In this Chapter, Drustan finds himself (herself) engaged in war then ends up in personal combat with a tyrant king.

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The Angry Mermaid 13.

Or.

Y Morforwyn Dicllon 13

Mabina. The youngest daughter and Twin to
Drustan Her twin brother.
Grandpa Erin the twins grandfather.
Giana The twins grandmother
Caderyn The twins father.
Herenoie The twins wise and beautiful mother.
Morgaran The Twins oldest brother.
Aiofe The twins oldest sister. Famous for her beauty.
Tara The twins second oldest sister. Famous for her grace.
Feidlim Twins aunt (Caderyns’ beautiful sister.)
Mogantu Twins uncle (Married to Feidlim.) Chief of the Gangani tribe.
Brun. Twins 2nd cousin and the Acaman clans’ blacksmith.
Feorin. Twins second brother. Also training to be a blacksmith.
Rhun Feidlims’ son and Feorins’ favourite 1st Cousin. (Both red-heads.)
Arina Child of a Demetae fisherman, (rescued by Aiofe, Drustan and Mabina.)
Penderol Dumnonii Minor chief.
Udris Young Dumnonii warrior.
Dryslwyn High chief of the whole Celtic nation. Dwells in Brithony.
Bronlwyn Dryslwyn’s wife (and queen.)
Magab The moor who taught numbers.
Eric Saxon galley slave rescued from Corsair pirates.
Carl Another Saxon galley slave rescued by Drustan.
Torvel Celtic galley slave rescued from the same captured corsair ship
Arton. Turdetani Chieftain Holder of Gibral Rock.
Carinia Arton’s wife.
Isobel. Arton’s adopted daughter.
Appotel King of the Turdetani Tribe. (Southern Iberia.)
Bramana Queen. (Wife of Appotel)
Pilus King of the Capetani.
Shaleen Pilus’s queen and sister to Bramana.
Pedoro Lord Marshal of the Southern border region.
Lady Shulaar Lord Pedoro’s wife.
Taan. The scullery maid.
Isaar. Pedoro’s oldest son.
Ferdie Pedoro’s 2nd son
Sular Pedoro’s 3rd son
Gontala Pedoro’s youngest son.
Shenoa Pedoro’s only daughter.

“Not what brother? Not what as ‘that as well?”

Drustan’s eyes widened with despair.

“That! You know. That; - Damara’s call, the goddess of fertility. When you and all your sisters are visited.”

Mabina stared at her brother in shock as the realisation sunk in.

“Are you trying to tell me that you, - you’re,-!”

She stuttered as words failed her and Drustan replied partly in anger and partly in despair.

“Yes. Yes. Yes! The wound from Blueface’s blow to my nethers. His sword must have been cursed or magical. That cursed blade made my wound and it never heals. That must be why! It cursed me with its evil magic so now I must be part maid and part youth! Oh by all the gods, what am I to do? I do not even know to which gods I can pray for help. Do I pray to the man’s gods or the woman’s gods? I don’t know any more. I’m on my own now. No gods to call upon, a secret I must always hide and a chest I dare not show. Who will have me, who will help me and worst of all; who will charge me with being a witch?”

Mabina fell silent. She was shocked by her brother’s revelation and had no wisdom to offer him. Worst of all she had never seen her brother crying, not since their village was destroyed.

All she could do was wrap her arms around him and hold him tight to her as his chest heaved with frightened sobbing. He responded with equal parts of affection and fear as he clung tightly to one the only two persons he could trust.

Whilst Drustan savoured what had become a rare moment of sibling affection with his twin they started to chat quietly. It seemed with all the fighting the three children had got themselves into during their travels, they seemed to be growing farther apart until this monstrous revelation from her brother. Up until that moment, Mabina had seemed to be turning more towards Aiofe, their older sister for advice and support. Drustan felt he seemed to getting somehow ‘left behind’.

He little realised it but his constant exposure to danger and death had been turning him into a cold, insensitive, automaton who only seemed to function as and when the stimulus of danger or battle came around. In quieter moments he had become brooding and introspective as his self-inflicted burdens had time to work their mischief on his conscience. Now he had another burden to suffer and he had no means of addressing it and no hope of resolving it. Hugging his twin sister seemed to be the only immediate course to a solution. Eventually his tears abated and he kissed his sister in thanks.

“Thank you dear sister. At least I can turn to you. Now I suppose we have to return to this cursed war and the other
stuff. Like Aiofe’s marriage.”

Aiofe’s betrothal contract to Magab the Carthaginian expired at the end of the year and here he was in mid-summer, pre-occupied with winning somebody else’s battles and wars whilst yet finding a solution to his new affliction seemed to entering the realms of the impossible. He decided that for the moment, Damara’s visits could be put aside. One had just ended and he had another moon of relief from the cursed pain. He put his mind to other issues more immediately to hand.

As Drustan saw it, now that their family and lands were gone, his main responsibility was to get his sisters settled and secure for life. His own life was virtually forfeit as far as he could see. What father would see their daughter married to a vagabond, mercenary who had only a sword and a ship to offer? And worse yet, a vagabond with a terrible secret.

The onus of Aiofe’s betrothal weighed heavily on his mind and any factors that delayed that endeavour were cause for anger and resentment.

This anger and resentment had spilled over into Drustan’s treatment of the eight wounded soldiers that he and the picket soldier had despatched over the cliff. It was this behaviour towards those eight that the picket soldier was reporting to Aiofe and the village elders.

“Yes mi-lady. When we reached the bottom of the cliff after I had shown the boy how to abseil, we came upon the wounded soldiers. They all had broken limbs and one or two had broken backs from their falls; but six out of the eight would have survived their injuries. It had not taken much sword-play on the narrow path to overbalance them, especially as we were secured to the rock-face as I had shown him by spikes and rope. His actions when we reached them were cruel and un-necessary.”

“Go on,” Aiofe prompted.

“Well he immediately put the men with broken backs to the sword stating that death was better than being a cripple for the rest of their lives. They had no choice; despite their pleading he just slashed their throats open without flinching or showing any sort of remorse. It was cold-blooded murder!”

“Were they crippled for life?” Asked the village elder.

“Well, - yes, - probably but it was the way he did it. No tears of remorse, no offer of redemption, no last requests just a single slash of that razor sharp sword of his and they were despatched. The look of horror on the other’s faces left me feeling sickened and guilty. For a fifteen-year-old boy, he has an inexplicable inhumanity coursing through his brains. Then worse was to follow. We all of us had orders to try and take some of the enemy captive for interrogation as you know. Well he and I had taken the remaining six captive, at least by default. Their limbs were broken and they could not move to defend themselves. Then the boy’s inhumanity really showed its true colours.

Firstly he dragged each injured man out of sight and earshot of each other so that none could conspire with the other to pass false information. Then he started asking each of the injured soldiers what the signal for success was. He asked the first soldier then he went to the second soldier. The first soldier’s story did not tally with the second soldier’s so he went back to the first soldier and killed him outright, no chance to amend the lie to the truth, just a straight, swift despatch with that sword of his. Then he dragged the body to the second soldier and told him of the first man’s lie.

Next he left the corpse beside the second soldier and asked the third soldier for the signals for their success. When the third soldier’s story did not tally with the first or second soldier’s story he dragged the third soldier to sit by the second soldier and the first corpse. They soon got the message as he warned them that if the fourth soldier’s story didn’t tally all three of them would join their dead comrade. I tell you it was ghastly as each man realised he had lied and now faced certain death.
Finally, he went to the fifth and six men who only had broken arms and showed them the condemned men. He asked them the same question and finally their stories tallied. I thought that was it, the last two had been honest and saved themselves. As for the others, I knew with a sickening certainty that there was to be more bloodshed. I was right; he simply sliced open their throats in front of the remaining two and stood watching them die. Nary a flicker of remorse or concern showed in that boy’s empty eyes.

With that terrible act completed he then despatched the two honest men with the same lack of feelings. I tell you something evil has taken that boy’s soul. Yes, he is a brave warrior; especially for one so young but that youth is also what shocks me so. I couldn’t have done what he has done even as an adult hardened soldier. The boy is an inhumane monster.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Aiofe asked.

“I injured my arm as we landed at the bottom of the cliff. I could not hold my sword. Mabina tells me my right wrist is probably broken and that’s my sword hand. I was afraid to face the boy with no sword. I tried remonstrating with him but he was immune to my objections. He actually made to draw his sword against me, his own comrade in arms! The boy is wild and bad! What’s worse is that I simply had to stand back and let him do it. My sword arm was incapacitated and no amount of remonstration seemed to get through to him.”

