berries out on that flat slab down by the creek. Maybe the fae will leave you be tonight.

You and your silly superstitions, old man, Afon said. You save your food for the faeries if you’re so concerned.

Still with the ‘old man,’?

You sound like my old gran, always going on about faeries, Afon said. And you said yourself you were old.

Hmpfh! Mihangel gestured with his knife at the fire. Don’t forget to dry your boots so you can keep em on while you sleep.

After three months on campaign with Penda, always keeping my boots on at night due to the old man leading our war band, Afon grinned again. Mihangel mimed throwing a berry at him. Afon ducked and laughed. My feet can use some fresh air tonight.

I wouldn’t call the air off your feet fresh by any stretch, lad.

4

MARKED

W ake your arse up, Afon, Mihangel said the next morning. He didn’t wait. Instead, he wandered down toward the creek. When he glanced back up the hill, Afon had rolled over and pulled his blanket over his head.

Mihangel chuckled. He pulled his line and hook from his pouch. The stick they had used as a pole the night before was still leaning against the rock, but the hunk of trout, and the pile of berries was gone. That brought a smile to his face. Even if Afon wouldn't try to appease whatever fae was likely around, Mihangel would.

A quick dig with his knife earned him a worm for the hook.

Within half a dozen minutes, he had two more trout on the bank. Breakfast. Damn good spot to fish, he told himself.

Afon, rouse yourself! he called, and pulled his knife out to clean the fish. Get your arse out of that blanket and make yourself useful.

Brown hair appeared, followed by a sleepy face. Afon didn't sport the ordinary Cymry man's mustache. He had a full goatee, but a few days' growth of beard was threatening to fill in his cheeks. Mihangel’s face was as stubble covered. Today, with the stream this close, would be a good day to use some of his soap and shave.

Bout time you roused, Mihangel said and tossed another large stick on the embers of their fire. Then some wood shavings. A few breaths into the coals and he had the fire alive again.

Afon, sitting up now, rubbed at his eyes, belched, and pulled his boots toward him.

Holy Mother of… What in all the hells!!!

Mihangel’s hand darted to the hilt of his sword. He glanced behind him. Enemies?

Afon, still cursing, dumped his boot out. A mass of wriggling dirt plopped onto the ground.

Seriously, old man? Afon shook his head and grabbed his other boot. And you did the other one too?

Did what, lad?

Worms… in my boots.

If I had a boot’s worth of earthworms, lad, Mihangel said and tried to stifle his laugh, I’d use them to fish, not waste them on your smelly feet.

You going on about faeries, Afon growled. He wasn’t friendly most mornings, Mihangel remembered. And a boot full of worms wasn’t helping his disposition. You did this! Trying to convince me there are faeries. Did you eat the fish and berries you took down to the creek last night? Try to convince me the fae are out to get me.

Not me lad, Mihangel laughed again. You probably attracted a pwca when you ate his food.

Silly superstitions, Afon mumbled. Those little house-elves are a myth. Poo-kah! Afon drew out the word pwca and made is sound sinister. Grans always prattling on about being nice to others, so the pwcas do your chores. Myths. No house-elf ever did my chores. He finished beating the soles of his upturned boots, jammed his feet in them, and stamped his way down the hill.

Mihangel said nothing. Instead, he spread his morning catch on two willow rods he had set to lean across the fire. Behind him, he heard mischievous, musical laughter drift down from the tree line.

Bah, this knife if duller than Oswald’s wit, Afon grumbled. He ran his thumb across the edge. I sharpened it last week.

Before you go accusing me of dulling your blade, Mihangel said, you best make things right with your pwca.

You and yer faeries, old man, Afon grumbled. Lend me your knife so I can shave this soap off. He held his sheath and peered into it. I don’t see any dirt or grit in there. How’d it get so dull?

Get your stone out and put a good edge on that steel, son, Mihangel said and passed his knife over. You can do so while you go catch a fish and leave it for the Pwca.

Superstitions, old man. Thanks. Afon took the blade and dragged it down his cheek, and wiped the blade on a rag across his knee. He made another stroke. He was careful to leave his goatee untouched.

