The sand beneath him was cool. Rising cautiously, he almost hit his head on the roof of what he realised was a smallish cave. A prickle of goosebumps rippled over his skin, as absently he brushed at the sand clinging to his thighs. Startled by the fact that he was as naked as he’d been in his bed at Castlegrove, he whispered an oath. This was like no dream he’d experienced before—ever.
Intrigued now to see where this dream led him, Bart walked out into hot sunshine. The sand sifting through his toes was warm and the sun on his bare body added to the surreal feeling. Not since he was a toddler could he recall being so free of inhibitions. Seagulls overhead squawked shrilly, and waves gently lapped a beach that went for miles in both directions. He began to stride out, in the hope his dream woman waited further along somewhere like some siren.
Arms stretched wide in abandon, Bart set off at a run, only then realising that his usually neatly trimmed hair streamed out behind him like an unruly mane. He stopped, swaying, a perspiring hand shielding his eyes. Surely he’d stepped over a borderline between reality and fantasy, for this was certainly the most realistic dream ever—and why the heck was he naked?
Changing tack, he set off towards the trees fringing the beach. Beneath their sheltering branches, the coarse grass brushed at his thighs and whispered in the wind. Wildflowers nodded in a clearing along a path, so he headed that way under a canopy of leaves. The sweet fragrance of the flowers wafted around him. Pausing, he breathed in the heavy scent.
But as he inhaled, another much more pungent aroma hit him. Swiveling sharply at a small sound, he froze.
At the far side of the clearing sat ten weather-beaten riders—their skin dark and leathery—their shoulder length hair and long beards filthy and matted. Brightly patterned chest plates adorned their handsome ponies, whose manes were threaded with silvery strips. The animals were much better looking than their motley riders, who wore an assortment of rags.
The stink was overpowering, and instinctively Bart reached into his pocket for a handkerchief; only then remembering he was minus his trousers with their usual sharp crease. Belatedly, he shielded his genitals with his hands.
“Welcome, Brys.” The man at the front of the group urged his mount forward to stop a few paces in front of Bart. “I am Arthgul.” Bart understood this odd man and was so taken aback he momentarily forgot the vile odor emanating from the group.
“I think you’re mistaken.” Bart’s voice sounded familiar, despite the sense of unreality swamping him. “I am The Earl of Castlegrove, Lord Bartholomew Wesley Beaumont of Essex.” This he said with all his inbred hauteur. Pulling himself up to his considerable height, he glared down his nose.
The Arthgul fellow waved an indifferent hand. “In the world you normally inhabit, that may be the name you go by, but while you are here you are Brys.” The gravity in his tone seemed incongruous, considering his appearance.
“Hang on. I don’t understand.” Bart frowned as he glanced about. “Where exactly is here?”
“You will come to understand soon. We are in Mercia. We…” He encompassed his companions with a jerk of that same hand. “Are Celts, living in a land being overrun by Saxons, Jutes, and Angles—invaders from across the sea.
Bart rubbed a hand over his head. “Right, so just what year is this?” Good grief, this weird dream, or whatever, seemed to have thrust him back in time to somewhere in the vicinity of 400 to 500 AD, if this strange creature was to be believed.
Arthgul ignored the question. “You have been brought here to undertake a task. In time all will be clear to you.” His announcement was delivered with a dramatic touch of mystery.
“I doubt it,” Bart muttered. If this was Mercia, then they must be somewhere along the east coast, near the Humber River. “But how did I get here, and who brought me?”
“You have come through time to fulfill your destiny, Brys,” Arthgul proclaimed. Bart grunted incredulously, but the filthy guy ignored it. If that was true then there was nothing much to do but play along and see how things worked out. Perhaps he would wake up suddenly and find this was simply a confusing, but realistic, dream.
“Please put these coverings on.” Arthgul tossed a bundle to Bart. When he’d unrolled it he stared at the assortment of garments that consisted of a pair of baggy woolen ankle length breeches and a long doeskin shirt. Of course there were no underclothes, but then what could be expected from a bunch of heathens. A tunic of rough animal hide sporting a gilded breastplate of bronze scales completed the outfit. Once dressed, Bart slipped his feet into soft hide moccasins and, after looking to Arthgul for guidance, crisscrossed their leather ties around his calves.