Aiofe drew a long wearisome breath. She had serious issues to sort with her wayward brother. ‘Would he even acknowledge her authority?’ she wondered, for the boy was now past fifteen summers and beginning to show growth. Strangely it was not a manly growth for he grew no beard, his arms remained slender and no body hair grew. All he seemed to do was increase his height. She glanced to where Mabina was still treating him for his numerous cuts. She had removed his jerkin to clean a couple of slashes to his torso. His chest remained covered and Aiofe knew why but as she studied her brother she noted that his muscle definition was beginning to show in her younger brother’s bared body but his waist remained slender and his skin somewhat maidenly. With womanly eyes however she had already noticed several pairs of maidenly eyes glancing covetously at what most people deemed to be some sort of hero. None of the maids knew of Drustan’s awful secrets. Her brother was a strange being.
Reluctantly, Aiofe realised there would be difficult times ahead for she and Mabina would have to use every feminine wile to guide their wayward sibling. It would do no good to just storm in and harangue the boy for his cruelty and inhumanity. Sadly the boy had seen little but death and danger ever since they had lost the rest of their family in the Viking raid. Since that awful day, cruelty and inhumanity was but all he had ever seen of consequence to his life. What the boy needed was a year of rest and recuperation, preferably in feminine company to gentle his ways. The problem was that the femininity needed to be part mothering and part companionship for the boy was emotionally ‘in-between’ childhood and adulthood. Sadly there was little time for that in the immediate present. They had subterfuge to organise with the signals to inform the tyrant Portega that the heights were secured, then they had the ambush to spring when his invading army had partially crossed the bridge. For now, Drustan’s transgressions would have to go unaddressed. With a heavy heart Aiofe turned to the village elder to organise the next part of their plan.

“Take the captured uniforms and dress some of the village men in them. Drustan says the signal is two fires from the highest part of the ridge and another fire on the bluff at the entrance to the pass. We got the information from those other prisoners that we took and the information Drustan extracted with his more brutal, inhumane methods.”

The village elder had already agreed with the picket soldier as to who to put in the uniforms. Fortunately the captured tunics were crimson so blood wounds would not show. As Aiofe turned with the village elder to check the dam, the villagers were already organising their ranks as the picket soldier ordered. They had to look like a troop of victorious soldiers and march with a swagger to convince Portega. The signal fires were a simple matter and soon after they were lit, a rumble issued from the assembled ranks as Portega’s army began to move. The ruse had worked and Aiofe watched with an apprehensive satisfaction as Drustan and Mabina joined her side.

“So we go to our stations then sister?”

“Yes, brother and please, show your captives some compassion, that is if you capture anybody. I don’t envisage our being involved in hand to hand combat as we attack from these heights. Wait until I or the village elder gives the signal. The main part of the trap is to destroy the bridge; any casualties will be a bonus but please, no slaughter!” Aiofe pleaded.

Drustan did not sense Aiofe’s undertone of censure and discontent, he deemed it to be nothing more than womanly pleadings as women often seemed want to do. At fifteen, Drustan was not yet wholly vulnerable to feminine wiles or sensitive to innuendo or tact. The boy in him had turned into an unwitting butcher for want of an adult man’s guidance. The other reason was that he could not accept his own burgeoning maidenly attributes and he felt he had to act cruelly to prove he was still wholly a man. The man he was to become had not yet started to notice maidens in that adult way.

Aiofe watched her brother walking away and surmised, ‘Drustan was missing a father, or more particularly a kindly old grandfather,’ she concluded ruefully. The boy was a becoming a problem. At fifteen, he was developing a tall but graceful body though he still had the emotions and feelings of a child. His reactions to such awful stimuli as war and death were immature and juvenile. He had not learned the value of life. The boy was growing psychopathic in his treatment of his enemies.
In those far off days, there was little understanding of the human condition. The boy for now was a just problem but the man, if left unchecked, would become a danger. Aiofe decided to speak to the sister queens to see if they could offer advice. Then she caught herself mentally.

‘Had she just decided that after this battle she would speak to the sisters?’ Did she really think, subconsciously that they would automatically win this war?’

She shook her head and brought herself back to reality. By day’s end they could all be dead. Suddenly she found herself looking at her brother in a different light, a protective light; as in him protecting her. She now felt thankful that the seemingly crazy psychopath was on her side.

‘By the Gods, how war changed a perspective,’ she concluded as she took her station on the highest bluff.

Her stomach knotted with fear as the clamour of Portega’s army grew louder and nearer.

Long before the sun had reached its zenith the column reached the entrance to the pass and the picket sergeant’s platoon on the other side of the pass was firing the odd arrow at what they identified as the senior commanders. It had little military value for there were but ten men and the sergeant, but it kept Portega’s men on their toes and aware there was a defence functioning in the pass. The picket platoon had been forced to retreat from their original encampment by a troop of Portega’s men but they were travelling along the opposite side of the pass following the head of the column where most of the senior officers were gathered. Portega was nothing if not confident of victory. On Aiofe’s side of the pass, the villagers dressed in the trooper’s uniforms made themselves visible and shouted encouragement to Portega’s troops below. For further effect, they fired desultory, occasional arrows at the opposite platoon making sure not to reach any of their own men. Aiofe had fired a message arrow with uncanny precision from her powerful long-bow to drive a message into a tree right beside the sergeant. When the sergeant read the message he gave them a wave and did as Aiofe suggested by moving in step with Portega’s column along the opposite side of the pass. On the Aiofe’s side, the tension mounted as Portega and his army approached then crossed the bridge. Aiofe counted Portega and two thousand soldiers across the bridge before giving the signal to the dam. In moments the raging torrent was released and a catastrophic wall of water roared over the lip of the waterfall. To add greater destruction it was charged with the biggest boulders men could move and the holocaust of destruction plunged onto the bridge.

In moments, the bridge was gone along with about a hundred troops immediately upon it and adjacent to it. Aiofe’s plan had worked to perfection and the picket soldier approached to congratulate her. Meanwhile the survivors above the bridge now found themselves the target for a torrent of stones raining down upon them while from both sides now, arrows also streaked down where the pass had narrowed to its narrowest point. The troops below were within easy range and trapped like fish in barrel. Once again Aiofe’s tactics had proved the most successful and already, Drustan and Mabina were galloping high above the pass to inform the fort. When they arrived on the opposite side of the pass to the fort, it was but a moment to shoot a message to Pedoro who had now taken command of its defence while Pilus prepared for the main battle. Pedoro recognised the pair and decided to send a recce party to check on the situation. An hour later they returned with reports of the catastrophe facing Portega. Meanwhile Mabina was already racing down the reverse slopes of the escarpment to reach Pilus’s army with the news while Drustan decided to place himself at an impregnable vantage point to delay the invaders with his bow. It did not quite have the range of Aiofe’s bow but it was still a formidable weapon.

Mabina arrived breathless and sweating then soon another messenger arrived from Pedoro at the fort to confirm her news and update it. Pilus was jubilant and immediately set his army to meet Portega’s diminished forces if they tried to make the pass.
Having already suffered a fatal flood, a rain of stones, followed by a final barrage of arrows, Portega’s men were in little shape to offer up a serious fight.

As Pilus rode out to meet this force he turned to the perspiring Mabina.

“You don’t have to come my girl. You’ve more than served your part.”

Mabina shrugged and pulled a frown.

“My crazy brother is up there somewhere. He’s got it into his wild head that he’s somehow going to stop the whole of Portega’s army. He’s got the blood-lust and there’s no knowing what the mad fool will do.”

“Pity for the boy.” Pilus mused. “He’ll probably get himself killed; if not today then sometime soon.”

Mabina started to tear up as she remonstrated with Pilus.

“My Liege, that’s my only brother you’re talking about. All the others are probably dead or possibly slaves in some Viking hovel. If I see him, I’ll try to stop him. He’s just lost it.”

“Well for now young lady might I suggest that you take a back seat. I know of your previous deeds and courage but this is a full blooded battle and the fighting will involve men in armour. Best you join the archers and serve as our artillery.”

“Suite’s me,” Mabina conceded, “but if I see that crazy brother he’s going to get a piece of my mind.”

“Well said young lady, now, might I beseech you to Join the archers, the battle looms. Are those not the first ranks of Portega’s forces emerging from the pass?”

Mabina studied the dust cloud and concluded Pilus was probably right. She was but a maid with a maid’s strength. This was a full blown battle, not a skirmish on a beach. Once again she would best serve amongst the archers with her trusty bow. Her sword was sharp but light and of little use in the heavy slash and thrust between armoured men, nor was her arm strong enough to drive it. Reluctantly she pulled out of Pilus’s column and joined the archers on the flank. It was Pilus’s left flank and covered the same side of the pass where Drustan lay hiding in wait.