Go rinse that rag when you clean the dishes, Mihangel said. We’ll see if we can get to the old Roman road by noon.

We get close to Penllyn, and we should see about buying horses, Afon said. He jiggled the pouch on his belt. The silver inside clinked.

What? The worms in your boots make you afraid to walk?

Shush, old man, Afon said and stood. He flipped the knife, so it flew end over end to land at Mihangel's feet. I might even go try to meet this Emlyn of the blade. See if he's worth studying under.

Well, you should have apologized to the Pwca like I told you, Mihangel laughed. Afon twisted his cloak in his hands to wring out even more water.

Wool is supposed to shed moisture, he mumbled.

How d'you manage to fall again? Mihangel chuckled again. Afon shot him a hard glance over his shoulder.

Damn trout leapt right at me, Afon grumbled. Hit me in the face.

Fish just wanted a kiss from the hero of the battle of Fadog’s Ambush, Mihangel said. At least your boots are clean now. Since you were wet head to toe, you were smart to wash them out too.

Bah! Afon groused and quickened his pace. You and your faeries.

Mihangel kept the smile on his face as he walked a few paces behind the young warrior. They were on a cart path through a wooded section of low rolling hills. The sun was out, but the shade they were in did little to warm his companion’s body or his demeanor.

Afon, ahead, was being careful in his steps. Two leagues of walking had soured his mood even more. He’d tripped and barely kept his feet more than a few times. Now, the lad was extra cautious. Probably for the best. The narrow strip of grass they walked was still damp, and the wheel tracks were soft with mud. Often, the grassy sward between narrowed and the muck widened.

How long, do you supposed, before we find the Roman Road? Afon asked over his shoulder. Ahead, the path curve sharply around a rocky outcrop.

Mihangel peered up at the sky and let his memories drift to the last time he had come through this part of Powys.

Less than a league, he ventured. We’re nearing Mechain, though if you want to go to Penllyn to purchase a horse, you’ll have to turn north. I will head south. Just be sure to take the pwca with you.

Silly superst⁠—

A flash of motion. Something darted from the underbrush. Right at knee height. Afon lurched forward and slid face-first through the muddy wheel rut. He lay there for a few seconds. Mihangel took two quick steps, worried that his compatriot was injured.

Damn pwca! Afon bellowed as he rose to his knees. The path where he had stepped was clear. No roots nor rocks jutting up.

Lad, that’s not how you should —

Afon clambered to his feet and wiped the mud from his eyes. He used an unstained patch of his cloak to clean his face.

This cloak is new. Now, look at it! Afon held it toward Mihangel. The finely woven grey wool was soaked and streaked with brown mud from both Afon's slide, and his attempt to wipe his cheeks.

Where is that Pwca? Afon bellowed. He jerked his sword from its scabbard. Show yourself! Damn Fae!

Lad, Mihangel said, his voice calm but firm. That —

That is not how to erase a Fae mark, good Afon, a female voice rang out from the tree line to their left. Mihangel spun, his hands tightening on his quarterstaff. Unlike Afon, he wasn’t one to draw steel at every unknown situation.

The woman seemed regal though her clothing was plain. A light blue dress, and a worn but nice brown cloak. She even had a sword belted around her waist.

Who are you? Afon raged. You be Fae too?

Mihangel laid on hand on Afon’s arm.

Calm yourself, he commanded. His eyes swept the tree lines on both sides of the path.

Afon still held his blade before him but kept his mouth shut.

Milady, Mihangel said with a small bow of his head. How may we assist you?

Someday you will, Brother Mihangel, she said with a smile.

How do you know our names? Afon asked and took a step forward, his sword leveled, at eye level, toward the woman.

She drew her blade in a flash from its silver scabbard. Before Mihangel could suck in a breath, she twisted and spun into Afon.

The lad stumbled back, blinking as the woman held both her sword and his.

Not bad, but you'll need to be much better for what lies before you, she said. I'll send you to my best teacher. However, you'll have to get rid of the Fae mark before he'll take you on.

Afon's eyes were wide as he looked at his sword in her grasp. He held his empty hands in front of him.

Who are you? he whispered. She only smiled.