When Bart straightened, Arthgul nodded. “Now I will explain your mission. Invaders from over the sea are slowly pushing native Britons further to the west, and one family, who settled in Wessex, has been captured by a chief of the invaders. Most of the newcomers ignore the towns the Romans left behind, but this evil Germanic warrior, Garth, has taken over the Roman town of Lindum.”
Bart knew the Romans departed in 410AD. What the heck was he supposed to do with fierce warriors? He really should stop reading about this period in history, doubtless it was affecting his mind.
“Garth captured the son and daughter of Chief Targal, who was slain by this tyrant while trying to defend his family. Chief Targal’s only daughter must be freed before she is forced into the clutches of this Garth, and her brother forced into slavery, if not killed. It is important he be saved, for it is written that he will rule over his people one day.”
Bart pressed a hand to his chest. “What can I possibly do? I’m not a fighter—I wouldn’t stand a chance against this Garth. He sounds like a brute, so how can you possibly assume I’d do the least bit of good? You’ve got the wrong person, old man. I’m not up to this job you seem to have earmarked for me.” Bart raked his fingers through the unfamiliar hair. Obviously he’d ended up in someone else’s dream.
Smiling slyly, Arthgul turned in his saddle and beckoned to one of his silent companions. A shriveled man resembling a monkey, dismounted and loped to Arthgul’s side. Pulling a pouch from beneath his soiled jerkin he handed it over, and hastened to remount.
Arthgul withdrew a chain from the pouch and weighed the heavy piece of jewelry in his palm, before crooking a finger. “Come closer, Brys.”
As Bart stepped forward on shaky legs, an odd sensation wafted over him. In that instant he knew for the present he was Brys as his old persona seemed to fade. Bartholomew, The Earl of Castlegrove, for whatever reason, receded. It was an eerie sensation, but Bart had the oddest feeling this meeting was pre-ordained.
As he stood beside Arthgul’s bedecked pony, Arthgul said gravely, “This talisman has great and wondrous powers.”
Brys bent his head and the chain was placed about his neck. As he straightened, fingering the pendant of gold that lay heavily on his chest, he knew his transformation was complete. On a chain of plaited gold, the extraordinary piece of jewelry was enameled in vivid shades of peacock, blue and aquamarine. “Who made this?”
“A sorcerer whose power is as great as the mighty Merlin.” Arthgul puffed up his chest. “This rare gift will endow its wearer with more strength than a man could ever imagine to possess.”
Brys stifled a laugh. There was no place in his life for such nonsense, or more precisely, there hadn’t been. The ancient Celts were definitely known as a superstitious lot, worshippers of horned gods and goddesses of battle, gods who ruled the woods and wild places. The Druids made human sacrifices, and sprinkled their altars with blood, so surely a belief in wizards and talismans wasn’t so farfetched.
“Does Merlin really exist?” Although a fanatical reader of ancient history, he’d never uncovered any solid proof the tale of King Arthur and the wizard Merlin, purported to have brought Arthur up in secrecy, was more than a legend.
“I have never met the Great One, but his disciple possesses greatly respected knowledge that has come down through our Celtic ancestors from as far back as Cernunnos our ancient god.”
Surely anything was believable since his flight from reality brought him here. Brys frowned. “Since the talisman possesses such powers, why didn’t this sorcerer do the rescuing?”
“We do not question the Wise One,” Arthgul delivered with grave dignity. “The strength of the talisman can only be used by chosen ones.”
“And presumably I have been chosen,” Brys muttered. Perhaps he would come to terms with all this, but still felt sure any minute he would wake up back in his bed.
“It is so. Come, it is time we were on our way.” Arthgul turned his pony.
“It appears I have no say in the matter.” Might as well be practical about it. His home was in another time and place. These strange men were his only link with that past. What could he do but follow them?