Despite the mauling it received in the pass, Portega’s army was still a formidable force. Pilus could readily see that the outcome was still not a foregone conclusion. He silently cursed his own unpreparedness and the delay of his ally from the north. Fortunately he had word of Appotel’s progress from the south and that gave him heart. The rear half of Portega’s forces would not have time to repair the bridge for Appotel’s army would be upon them later that day. They would be more concerned with preparing for battle to the south, than repairing the bridge. Despite this reassurance Pilus sat on his horse debating the best tactic. He decided that it was best to drive forward immediately and keep the rear of Portega’s forces bottled up in the pass. He signalled his whole army to advance at walking speed to enable his archers and foot-soldiers to keep up with his cavalry. The problem was that the cavalry were only wholly effective on the open plain outside the pass and if Portega decided to fight at the mouth of the pass then Pilus lost yet another important advantage. His cavalry could not encircle Portega’s troops in the marshy ground at the entrance to the pass and Pilus had no troops with archers to shoot down from that part of the pass. The villagers had only been armed with stones and rocks whilst Only Aiofe remained with a bow of any consequence to shoot down amongst Portega’s men. Her range and lethal accuracy unsettled Portega’s men but the rate of attrition was negligible. Portega decided to despatch a small troop to remove the threat. It slipped away un-noticed amongst the general clamour of the preparations for battle.

The troop climbed up a difficult hidden path un-noticed by Aiofe and eventually emerged at the crest of the ridge behind Aiofe’s perch. With a sudden attack they had captured her and set off down an easier more open path to present their prize to Portega. They were mildly surprised to learn their enemy was a girl and much salacious interest ensued. As Aiofe was tied securely the soldiers debated having some action before presenting their captive to the king. The officer was hard put to maintain order but he had to. Portega’s intelligence had already discerned that Pilus was receiving help from his allies and the officer had correctly concluded that a girl with a bow and a foreign accent must have useful information to impart

His only problem in maintaining order was that the smallest soldier in the troop, although having no power of command, was Portega’s grandson of just sixteen years. He was a spoilt, indulgent individual who saw an opportunity to explore a real woman whilst she was helpless and vulnerable. The boy was determined to try and explore the beautiful woman that was so close to his grasp and he kept staring at her covetously. Aiofe’s skin crawled with detestation as the boy’s eyes kept scanning her near naked body. Fortunately, the officer had the power to force his will and authority derived from Portega’s brutal regime of command. Even the grandson went in fear of the old king. Portega had no son and the boy was his only grandson by his daughter and heir to Portega’s throne. Sallic law did not run in Portega’s regime. The law was Portega’s whim!

As the troop descended confidently they came under Drustan’s line of fire. From his hidden cleft in the rocks he immediately recognised the captive as his sister Aiofe and his anger grew as he noted her semi-naked state.

‘There had been no need to shame the girl,’ he concluded as he nocked the first arrow into his bow.

Naturally he aimed at the command structure and the officer in command up front was the first to fall victim to his arrows.
Another soldier swiftly followed before the troop realised they were under attack and the sergeant at the rear brought order amongst the panic. With practiced experience, Drustan had already changed his position before the troop had regained its composure and another two soldiers fell to his arrows. Out of a platoon of twenty men, four were already dead or wounded. Drustan was not as accurate as his sister Aiofe. He was however, certainly more battle wise and he was already moving again as the soldiers cursed and searched for their hidden attacker.

“How many are there?” The sergeant screamed as he desperately strove to organise his remaining men.

“Don’t know,” came a fearful reply from the now hidden men as they cowered behind whatever cover they could find.

“I think it’s at least two but I can’t see them.” One of the more forward soldiers called back from where he had ducked behind a small tree.

Behind him the next two soldiers and Portega’s grandson still held Aiofe captive. Drustan could not see the quartet and cursed as he carefully took aim from between the bushes. It was going to be a tricky shot for the foliage was rippling gently in the breeze and whilst this helped him keep cover as he moved, it also interfered with his bow-shot. The shot was too risky, Drustan had to get nearer for a more certain shot. He could not afford any misses as he patiently resumed his tactic of attrition. To this end he had once again removed all his clothes save the loin-cloth, the cloth breast cover, his sword’s shoulder scabbard and the dagger sheath attached to his leg. This gave him much more freedom to slither and crawl on his belly between bow-shots. He cursed as he slithered on his belly and felt the stones and thorns scratching his sensitive breasts but he was forced to persevere.

‘Who would be a bloody maid when fighting a battle?’ He cursed.

Quickly he found himself a better location but he knew that his shot would certainly narrow down his position to the troops. The rest of the troop would have more certainty of his whereabouts. It was a calculated risk.

Could he somehow get to Aiofe and the three guardians before the rest of the troop fell upon him. In their panic they had allowed themselves to become widely scattered. There was a chance. There were fifteen troopers left and three of those were soon going to be in his sights. It all hung on his maintaining his speed of attrition and preventing the whole troop from becoming fully organised amidst the scattering of bushes and rocks. He was pleased to note that the smaller soldier had possession of Aiofe’s bow. However the little soldier was well armoured and less vulnerable to Drustan’s arrows. Drustan’s short bow had less penetrating power than Aiofe’s long bow and hitting the smaller soldier in a fatal spot was going to be difficult. Drustan was slightly puzzled. The little soldier’s breast plate was a better quality; thicker and more ornate than an ordinary soldier’s. He doubted if his arrow could find that fatal mark in chest or stomach.

For want of certainty Drustan placed his next arrow into one of the other guardian’s chests then burst from his cover as he nocked another arrow into his bow. He was grateful for the short bow. A long bow like Aiofe’s would have been seriously hampered by the thickets and bushes as he burst from cover.

Drustan estimated he had one final shot before he would have to resort to his sword, then it was all or nothing. His main hope was to kill the smaller soldier, cut Aiofe free then hopefully arrange a swift withdrawal back into the thick foliage before the others reached them.

He erupted from the bushes as silently as he could but the swishing branches betrayed his approach. By the time he was able to take aim, both the little soldier and the remaining guardian were turned to face him. He knew he would have to face one of them with his sword and this with the remainder of the troop now clamouring to reach the fight. He fired the bow wildly but it only pierced the guardian’s leg. With a curse Drustan realised he still had to face two swordsmen and if they stayed together he would be unable to effect Aiofe’s release before the rest of the troop fell upon him. With every instant he knew his chances were reducing. He slipped his short bow over his shoulder and drew his sword from its shoulder scabbard that he favoured over a belt scabbard.

Now fate took a hand.

The little soldier proved to be an inexperienced coward. Instead of standing by his comrade and meeting Drustan face to face, the smaller soldier stepped back. Drustan’s eyes lit up at the chance and he rushed forward at an angle thus forcing the man to keep turning to face him and thereby exploiting the remaining soldier’s leg wound. He could not turn fast enough for his injured leg betrayed him and Drustan quickly found himself at the man’s unguarded back. A single deadly stab left the man breathing his last as Drustan now turned with a glint of victory in his wild eye to despatch the little soldier.

He cursed to see the soldier holding a knife to Aiofe’s throat for the little soldier obviously knew the value of their unusual prisoner.

“Stop now, or I’ll slit the bitch’s throat.”

The boyish voice betrayed the soldier’s youth and Drustan’s anger grew. He now realised that the youth in the expensive decorated armour was the son of some important noble. His presence at the battle demonstrated that Portega had expected an easy victory if even the younger sons had been invited to join the main battle line. Drustan decided that whoever the boy was, his father, if still alive would learn just how expensive that arrogant expectation was going to be.

Drustan sheathed his sword and drew his bow again.

The boy realised Drustan’s ploy and neatly slid behind Aiofe whilst still holding the knife to her throat. Unfortunately, (for the boy that is;) whilst the boy’s armoured torso was well shielded and invisible behind Aiofe’s bound body, his legs were plainly visible. Aiofe was slightly shorter than the boy but her inside leg was longer. The boy’s legs and groin were clearly visible. Drustan smiled as he nocked one of his few remaining arrows into his bow. He was now but fifteen feet from his sister so he silently motioned to her to spread her shapely legs. As he nodded pointedly towards his sister’s crotch, Aiofe got the message. With one graceful move she not only spread her legs but also lifted one leg above her head to give her brother an even clearer shot.

This move alerted the boy to the danger and he quickly twisted sideways to try and protect his groin and lower belly. His effort partially worked as Drustan’s arrow lodged deep into his thigh. The boy let out a scream as Aiofe twisted violently from his grip to avert any last desperate revenge. Her efforts only just succeeded for the boy’s knife left a nasty cut across Aiofe’s neck but fortunately failed to slice into her carotid artery.

“To me sister!” Drustan bellowed as he grabbed his dagger from its leg sheath and prepared to cut his sister’s bonds.

Aiofe needed no further urging and she staggered forward as Drustan grabbed her wrists to cut them free. In his desperate haste he nicked her wrist with the dagger’s razor sharp point and Aiofe cursed as she finally freed her hands. Then as she grabbed her bow that the boy soldier had dropped she turned to face the advancing remains of the platoon.