What mark? Mihangel asked. I tried to get him to apologize. He's too stubborn.

The pwca he insulted has marked him, the lady said. She raised her sword to point to the young man's face. The blade shimmered, and a glowing rune shone on Afon's forehead, despite the coating of mud. Now every magical creature will be drawn to your friend to cause him mischief.

Afon scrubbed furiously at his head, trying to wipe away whatever was there.

Change your heart, Afon, the woman said. Britain needs your blade. My best teacher waits for you.

Do you mean…? Mihangel said. He was unsure if he should utter the man’s name. Too much strange was going on right now.

War tires you, the woman said. What do you desire, Mihangel?

That was a good question. What did he want?

Time with my family, and some quiet, he said. Afon stood silent, his eyes wide and his mouth still open.

The abbot in Gwent will accept your petition, the woman said. Rest well, good brother. Britain will need you as well. She flipped Afon's sword around and offered it to the young fighter. Find room in your heart to help others, show kindness. That may impress the fae enough to take back their mark.

Afon accepted his weapon and slid it into the scabbard. His eyes glazed, and he stared off into the trees. Quiet for once.

He will not remember this encounter, the woman said to Mihangel. If you would, please see him safely to his teacher. I will need him in the future.

Mihangel sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to fall to his knees. He knew he was in the presence of…

Yes, the woman said. Even you have a role to play. Keep your memories of this time. My gift to you. She reached out and touched the staff he held. Don't lose this, good brother. You'll want to keep this close in the years to come.

Monks are about prayers and fasting, Mihangel said. Not about war.

Gods don't care about such, the woman said and smiled. We have our tasks. Mine is to care for this land.

Invasion? Mihangel asked.

I wish it were something so simple, the woman said. Deliver Afon to his teacher. Then you may enjoy your rest.

Mihangel blinked. The woman seemed to be fading.

Go in peace, Brother Mihangel. Britannia will need you.

5

A LESSON

The inside of the guest house was dim, but late afternoon sun was making a valiant effort to lighten the room through the open doorway, and a window, also open, in the back wall. Tables clustered in tight, three or four small stools near each. The alehouse was about half full now.

Mihangel tossed a copper coin to the barkeep.

Mead if you have it, goodman. Two, please. He tried to smile. However, an afternoon of watching Afon's war with the fae had taken its toll on both of them.

Mihangel could see desperation welling in Afon’s eyes. Getting slapped with tree branches for a mile didn’t help Afon’s mood. Mihangel tried to repress a chuckle as he remembered Afon holding his sword in front of his face to stop the unseen fae from slapping him with branches from the trees. Branches unmoving before and after Afon’s passage, snapped and slashed at him as he walked the narrow path.

That meant they diverted their attention to his legs. They took three times as long to walk a league as they usually would have taken. All because Afon had eaten a pwca's meal.

Mihangel nodded at a group of half-a-dozen men gathered around three of the tables. All had blades on their hips.

From Penllyn? he asked.

Yes, said a tall and burly man man said.

You’re familiar, he said, one of Penda’s men?

If you can call it that. Mihangel ap Cadfan, of Gwent. He held his arm out. The man rose and grabbed it.

Gerallt, first sword of Penllyn, he said. You’ve got a reputation as a good strategist. Heard you were able to route the ambush that came at our flank when we were going against Oswald’s elite guards.

Someone had to, Mihangel shrugged. I always try to think my way through escape routes and worse case situations as the battle moves. That way I’m not sure⁠—

The scrape of a stool being slid, followed by a loud thump sounded behind him. He jerked his head around. Afon lay sprawled on his back. A stool stood off to the side. A table lay on its side, and another teetered then crashed onto the floor next to Afon's head.

CURSE THAT PWCA TO ALL THE HELLS! Afon screamed and jerked to his feet. Steel glinted in the dark of the room. Where is that little bastard! Afon wailed. I am so TIRED of this. SHOW YOURSELF!

The men with Gerallt of Penllyn erupted in laughter. Except for one. Even he, however, flashed a grin.

Poor lad got fae marked by a pwca, Mihangel tried to explain. He waved his hands and tried to shush the men. He’s had a terrible day with all the fae.