No one offered Brys a mount, so as they set off at a steady trot he loped at their side, trying to work out where he’d woken up and how far it would be to Lindum, or Lincoln as he knew it. Lincoln was inland from just above The Wash, so set them just north of Skegness, a fair distance from his home in Essex.
Once they left the forest, the terrain became rocky and barren—totally different to the green and leafy lanes of the England he was used to. Brys moved so effortlessly that at times he felt it wasn’t him moving, but the earth beneath his feet. He had no trouble keeping up with the light-footed ponies, now moving at a steady canter. The sensation that strange magic abounded here filled him.
This was surely a stranger journey than any traveled in his life. On and on they went, until arriving at a vast heather-carpeted meadow. Hills in shades of purple and green shimmered in the distance. When they neared a river winding its way through steep banks, rushing over rocks, Arthgul pulled his pony up and dismounted, saying, “We will rest the animals.”
Strangely, Brys didn’t feel tired, considering they’d been moving at an amazing speed. He’d lost all track of time, but guessed it to be early afternoon, for the sun was just moving from over their heads. Now his anxiety had worn off, he felt more alive than he had in years. For too long he’d just plodded along in the same rut, longing for something to happen to force him out of this rut. Well, boy, had that something happened.
After they’d watered the animals at a small beach, Brys copied the men and bent to drink. Arthgul posted a lookout on a small rise further along the bank, and the group sat in a circle.
Brys took stock of his motley companions. What magic brought him here, for it was surely magic of some sort. Who were these men, and why had they come for him? Where were they headed? Should he be feeling more scared? For all he knew, they could be leading him to his death. They talked together in a strange dialect. Why could he understand Arthgul, but not them?
Pirates had been landing in Britain for more than a century, and after the Romans left, they began to settle in this fertile and rich land, finding it far superior to their poor farmland in Europe.
The men took pouches from their saddlebags, and Arthgul offered Brys a strip of brown leathery stuff. It looked ghastly. “Eat,” he encouraged, so Brys took a tentative bite. To his surprise what looked like old boot tasted like a tough piece of beefsteak.
Soon the men went to relieve themselves, so he did the same, then they all remounted and moved off at an easy canter again.
The sun was dropping low when Arthgul pulled his pony to a stop and pointed to the horizon. “See Lindum. The stronghold of Garth.”
Brys stared at the high walls ahead. “I’m supposed to breach that fortress?” Surely there would prove to be a gate, but he could see no sign of one from here.
“With the talisman you can achieve anything.” Arthgul waved his doubts away. “You will have no trouble entering the city. Your biggest obstacle will be Garth. We part here.” He turned to beckon to one of his followers. “This weapon will assist you in your fight.” The long bladed knife he handed Brys was embossed with entwined snakes on its bronze handle.
Brys weighed it in his hand before thrusting it through his belt, where it sat heavily against his hip. All excitement vanished—replaced by sheer panic. He’d never carried such a weapon, and had no idea how to use a dagger. And the men were leaving him? Although weird, smelly and odd, they’d become his allies—partners in this strange adventure.
“How will I know where to enter the city? And where will I find this woman and the brother I have to rescue?” Brys felt really scared now he realised he was expected to complete the journey alone. More than just scared—terror engulfed him. He wiped his sweaty hands down his sides. Perhaps now was the time to close his eyes and try to wake up back in his bed.
No such luck! Arthgul pointed behind Brys, announcing, “Your guide has arrived.”
Brys turned, astonished when a great black raven landed with a flapping of wings. It sat by his feet, screeching harshly, its beady eyes peering up at him. Brys took two steps back as the bird then fluffed up its glossy feathers, expanding until a figure shrouded in a voluminous cloak as black as its wings stood there. A claw like hand pushed back the hood to display a downright ugly face. His throat went so dry he had to swallow hard to work up some spittle. This was impossible—plain ridiculous.
And then it spoke. “I am Anstred, protector of the Lady Haesal.” The hag curved one of her sinewy fingers, indicating Brys follow her.
Turning to bid his traveling companions farewell, his heart lurched, for they were now dots on the far side of the meadow. Brys quelled an urge to race after them. Fascinated and horrified at her transformation, he hadn’t heard them leave. Now alone with this old crone, his last link with his other life gone, along with the riders, he felt bereft.