She had expected to find Drustan standing beside her but she turned to find him just about to plunge his sword into the boy’s unprotected neck. The intent was obvious.

“Drustan!! Nooo-!!” She screamed and cursed. “He’s but a bloody child!”

“He’s nearly as big as me and he tried to bloody kill you!” Drustan cursed as he stayed his sword momentarily.

Aiofe’s mind raced for a better reason to save the boy’s life. Then she had it. She remembered the officer’s deference to the boy when there had been mention of the boy’s circumstances. The boy was Portega’s only grandson!! She bellowed this information to Drustan.

“He’s more use to us alive, - as a hostage, - he’s Portega’s brat!! He’s our prisoner now. I won’t allow you to kill a valuable prisoner! He can’t run away with that arrow in his thigh! Stand by me here. We can face these soldiers off. They did not bring bows with them!”

In the narrow rocky defile where they now found themselves, Aiofe was right. The attacking platoon could not exploit their superiority of numbers without working their way around the rocks and that would give Aiofe and Drustan time to retreat back up the escarpment to safety. The only complication was that Aiofe wanted to take their priceless prisoner with them. Ever the strategist she had seen a brilliant opportunity to gain success. She knew her problem though; persuading her brother to help the wounded boy up the trail.

‘Once an enemy; always an enemy,’ seemed to be her brother’s philosophy and that mind set extended to the ‘no prisoners’ philosophy that led to the brutal treatment of captives. Drustan seemed to have no concept of ‘an honourable enemy’. Every combat had become ‘to the death’ in his dehumanised, battle-scarred mind. Aiofe shuddered as she wondered what had happened to the beautiful young brother she once had and now missed.

She stepped back towards where Drustan was holding the boy in a cruel vice-like grip and decided to approach him by ignoring the boy’s terrified face and instead, dispassionately discuss their escape. The two of them watched the remains of the troop, (that was still a formidable force,) gathering to discuss tactics. Worse still a small company of archers was approaching from below. Somebody from the main force had realised the earlier troop was hopelessly out fought without archers and despatched reinforcements. Aiofe could see the danger and so could Drustan.

“Our best bet is to retreat further up this narrow defile. The higher we go the less chance they have to outflank us up the steep sides of the escarpment. This gorge contains the only path out of here up to the heights.”

“Lead on sister. What d’you want me to do with this piece of shit?”

“We can use him. He’s valuable.”

Drustan snorted contemptuously.

“He can’t walk or rather he’ll bleed to death if he tries to walk and that arrow-head moves.”

“You could carry him,” replied Aiofe having decided that their need to get moving was paramount.

Her brother’s disgust was obvious but he seemed to be thinking about the idea. Aiofe decided to press her argument while her brother seemed undecided.

“He’s too bloody big and heavy! He’s bigger than me!”

“Alright brother, tie his hands and drag him along behind you. They’re not likely to shoot at you if Portega’s grandson is between you and them. His body is better than armour. He’ll be the best shield you’ll ever carry.”

Drustan’s frown slowly turned to a smile as he contemplated the boy’s armoured torso. It would be an excellent shield for his back as they scrambled up the gorge. Aiofe would have to lead while Drustan tried to cover her back and the captive grandson protected his. He smiled at his sister as he realised her ploy.

“You’re a clever bugger sis!” He grinned as he tied the boy close behind him before turning to head up the path. “You lead sister. I’ll protect your back from arrows and he’ll protect mine.”

“You’d find it easier if you removed his armour and then they wouldn’t dare risk a bow shot.”

“Na-ah. It’s a tidy piece of craftsmanship. Not seen anything like it amongst our troops. It’ll make a tidy memento.”

“Okay brother. It’s your burden.” Replied Aiofe as she conceded his argument whilst savouring her more important victory of persuading her brother to forego the butchery and take the youth hostage.

‘At least Drustan was still amenable to persuasion and logical argument,’ she concluded, ‘all was not lost with him’.

The ascent proved easy. Both sister and brother were well used to mountain trails and heights were never a problem. They were born and bred to the peaks of Yr Wyddfa.

At the top of the gorge they met with a small contingent of Pilus’s forces who were out on a scouting mission to determine the extent of Portega’s force. They had been looking down into the pass and had realised that the small enemy troop were stalking something but they could not see what. When they learned it was Aiofe, Drustan and their precious hostage they concluded the despatch of the captive youth to King Pilus’s ranks was the most pressing need. They lent the trio some horses and an escort whilst deciding to hold the gorge and prevent further pursuit. Aiofe and Drustan were soon presenting their prize.

King Pilus could not believe his luck. He had the heir to Portega’s kingdom a prisoner. Here indeed was a precious bargaining chip. He looked down at the terrified youth who was now having his arrow wound treated by Mabina while Drustan looked on impassively. As Mabina gently removed the arrow, the boy screamed and Drustan swore at him.

“It’s only a bloody arrow you little baby. Take it like a man. Why my own sisters are braver than you!”

King Pilus smiled at Aiofe as they discussed how to take the battle forward.

“I think your brother’s right. Any normal kid would die rather than scream like that.”

“My brother's right your majesty. The boy is a spoilt brat.” Aiofe replied.

“Yes, I had heard. I suppose this was his first introduction to the real facts of war. He’s probably been brought up with women until now. Soft and delicate.”

Drustan had stepped over to King Pilus and overheard the last remark.

“Not all women are soft and delicate sir. My sisters, -“

“Yes indeed, Master Scar-arse. I well know of both your sisters’ courage. Indeed it matches yours.”

Aiofe smiled as Drustan nodded curtly. Satisfied that family honour had been acknowledged and by a king at that. He turned to go and talk softly with Mabina. King Pilus’s eyes followed the boy then he turned again to Aiofe.

“Dear maid, I worry for your brother. He has not grown as other boys grow for he is tall and willowy, almost like a maid. I fear for him because he’s old before his years and damaged for it.”

“Hardly surprising my liege. He carries yet more scars after the fight at the village path, albeit just cuts and scratches. Yet they will leave their marks. However I have hope.”

“Go on girl. It will be good to hear some good news.”

“He listens to reason sir. Compassion did not turn him from executing the boy there and then but when I spoke of hostage and bargaining he saw reason. He saw a bargain, he saw a trade.”

“A mind like an abacus I’ll warrant. He’d make me an excellent chamberlain.”

“Better your captain general sir. He has a good head for battle once he loses the impetuousness of youth.”

“Where you not betrothed to Magab my dear, I might even consider you for that roll. Maid or not, you have a wonderful head for strategy. The letters and reports I have received are but half the truth.”

“But I am a maid sir, what soldiers would follow a maid?”

Pilus wagged his head then looked up expectantly as Lord Pedoro appeared at the tent.

“Ah. Always a good sign when you return. How was it at the fort?”

“It’s secure now sir. My son Sular commands the garrison.”

“And you didn’t want to miss the fight.” King Pilus smiled knowingly. He knew his Lord Marshall of the borders would never have forsaken an opportunity to be at his king’s side and in the thick of it.

Lord Pedoro smiled a little guiltily for his sons had clamoured to join in the main battle whilst trying to persuade their father to just command the garrison at the fort.

“My sword arm is still fit sir.” Pedoro assured the king.

“Yes my lord Marshall, nobody doubts it. However we may yet avoid battle. We have Portega’s only grandson hostage.”

Aiofe could not be certain if she saw relief or disappointment in the old warrior’s eyes. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and decided it was relief. He had nearly lost one son already. King Pilus turned to Aiofe and asked for counsel.

“Should we try and bargain with this tyrant?”

“It’s always best to try my lord. There are plenty of sons and husbands and fathers who would be better alive than dead.”

Pilus turned to Lord Pedoro.

“Would you consider going under a flag of truce.”

“Yes sir. Provided the maid comes with me. She’s already demonstrated her negotiating skills. She’s got a fine head on those shoulders and a very pretty one as well. I know how easily such a woman can turn a man; even a brute like Portega.”

Aiofe couldn’t help feeling like a sunny day as she savoured the compliment. King Pilus turned to her.

“Well Aiofe? Ignore his silver smooth tongue and his compliments. Are you agreeable?”

“Will this Portega tyrant respect a flag of truce?” She asked.

“I don’t think he has much option.” Pedoro replied as he turned to look out of the tent. “With every hour we are gaining the advantage. Look there, beyond the river. Yet another troop of our reinforcements arrive. If we don’t want to have to fight we had best go now under a flag of truce before our forces are too close to separate and stop.”

King Pilus summoned horses and an escort troop as Aiofe made up a white flag and within minutes the truce party sallied out of the ranks.