Funny, huh! Afon waved his sword toward the table. I’ll show you lads funny.

Stand down, Afon, Mihangel commanded. The tone and demeanor of the battlefield commander roared forward. He stepped in and went nose to nose with his young charge. Mihangel held his gaze steady and locked on Afon. Stay calm, lad. Your argument is with the pwca, not these men.

Afon’s eyes stayed wild. His entire face was crimson. The pwca's trick had gotten the better of Afon, and then some. Mihangel had only seen that level of desperation in his enemies on the battlefield.

Lad, step back. I’ll help you in a moment. His voice stayed even. If Afon didn’t stand down, this would get ugly fast. Afon’s eyes darted about again but came back to Mihangel. The battle-hardened veteran stayed calm. Afon nodded and stepped back. Mihangel glanced at the bare steel in Afon's hand.

Afon slid it into the scabbard. Mihangel took his arm and led him back to the table. He held the stool in place until Afon sat. Gerallt stepped up to the table and set a mug of mead on it in front of Afon.

No offense intended, lad, he said. He shifted his glance to Mihangel. We’ll be on our way. Good luck with your man.

Thank you, Mihangel said. He took a seat opposite his young friend. The sweet smell of honey mead drifted across the table.

Afon glanced into the mug, then plucked something out with his thumb and forefinger.

Fly, he growled, a hard edge to his voice. He flicked the insect off toward the wall. Another glance into the mug then took a drink. He about choked, then spat the mead out onto the floor.

Another damn fly! he coughed several times. Damned pwca! Putting flies in my cup!

Laughter drifted in through the open door.

A pwca! someone exclaimed from outside. More laughter.

Afon leapt off his stool and charged the front door. He jerked his sword out as he ran.

Curse you lad! Mihangel grabbed his staff and ran after him.

Afon drug one of the Penllyn men out of their saddles. He angled his sword to threaten the downed man. Mihangel was too far away to intervene. Damn, he was getting old.

Afon, don't! he called.

One man was faster than the rest. The one who hadn’t laughed. He rolled out of his saddle, landing cat-like. One of his blades surged toward Afon’s sword, driving it out of line for attack. The man dropped low and kicked Afon’s legs out from under him.

Afon hit the muddy ground. There were still too many steps for Mihangel to intervene. He didn't want to tangle, however, with his friend’s adversary. Only one man in Penllyn carried two swords. Afon was as good as dead if he kept going.

Afon lurched to his feet. His face red with rage, he lunged at the fighter in front of him. The Penllyn fighter deflected the blow and slid his blade down to bind Afon’s. Their cross guards locked together.

Afon was skilled with his sword, however. Skilled more than almost anyone. He was one of the best swordsmen Mihangel had found. The young swordsman levered his arm up and wrist down, to drive the point back toward his adversary. What Afon didn't see was the man's second sword flick up. He felt it, though, when it poked his wrist. Afon jerked his sword arm back, but too late. His opponent twisted their blades. Afon's already injured wrist turned too far, and his grip relaxed. His sword dropped into the mud. Afon fell to his knees.

Afon, hmmm, the Penllyn man said. I heard you were good. Too bad you chose this way to meet. He held Afon’s gaze. Never attack my men again.

Mihangel leaned on his staff. This had to be up to Afon now. He’d done all he could to keep him out of trouble.

Afon's shoulder's slumped. His head nodded, slowly due to the blade at his throat.

The Penllyn man glanced at Mihangel. He’s all yours. Don’t let him follow us.

Mihangel could do little except nod. The lad had screwed this good.

Afon collapsed but caught himself on his hands. The Penllyn men rode off and left Mihangel with Afon. Alone in the mud.

Who was he? Afon murmured, still on his knees.

Out of all the swordsmen in Britain, Mihangel said, and helped his friend to his feet, You had to piss off Lord Emlyn. The only man I’d claim was your better with the blade.

Curse that damn pwca! Afon whispered and fell against Mihangel. All the fight had fled from him.

Never piss off a pwca, Afon mumbled, then pulled his sword from the mud, wiped it on his cloak.