He’d read about shape changers, but until now looked on such things as figments of someone’s fertile imagination—much as the legend of King Arthur and his knights of the round table. Trying to put all the events since he awoke in the cave into some sort of order, he was at a loss to explain it.
“If you are this Haesal’s protector, why couldn’t you free her?” He spoke to her back, for she was heading towards the distant city. Feeling like a lost schoolboy following the only adult who offered a lead, he trailed her. “A being that has the ability to change shape could surely lead a band of people to safety.”
She paused. “Yes I could do that, but it would solve nothing. Garth must be destroyed. Some things are ordained. I do not question, and you should not. I have special abilities, but it was your strength that was needed. You were summoned and you came—it is as simple as that.”
She no doubt thought that explained it all, while he felt more and more like a perplexed boy. There was little to do but follow her. He felt a compulsion to go, as if some invisible thread now bound him to her. Always in complete command of his actions, he now had the distinct impression some force greater than life itself guided his every move. Surely the pendant lying heavily on his chest must contain the magic propelling him.
One of five Roman municipalities, Lincoln was responsible for governing the country during the Roman occupation, so Brys fully expected to see a fairly large settlement. But the sturdy twenty foot wall surrounding the town nonetheless surprised him. At its base a wide ditch filled with stagnant water gave off a vile odour. Buttresses with watchtowers sat at intervals around it, and Brys scanned its top rampart walks for watchers, but there were none.
When they reached a wooden bridge the crone stopped and turned to him. “This is where you enter. I will wait on the other side.” Instantly she reverted to her raven form and flew off.
Brys trod carefully over the wooden slats, avoiding the parts that looked rotten. He had no wish to end up in the stinking water of the ditch. A seemingly impregnable gate barred his way, so he bent his weight to it as sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. To his surprise it creaked on rusted iron hinges as it swung slowly inwards.
The raven, perched on a tree, stared glassily at him, and then flew up, circling before darting off, flying back at intervals, presumably to ensure he followed her.
Hovels loomed starkly against the darkening sky. Brys imagined how this town looked in its heyday, with the grandeur the Romans loved. They were notorious for their straight streets, accessible to a legionnaire trying to maintain control. But these deserted streets reeked of degradation and poverty. A screech from the raven reminded him why he was here, and he hurried onwards.
Apart from a moan coming from one of the hovels, there was no sign of life. The desolation and the pitiful wail touched his heart, even as his flesh crawled at the imagined deprivation.
He passed a colonnaded porch of what he presumed was a temple erected to one of the many gods the Romans loved to worship. The raven perched on a wall near the largest structure in the town—possibly the basilica. Brys took a minute to admire the brickwork, a good example of concrete reinforced with the bricks the Romans perfected.
The gateway of the basilica led into the deserted market place, or forum. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the activities of those times, when, on market days the local farmers set up stalls to sell their produce. The raven’s screech brought him from his introspection.
Following the wall until he reached a door at its rear where she perched on a strip of jutting wood above it, Brys asked, “We go through here?” The raven nodded its sleek head.
The door was bolted, so he used all his newly acquired strength to force it open. Bending to enter, he bumped into a colossal man, and the suddenness of coming across another human here stunned him. The giant brandished a fearsome spear and grunted. Brys stifled a laugh. This joke had gone on long enough. Now he must surely wake up.
But the mammoth was real. Perspiration broke out on Brys’ forehead and palms. He was an earl, and a farmer, for heaven’s sake, not a warrior. But instinct warned him he must kill or be killed.
The gigantic man growled an unintelligible word while waving the spear, so Brys dredged up a boldness from somewhere and pulled the knife from his belt. Until this moment he never really expected to use the weapon. It felt odd in his hand, and momentarily he considered turning to run. But that same compulsion forced him to stand up to this foe. He lunged, sinking the knife deep into the rocklike chest.
The man barely had time to catch his breath, and likely was just as taken aback as Brys. Sickness engulfed Brys as his opponent toppled, blood spurting from the wound. This was becoming his worst nightmare.