Soon Aiofe and Pedoro found themselves in no-man’s-land as the forward officers recognised the parley flag and both side halted their slow advance. Nobody was keen to see bloodshed and soon a party emerged from Portega’s ranks. A pathway opened and Pedoro advanced cautiously. Portega’s officers stopped and demanded a hostage before allowing Pilus’s party to advance any further.

“We have nobody to offer.” Pedoro replied. “We are only two.”

“Can you go and get someone?”

“We already have a legitimate hostage!” Aiofe interrupted.

“Who?”

“Portega’s grandson.”

Aiofe watched with some satisfaction as the other party’s demeanour immediately changed.

“Are you the maid who escaped?”

Aiofe confirmed this and Portega’s negotiator, a Captain Dronus, asked further.

“Some of our troops saw your companion put a sword to his neck. Are you sure he’s alive?

We thought he was dead.”

“No. He is alive, he has an arrow in his thigh but he’ll live.” Aiofe assured them.

“Can you bring him here?”

Aiofe cursed. She was not used to having her word doubted. She snapped back.

“If the boy comes, he comes bound like slave. His captor trusts no one.”

“And his captor is?”

“My brother, Drustan; Drustan Scar-arse.”

Portega’s emissaries fell momentarily silent then started arguing amongst themselves as a messenger was despatched to their king. Aiofe frowned and turned to Pedoro.

“What’s got into them now?”

“They were speaking in their own tongue, not Latin. I have some knowledge of it and it seems they don’t believe such a person as Drustan Scar-arse exists. They believe him to be some sort of myth.”

“They’ll soon learn he's no myth if they meet us in battle.” Aiofe remarked softly.

“As we all have,” Pedoro grinned, “I worry for that boy.”

“Not half as much as I do Lord Pedoro, not half as much as I!”

“Indeed young lady. Shall we produce our prisoner?”

“If we do, he must be well guarded. They might organise a snatch squad.”

“Who better to guard him than your warrior brother? The slightest threat and he won’t hesitate.”

“Let’s not give him the opportunity to indulge his blood lust. I’m working hard to cure him of that awful flaw.”

“Then bring Portega’s grandson with a powerful escort and just let the crazy one accompany them. Portega’s men will then learn he’s no myth.”

Aiofe duly agreed and the arrangement was made. One of Portega’s senior captains crossed over alone and confirmed that Portega’s precious grandson was indeed wounded but alive. It was immediately agreed that there was to be no more hostage negotiations. Drustan was then introduced to Captain Dronus but refused point blank to bare his arse. For the boy the joke had travelled it’s distance and worn very thin on its passage into lore. Besides, Drustan now knew that his arse more resembled a maid’s than a man’s. He had no intentions of further revealing his awful feminine secret. Aiofe recognised Drustan’s annoyance but wondered to herself, how far her brother’s fame had spread. Certainly the removal of old Blueface from the northern seas had been cause for celebration throughout Northern Europe and the story of Drustan’s arse travelled well at many a great dining hall or feast.

Aiofe smiled inwardly as she contemplated her brother’s burgeoning fame, ‘or would that become infamy?’ she wondered if nobody could cure his blood-lust. ‘Nip it in the bud as it were,’ she thought, ‘before he grew much older.’

Captain Dronus showed a lot of concern for the prince and he asked the captive grandson many questions before he returned with the boy’s answers to his tyrant grandfather.

“And is that boy known as Drustan, - Drustan Scar-arse” Dronus asked the prince.

The youth replied.

“Yes captain. That girl is his older sister. She called him Drustan all the time, as does everybody in their camp. He is her brother but she saved my life, he was about to slit my throat.”

Captain Dronus met the fifteen-year-old Drustan’s eyes and recognised the cold, dispassionate gaze that stared straight back without fear or apparent anger. The captain had seen the empty, detached look in many youngsters’ eyes; brought to battle too soon or worse the victim of some awful massacre in their early lives. What he found hard to reconcile was that the boy more resembled a maid than a man. To see such dispassion in maid's eyes was truly disconcerting. Before he left the parley he had one last final word with Aiofe.

“I ask about your brother; Drustan Scar-arse? He seems young to have already forged himself such a reputation. Has he seen much killing?”

“Yes,” replied Aiofe softly, “I’m afraid he has not only seen but also engaged in far too much killing’ especially for a boy only just about to enter the ranks of men. The summer solstice has passed and he is entitled to rite of passage. For most boys’ it’s just an ordeal of some modest trial or tribulation, but for my younger brother it was the destruction of his soul. I’m ashamed to admit of my own blood brother but his reputation is hard-earned and ill gotten. He has killed many, including Blue-face, the dreaded Viking pirate chief. He long ago fulfilled any measure to pass any rite of passage. Pray you never meet him on the field. He may be young and slender, even maidenly, but he is tall and he gives no quarter, I fear for him when he enters the realms of the gods. They may not adjudge him a hero for even after a courageous fight he shows no mercy to his foes it’s live or die by his metre. He just slaughters all those he’s defeated. I’m ashamed of my brother, I never ever thought I would say that of my own brother but I am.”

“But you made him show compassion earlier today when you stayed his hand from murdering a virtual child.”

“Yes, and do you know how I did it?”

Captain Dronus knew he was going to get enlightenment.

“Go on maid, tell me.”

“Bartering, - trade, money; that’s right, I had to sell the boy’s hide, or more accurately demonstrate to my brother that the boy was much more valuable to us alive. The moment he realised this he bowed to my greater wisdom and released the boy. The poor little sod was grey with fear and pain from the arrow in his thigh!”

“This concurs with what the boy told me. Thank you for telling me the exact truth. At least this proves we are not at war with butchers. Will you promise to look after him?”

“You seem overly concerned for the boy.” Aiofe sighed. “I’ll try. I’ll be at King Pilus’s side during any battle, offering advice and dare I say it, shooting this bow.”

The Captain studied Aiofe’s rare beauty and wondered aloud.

“Are you a Christian? You seem extraordinarily compassionate.”

“No,” Aiofe replied simply, “but I am a woman and I abhor killing. The burden of war is an abomination to me and in that I differ greatly from my younger brother.”

“Well I thank you for offering to protect the boy. I must return to my king Portega now to determine terms if there are to be any.”

“So what can you now do in return to demonstrate that we are not at war with a thief, your king, - Portega the tyrant, who would yet try to steal another kingdom. Has he not enough?”

“Let’s not descend yet to name calling. Let’s first try and find a way forward without recourse to more bloodshed. I will go now and discuss terms with my king.”

Aiofe felt a kinship for the grizzled old captain. He did not seem to resemble the descriptions of soldiers belonging to Portega’s army. She watched as Portega’s front ranks parted respectfully to let him pass then she met Pedoro’s gaze as he approached with her brother and the young grandson accompanying him.

“What d’you think of him? Portega’s captain general that is.” She asked the experienced old Border Marshall.

“He seemed to be a reasonable man trying somehow to support an unreasonable cause.”

“Well put my lord, let us all hope the old captain can dissuade his lord and master to forego more conflict.”

Pedoro sighed somewhat wistfully and wagged his grey haired head.

“Me-thinks he’ll fail sweet lady. That tyrant is a wilful, greedy and vainglorious thug. He even treats his own people as vermin. There’ll be no stopping him, I’m afraid. I know him of old.
He’ll not countenance having come all this way just to back off and meekly return home. Anyway, even if, by the remotest chance he did, he would be back in less than a couple of summers looking to grab whatever he can. He’s greedy, and cruel and remorseless. He has to be stopped and now’s as good a time and place as any, while we have a clear advantage thanks to your excellent stratagem at the bridge. Come my friends let us return to King Pilus, I feel there will be no more negotiations. Just gird you loins and prepare for a sudden advance by Portega’s army. It will be a suicidal assault for I have already set my lieutenants to defence and most have good positions on firm ground. Portega will smash his remaining forces on a well founded rock but many will die, un-necessarily, on both sides.”

“May be; may-be not!” Growled Drustan who had been listening in silence to Aiofe and Pedoro’s discussions.

Aiofe turned towards her brother only to see his back and the rump of his horse trotting through their own ranks to find a position on the very front, centre rank.

“What’s the bloody fool up to now?” Pedoro cursed.

“I don’t know. He seems determined to kill himself. Should I try and drag him back?”

“No you job is done here, take Portega’s grandson back to our lines, advise King Pilus of what I think is going to happen, then obey King Pilus, - our mutual commander.”

Aiofe could think of nothing better to do and she reluctantly parted company with the old border Marshall who had grown to become something of a father to her. She left him full of foreboding as he advanced to join her crazy young brother at the head of Pilus’s army.

Even as Aiofe started for the rear, a huge roar set up from Portega’s ranks as the tyrant appeared in full battle dress to strut forward proudly and issue a challenge.

“Let that fleabite Pilus face me in single combat! We can sort this without further bloodshed.”

Portega was obviously seeking one last ploy to recover his grandson without recurse to battle.

Aiofe and her charge, Portega’s grandson, were too far back to hear the blustering tyrant’s words but both Pedoro and Drustan clearly heard the challenge. Fortunately Pedoro was able to restrain the boy momentarily as he explained.

“Wait lad. He knows full well he can easily defeat Pilus. Our king is an excellent man but this butcher is a bully with a powerful sword arm. Too much rests on this pantomime.”

“But he’s an old man!” Drustan scoffed; “look at his grey hair!”

“He’s not that old.” Pedoro cautioned. “And he’s still a powerful man.”

“Then let me face him!”

Pedoro had been half expecting the boy to say something stupid but he was still angered by the boy’s ridiculous bravado. He snapped impatiently at Drustan.

“Don’t be stupid boy! That’s a master swordsman out there in full armour bestride a great horse. What weapons would you choose against him?”

“These. The ones that always served me.”

“You cannot use the bow. The rules of combat will not allow it. It’s hand weapons only and your sword though undoubtedly a sharp Toledo blade is still but a toy compared to Portega’s mighty edge; so put the stupid notion out of your head!”

“What d’you mean a toy! It’s one of your own Toledo blades. It may be smaller and lighter than his but it’s sharper, stronger and I’ll warrant faster in my hands. Besides, look at the ground the fool stands on; it’s wet and marshy. Once the brute is unhorsed he’ll have no mobility in all that chainmail and plate. My weapon is speed and agility.”

Pedoro began to see Drustan in a new light. ‘The boy’s not all bravado and bluff. The ground was certainly boggy at that particular point. This lad was not as mad and reckless as everybody thought.’

Pedoro was the first ever soldier to get a glimpse of Drustan’s astuteness when sizing up a fight and therefore the first to recognise the boy’s remarkable abilities. He still worried about the possible outcome.

“I still can’t allow it lad, the fate of a whole kingdom, nay two kingdoms rests on the outcome of such a combat. Appotel’s in this battle as well. It’s his forces that are blocking Portega’s arse end from bypassing the gorge and coming via the southern route. I just can’t allow it lad. Too much rests on such a challenge.”

Pedoro heard Drustan curse and appear to slump dejectedly in the saddle. It was a relieved Border Marshall who could now direct his attentions to organising his line. He turned to meet his lieutenants and was then dismayed when he heard a roar from his own front ranks. Without even looking he knew what had happened.

“Damn that stupid reckless little bastard!” He cursed loudly. “Somebody stop him!”

Several officers dashed out but it was too late. With little armour and a lighter horse than most, Drustan was soon across no-man’s-land and answering the tyrant’s challenge.

King Portega turned and sneered at the unrecognised rider then challenged the rider’s possession of a bow.

“This is combat stranger, hand to hand and blow for blow. We do not use the commoner’s weapons, the huntsman’s tools. We face each other man to man!”

Drustan had pulled level with the tyrant and though his life was brief he knew enough to trust no man. The tyrant stared at him and demanded his business.

“Are you seriously trying to challenge me?” God’s truth, you’re but a bloody maid, and where’s you armour?” Drustan looked him in the eye despite his horse being almost a man’s forearm smaller at the shoulder.

“Yes. I’m challenging you to a straight fight, though I have no kingdom to lose. I’ll fight you just for the satisfaction of killing you. I will set aside my bow, if you set aside your price, namely title to the other’s kingdom.”

Portega’s eyes narrowed partly with contempt and partly with curiosity. Then he shrugged dismissively.

“Well it will be an extra spectacle for the troops to watch while that coward Pilus plucks up the courage to face me. I hesitate to slaughter a maid but you’re a cheeky bitch and everybody has witnessed your challenge. You will be the starter. Very well then; to the death! Take your place and prepare to die.”

“For that insult you will die,” Drustan screamed. “No man calls me a maid!”

Portega laughed and brandished his sword at Drustans chest.

“If you are not a maid then what the hell are those?”

“You’d best watch my sword not my tits,” Drustan cursed as he turned and separated the agreed distance for combat rules.

As agreed, he hung his bow upon a small tree, then he turned drew his sword over his shoulder from the reverse scabbard and raised it in formal salute. King Portega squinted curiously for he had half expected the girl to simply carry on back into Pilus’s ranks.

“My God! You’re both a brave and cheeky bitch to challenge a king. D’you know I’ve never lost a combat.”

“Neither have I,” Drustan replied.

“So I will know your name girl. Who are you so young and so suicidal?”

The youth bellowed his name for effect so that all in earshot would clearly hear.

“I am no maid! I am Drustan of the Gangani; Drustan ap Caderyn, ap Erin!!! Before you die you will learn my other name!”

King Portega tried to recall where he had heard the name but before he had time to consider, the ‘girl’ let out a stream of invective, swung ‘her’ tough little horse around and flung the animal forward. It was such a fluid, swift movement followed by the horse’s immediate acceleration that it startled Portega. He suddenly realised he was going to be in a fight. The ‘girl’ and horse seemed to move as one and she was not guiding the horse with the reins. The ‘girl’ had both hands free and she was approaching like the devil. For a crucial moment, Portega hesitated as he tried to determine on which side the ‘girl’ intended to attack. He still would not believe that the slender shapely rider was a boy. There was a sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other; furthermore the girl ‘or was it really a boy?’ was swapping them from hand to hand thus giving no indication of her intentions as she obviously controlled ‘her’ mount with ‘her’ knees. Portega hesitated uncertainly as he debated what to do. Then he realised almost too late that if he didn’t force his attacker’s hand by moving himself, the approaching whirlwind would be upon him! He urged his war-horse forward only to hear the sucking of mud at his mount’s hooves. He had stood so long in the one spot posing magnificently in his spectacular armour that his horse’s hooves had almost got stuck. The animal struggled briefly to free its hooves from the cloying clay and this again gave the approaching dervish another couple of second’s advantage. By the time Portega was turning to meet the ‘girl’s’ charge, his hands were still preoccupied with steadying his horse when Drustan was upon him. Even as Portega raised his longer, mightier sword to smash his assailant’s unprotected neck and head, the boy pulled up short and swung his own mount around as he passed in front of Portega’s huge animal.

Drustan had no intention of meeting the tyrant blow for blow on horse-back. His plan was to undo the horse’s harness by slicing through the girth and martingales whilst his sword was still sharp. Once he finally came to blows, his sword would soon lose its razor edge. Better to unseat the tyrant then face him in the marshy ground where his heavy armour would seriously encumber him.
Drustan made his first cut at the harness even before Portega could react. The tyrant cursed as his saddle slipped backwards as the martingales were cut. His horse had reared slightly as Drustan passed right under its nose and this had caused the saddle to slip back treacherously. Portega had not been able to strike over his own rearing mount’s head as the saddle had lurched backwards. He cursed as he felt his seat become unstable. It was definitely first blood to the ‘bitch’ and yet no blood had been spilt.

As Drustan flashed by at an angle, Portega tried another, second futile slash with his great sword but the boy easily parried it with his small round shield that he had nimbly swapped for his dagger at the last instant. Portega cursed as his sword crashed down right on target only to glance off the boy’s small circular shield. His blade just grazed the boy’s shoulder but Drustan was already slipping by too quickly on the diagonal. In an instant, Drustan was passed and clear. He pulled his smaller horse around swiftly and Portega realised the boy was lining up to charge again even before he had recovered his balance. What was worse was that the boy was now attacking his rear. Portega had to turn his bigger horse around half circle even before he could face the attack. Even as his superb combat skills enabled him to do this, he realised he still had no idea which side the ‘girl’ was going to pass. In having no obvious training in the conventional mores of horse-born combat, the boy brought his own alarming, ambidextrous originality to the fray.

Portega could not even decide in which hand he should hold his sword. Furthermore the damnable mud made it utterly impossible for his mount to respond with the same alacrity as the ‘girl’s’ horse. It was only as this fact became apparent that Portega recognised the smaller horse as one of a smallish breed that hailed from the marshes of the Rhone Delta; an animal born and bred to marshy ground. The tyrant now realised he was in a real fight and his magnificent well tooled armour only added weight to his steed’s burden. He had intended to ride forward to firmer ground and meet King Pilus in open combat but the little witch had caught him unready. ‘She’ was now approaching his own horse again; dead centre, head on, in a welter of splattering mud.

“Damn you girl! Fight honourably!”