The raven nodded as if in congratulation of the vile deed, then lead him down a flight of steps carved from rock. At the bottom, he peered around dubiously. The walls sweated dampness. Following the raven into a darker tunnel, where groans and sobs reached his ears from the dungeons there, he cringed.
The raven changed shape again. Brys bent to a nearby grating, halfway down a heavy oak door. The gloomy cell’s only light slanted through a narrow slit high on the wall, throwing a dusty ray on a person stretched out on a pallet against a wall. Another, his head on his bent knees, sat hunched on the floor.
At Anstred’s call of, “Gerald,” a young man jumped up eagerly, shaking the arm of the other figure on the pallet, a man.
“Have you come to rescue me?” the youth demanded peevishly.
“As soon as I break down this door I’ll do just that.” Brys tested the door with a shoulder. It was immovable.
“Good. I can’t wait to get out of this dung-hole.” As the teenager said that, a deep growl came from the darkness behind Brys. As he swiveled, his hand on the dagger, he came face to face with another hulk, this one wielding a deadly looking two-handed sword.
Good grief, he’d never had a punch up in his life, apart from the usual scraps one gets involved in at school and university, and the one where he acquired the slight bend in his nose. Yet all of a sudden his life was riddled with enemies bent on fighting him. It would be funny if it weren’t so terrifying. Perhaps, if he ever got out of this, he would look back on it and laugh.
After a short sharp combat, the guard fell at Brys’ feet—a fatal wound in his throat. Every part of Brys shuddered.
Anstred took a loaded key ring from the dead man’s belt, found the right one and opened the cell.
As soon as he was free, the youth demanded, “Who are you? I am Gerald, future chief of the Targal clan.” Beneath the dirt and grime, Gerald was obviously fair-haired and light-skinned.
“I’m Bar ...um, Brys.”
“Good. You must get my sister Haesal away from the fiend Garth at once. Then you must kill him.”
“All in good time.” Brys turned to the boy’s cell-mate, who stood smiling through his shaggy matted beard.
“This is Godwin, the servant of Gerald,” Anstred said. Both wore rags; their feet covered by a wrapping of tattered animal hide.
He bowed low before Brys. “My lord.”
Anstred tapped Brys’ arm. “Come, we must go. Our mistress is watched over by Garth’s strongest guards. But first we must free our people.”
She handed Godwin the keys, and he began to unlock the first cell door as Anstred led Brys and Gerald back along the passageway. They met two guards, but taking them by surprise Brys soon dispensed with them, although the horror at his actions remained.
Acrid smoke drifted from torches in sconces high on the slimy walls as the three of them went up another flight of steps. As they climbed higher, a murky light drifted in through gaps in the outer wall.
“The mistress is in the end chamber.” Anstred halted Brys at the top of the stairs. “She should be eating her end of day meal at this time, with only her serving wench Rhoda in attendance. There are two guards outside at all times. Gerald and I will wait here while you remove them.”
Brys squared his shoulders as he approached the guards. They both rushed at him, forcing him to use all his wits to dodge one’s flying dagger as the other came on him from behind with an axe. Witchery obviously protected him, and he touched the pendant with reverence. As he dragged the inert bodies to an alcove, he felt utterly incongruous. Was it only yesterday he sat in his office working out finances with his accountant?
When Anstred and Gerald joined Brys, the latter regarded him with a kind of subdued admiration. Brys inserted the key in the lock, and the door swung inwards with a creak.
Shock hit Brys like a punch in the stomach. Taking a harsh breath, he stared, dumbstruck, at the woman who sat on a low, fur draped pallet in the middle of the chamber.
She was so lovely, his heart somersaulted. Hair the color of spun gold flowed to her shoulder blades in rich silky waves, and threaded strands of ribbon contained the sides above her ears. Her simple white under tunic was covered by a green dress, and girdled at the waist with a belt of hammered copper—the garment doing little to conceal perfectly rounded curves or shapely ankles.
She was gorgeous; breathtaking, and Brys knew her as well as he knew himself. He was face to face with his bewitching dream lover.