Portega chose to hold his sword in his favoured right hand because his armoured right gauntlet was designed to hold the sword, but Drustan swerved to his own right at the last possible moment and almost disappeared from view under the huge, armoured head of Portega’s larger, higher horse. Portega felt the smaller horse actually cannon off his own powerful mount but not before Drustan had sliced hard at Portega’s girth strap with his sword in his left hand. Portega cursed and lunged wildly across his own body to get a chance at impaling the boy on the end of his huge sword. This time there was a ringing clash of steel as sword met sword and Drustan’s sword partially deflected the savage strike. Drustan felt the immense weight of Portega’s sword almost break his own sword from the grasp of his weaker, left hand. He felt yet another cut as Portega’s sword almost found its mark. The cut was across his back and not deep but it bled profusely causing watchers to believe Drustan was mortally wounded. No muscle or tendons had been harmed though for the back was pretty much invulnerable to flat blows and shallow cuts.

For a fleeting instant Portega felt he had at last got the upper hand until he saw the ‘girl’s’ sword make a second, fleeting short slice at the rear trace strap of his harness before ‘she’ passed by and out of range. Portega felt his saddle become even more unstable. He tried to shift in his saddle to follow the ‘bitch’s’ course but even the slightest twist caused his seat to slide alarmingly. Once again he was forced to turn his mount either to face the ‘girl’s’ third charge or set off in pursuit. The horse became nervous as it felt the saddle and rider shift unusually and it neighed it’s uncertainty as Drustan stopped, turned and waited.
He wanted to see just how unsettled Portega was so he continued waiting. To Drustan’s surprise he found he was breathing quite heavily. He had not realised how much effort he had put into the attacks nor how tense he was as adrenaline coursed through his body. He watched his own left hand trembling slightly, not with fear but with the sheer tension.

The tyrant wanted to come crashing down upon the ‘girl’ with all the might ordinarily available to his armoured war horse but he was stymied. The mud hampered his heavily loaded horse and his seat was desperately unsafe. He cursed as he wondered just how much longer the remaining buckle would hold. The ‘girl’ had demonstrated an unseemly, dishonourable nature in avoiding a straight confrontation. Then there came an infuriating taunt from the witch.

“Are you afraid to attack oh mighty king? Must I always be the one so bold as to come forward?”

Portega cursed again for he knew his performance had appeared almost farcical to his own watching troops. But he had to find a plausible reply for his conceit would not allow a mere girl ‘or was it really a boy?’ to mock him. He called out now uncertain of his adversary’s gender.

“You are wounded child. I need only sit here and wait until you bleed to death.”

There was a small grain of truth to Portega’s words but Drustan smiled at the tyrant’s grasp at a single straw. Drustan would have had to wait all day without the slash on his back healing before he would have bled to death. The cut was long and spectacular but it was not deep. He could hardly feel the cut as the adrenaline deadened the pain. He called back.

“Okay then. I’ll wait. I’ve given your troops the first two acts of this play. Why don’t you entertain them with the third act and let them witness your mighty charge? Oh, and let it not be a pantomime!”
Portega fumed. He desperately wanted to urge his horse forward but to do so could easily snap his last remaining girth strap buckle. For long moments it seemed like a stand-off as Portega watched the ‘Was it a girl? He asked himself.’ still panting from his earlier exertions. He called out.

“You seem tired child. Should we not call our seconds to repair?”

Drustan snarled at the tyrant’s obvious ploy. He obviously hoped to replace his saddle or even his horse. Drustan simply could not allow that luxury. His challenge had been a calculated gamble and so far it seemed to be working. There could be no repairs. Drustan had to force the tyrant to the ground and particularly, amongst the mud and pools of the marshy ground where Portega’s splendid but heavy armour would continue to count against him. He called back.

“It was you who said ‘to the death’ so let it be!”

Portega was now becoming afraid. He desperately needed to reach the firmer ground but to reach it he would have to appear to be retreating. It was the only recourse open to him so he swallowed his pride and set of gingerly towards the shallow stream and the firmer ground closer yet to Pilus’s front line. Marshall Pedoro had chosen his ground well. His troops were dry and well founded. Drustan immediately spotted Portega’s ploy and he screamed his warning as he charged forward instantly.

“Damn you Portega! Stand and fight! Or charge as combat rules dictate.”

Portega only realised the ‘maid’ was in hot pursuit when he heard again the now to be feared tattoo of splattering mud.

Desperately he swung around to meet the boy but now he knew the boy’s tactics. The boy wanted him on foot in the deepest mud!
Portega set his guard to protect the last girth buckle of his harness and turned side on to meet Drustan’s charge with the buckle on the blind side of his horse. Drustan was pursuing at speed and Portega’s move proved wholly unexpected. Suddenly the whole length of Portega’s great horse was set across his path. Drustan tried to turn aside but momentum took him end on into the flanks of Portega’s horse and directly under Portega’s mighty sword. Both animals collided with disastrous force that proved equally disastrous for their riders. Portega snarled with victory as the boy and his mount crashed into his horse and he raised his sword arm to administer a coup-de-grace. His plan was short lived. The impact of Drustan’s horse caused the single remaining girth buckle of Portega’s war harness to finally succumb.

Even while the mighty sword came down, Portega was tumbling backwards into the mud as Drustan received yet another sword cut. This one however was more telling and Drustan felt the hot pain of the blade cut into his left arm as he failed to bring his small, circular, cavalry shield up in time to protect himself properly. He cursed in pain as Portega crashed heavily to the earth. Drustan however remained mounted and now realised his best advantage was to try and remain so whilst using the size and strength of his horse against Portega’s newly pedestrianised condition. His dagger hand worked but the deep cut made it painful to use. Instead, he drove his sword into Portega’s horse’s flank causing the huge animal to rear up then lurch forward but not before accidentally driving it’s huge rear hoof down on Portega’s plated leg. The tyrant let out a howl of pain but the leg was not broken. The shin plate had served well to save the bone but the leg was cruelly bruised and Portega was severly hampered as he tried to get to his feet. Drustan recognised that this was to be his best chance.

Stunned by his fall and hampered by his crushed leg, Portega simply sat up and presented his sword to Drustan’s horse’s chest and drove it upwards even as Drustan made to step his horse aside. The sword struck painfully into the horse’s shoulder and the horse reared in shock as it simultaneously swerved aside to escape the pain. The horse saved itself from serious injury but the swerve flung Drustan from his horse and he landed in the mud just a few feet from Portega’s deadly blade. He felt and heard the wind as the blade flashed by but inches from his neck. Fortunately Drustan’s original idea now came into play. He rose easily to his feet with sword in hand and turned to face the tyrant who had now struggled to his feet despite feeling stunned from the fall and unsteady on his injured leg. Drustan realised he had to act quickly for with every second, Portega was recovering his senses.

Drustan stood momentarily wondering how to tackle the armoured man for there seemed to be not a single place where he could slip a blade into the man’s body.

A slow accurate stab with his own smaller sword would invite that huge deadly blade with all the force the tyrant could muster and Drustan had already grown to respect that force.

His first act was to scoop up a handful of mud and fling it at the tyrant’s visor whilst simultaneously stepping to the tyrant’s left side. This did not blind Portega but it blocked his vision and he had to hesitate while he wiped the muck away from the slotted haulm. In doing this to clear the mud, he had to raise his left arm, the arm without the sword. At last Portega exposed an opening under his arm. Invisible to the king as he peered through the slots of his haulm the king did not see the deadly strike coming. Drustan thrust with desperate force for even though the armour was open there was still a heavy leather jerkin underneath. Drustan could not tell if he had pierced the tyrant’s chest.

Portega grunted and dropped his arm as he swung violently to face the attack. His armour pinched the notched edge of Drustan’s blade and for a desperate moment it was a tug-of-war as Drustan struggled to recover his trapped blade and Portega kept striking blindly at his nimble foe. Drustan cursed that his left hand was weakened by the earlier wound because he could not use his shield to deflect the sword slashes whistling around his head and shoulders as he kept side-stepping to stay behind the furious king. His efforts to recover his blade proved futile. One of the strike notches in its finely honed edge had somehow become lodged in the under-arm edge of Portega’s breast plate and it simply would not come out. The fight came to resemble a mating ritual as Portega tried to turn quickly in the mud whilst Drustan kept stepping desperately around to remain behind his adversary and clear of Portega’s deadly blade. Then to his relief, Drustan spotted a slow trickle of blood start to leak from the buckle ties securing Portega’s breast plate to his back plate.

‘So the blade had pierced him!’ Drustan gasped as he now changed his tactics.

Instead of trying to drag his sword free he hesitated as Portega twisted again to reach the tantalising target, then as Portega raised his arm to strike again, instead of stepping sideways, Drustan took a huge risk and stepped low inside Portega’s guard directly under the king’s sword. It would take but a moment for Portega to recover his stance grab Drustan by his hair with the left hand and then plunge the huge sword down through Drustan’s shoulders with a strike from above. Even as he prepared to push with all his failing might, Drustan felt Portega’s left hand grasping at his long blond hair.

Finally, Drustan felt his blade break free of its entangled notch and drive inwards with a sickening satisfaction. This time Drustan knew he had hit home. Portega gave a grunt of despair and his left arm fell uselessly.

“I yield!”

“No! You butcher! You said to the death!” Drustan cursed as Portega fell to his knees and the mighty sword slipped from his right hand.

“Then make it quick, but I would know your name. At least let me know by who’s hand I die.”

“You said it yourself. I am just a myth; I am Drustan Scar-arse! And — I — am — a — boy!”

“You! But you are the one who intended to kill my only grandson You! The one who holds him prisoner!”

“Yes me!”

“Please. Kill me but spare him. He’s my only heir.”

“Why? If I kill the wolf, I must kill the cubs; that is the shepherd’s motto. Then the sheep are safe.”

“He’s but a boy!”

“By the gods! You sound like my bloody sister! Why should he not die? He plays at soldiering!”

Portega fell silent and Drustan sensed there was something left unsaid. The tyrant seemed at a loss for once. He decided to take the king’s haulm off and in a swift movement with his dagger he sliced though the leather buckle at the back. The haulm came off easily and Drustan stared angrily at the grizzled face and grey hair that appeared.

“I like to look a man in the eye before I kill him. It is good you show no fear!”

“Just let me speak to my grandson before I go. Or at least let us die together!”

Drustan debated killing his foe there and then but a commotion from Pilus’s ranks caught his attention. He recognised a familiar horse and figure emerging from the ranks. It was his interfering older sister!

‘What did she want now?’ He wondered. “This was man’s stuff.”
and Drustan so wanted to prove he was still a man despite the shameful tits on his chest.

King Portega also turned to study the approaching rider and Drustan explained.

“It’s my older sister, the maid your grandson wanted to murder in cold blood.”

Portega stared nervously, undecided what to say as the maid splattered up through the mud and slipped easily from her mount unconcerned about the mud and marsh slime underfoot. Portega surmised this was no ordinary maid. She rode with all the ease and confidence of a man and she wore britches to put her mount between her legs. The girl seemed every bit as wild and immodest as her half-sex brother.

“Are you going to kill him then?” Aiofe asked with little concern.

“He wants to die with that brat of his, enter the realms of the gods together.”

Aiofe frowned then spoke softly.

“The boy is not to die.”

“How so sister?”

“I made a promise.”

“To whom and by what authority? He’s my prisoner.”

“To the captain who negotiated earlier. He asked me to spare the boy’s life.”

“You had no right to make such a promise. He is my prisoner!”

“No longer brother. He is King Pilus’s prisoner. Royal hostages are not the property of commoners to be dealt with like cattle of the field.”

Drustan swore and mounted his horse immediately without a thought that the wounded tyrant might yet take his sword and attack his sister. Now he had issues with King Pilus!

He arrived at Pilus’s tent in high dudgeon and almost crashed into the king’s lap. The startled king looked up in surprise and shock that this crazy commoner should crash into his presence with neither leave nor courtesy. His men at arms sprung to guard the king and Drustan found himself unexpectedly standing with several swords all inches from his throat. He swallowed more with surprise than fear but still spoke bluntly without any formality.

“The youth; Portega’s boy. Where is he?”

“With your sister twin.”

“But he is my prisoner. You had no right to release him!”

King Pilus lost his patience and snapped at the wilful Drustan.

“You don’t tell kings what they can or can’t do boy. The boy is heir to a kingdom, the boy is royalty.”

“The boy is a coward and a butcher. Just look at the cut on Aiofe’s neck. He must die.”

Pilus sighed angrily and snapped at his guards.

“Take this wretch out and make him cool his heels before he returns. Let him learn some manners!”

As Drustan was dragged ignominiously from Pilus’s tent Pedoro appeared with news of the boy’s success on the field. He looked at Drustan being forcibly restrained by the king’s bodyguard and frowned.

“Now what the hell have you done boy?”

“Pilus is a thief. He’s stolen my prisoner!”

Pedoro cursed and presented himself formally to King Pilus as he asked wearily about the boy.

“Pray tell me sire, what’s he done now?”

“Been rude to me. I also heard what he just said to you, calling me a thief. He could be executed for that!”

“Do you know what he has just done your majesty?”

“No. What?”

“Has nobody brought you the news?”

“What news; no, nobody’s told me anything.”

“Portega lies mortally wounded or at least hors-de-combat. The boy’s just defeated him in open combat!!”

“What!!”

“I do not lie sir. Both armies were witness to the fight. Thousands saw the boy unhorse the tyrant then defeat him in gladiatorial combat. Sword to sword, face to face. The boy defeated him fair and square.”

“You’re joking. I knew the butcher had issued a challenge but I,-“

“It’s no joke sir. The tyrant wishes to die with his grandson. I’m thinking the boy Drustan was coming to collect the boy to execute both of them together.”

“Well that is not going to happen! That’s half the reason we’re at war now because our mutual Great Grandfather married twice and the succession became an issue in several kingdoms. Does this tyrant still live?”

“He was alive when I left him just now but his wound looks fatal. The maid Aiofe had stripped his plate and it looked pretty bad to me. He is bleeding to death and he knows it. That’s why he begged the crazy kid to finish it, quickly.”

Pilus bit his lip thoughtfully.

“Come on. We might save much from this outcome. Fetch Portega’s brat and the crazy kid. I have an idea.”

So saying Pilus snatched his coroneted haulm and mounted his horse as Pedoro rounded up, Drustan, Mabina and Portega’s grandson.

Before they left, Mabina hurriedly dressed Drustan’s bleeding wounds while the king waited impatiently. They arrived to find

Portega laid out on his saddle blanket as Aiofe tended the pulsing wound. Portega was facing a long slow death. The sword wound was deep but it had not reached Portega’s heart. He was coughing up bright frothy blood from his penetrated lung. If he did not die from blood-loss he would likely die from infection. When King Pilus arrived Portega looked up contemptuously at his cousin.

“You would not face me then. I knew you wouldn’t!” He coughed up more frothing blood and his grandson cried with despair.

“Grand dad!”

The tyrant reached out to take the boy’s hand but only Drustan saw the concealed dagger. Portega intended to take his grandson with him. Drustan’s sword flashed out with blinding speed and the tyrant’s hand was severed just as the dagger emerged into view. Aiofe, the closest to Portega, barely had time to shout the first letter of warning before Drustan’s sword had done its work. Portega screamed in agony as his hand and his dagger fell in Aiofe’s lap whilst arterial blood spurted over everybody. Pedoro and Pilus cursed as Mabina screamed in horror and the young prince squealed with shock. Only one person remained impassive and unperturbed, Drustan.

He stood with bloody sword in hand then shrugged and turned away. There was a clamour as efforts were made to stem the haemorrhage until Portega’s croaking voice finally made itself heard.

“Tell the boy to finish it. Only him though, no other. Only Drustan Scar-arse has that right, the right to execute me. I’m dying anyway so make it quick.”

Knowing that death was close the dying tyrant wanted to make his peace with the new single God. He offered some final words of comfort to his grandson explaining that it had been an honourable fight and he was dying anyway from a cancer. He wanted to die quickly and the most honourable way was at his victor’s hand, then, uncharacteristically, he kissed his grandson’s forehead before he knelt. With a silent prayer and hands steepled in the new christian style he bowed his head and offered his bare neck to Drustan’s sword.

Drustan realised his own light sword with its battle scarred cutting edge was probably no longer up to the job of a clean, swift beheading. He cast around for a more suitable, heavier weapon and his eyes fell onto the tyrant’s own great sword. Then he had an idea. He decided to finally convince the tyrant and the other watchers that he was a boy not a maid. Drustan wanted to pee so he slipped his manhood from his loincloth and stood astride the sword as he released his water and spoke to Portega.
“I piss on your sword. It is a tyrant’s sword; a bully’s sword. See now that I piss with my cock! I — am — a — boy — and - you — will - know — that — before - you — die!”

The assembly gasped at the insult but Drustan was past caring. Without compunction or any further sign of emotion, Drustan took Portega’s piss-stained great sword from where it had fallen in the mud and with one immense ‘two-handed’ swipe, he beheaded the tyrant. Then, still without expression, he handed the sword to the crying prince. As the others watched in stunned bemusement, Drustan let out a long slow tearful sigh, mounted his beloved horse and cantered off towards Toledo. He was sick of all the killing.

On route at the castle of Pilus he realised he was the first arrival back from the field so he stepped un-invited to the queen’s chambers and spread the news. Many women, both noble and common, clamoured around for news of their men-folk but none were more relieved than Queens Shaleen and Bramana. Typically, Drustan said nothing of his part and he left again to continue to Toledo before the official heralds arrived. He wanted nothing more than a new, longer, heavier sword to suite his growing strength and confidence, then a swift return to his beloved ‘Angry Mermaid’ and completion of his self-made promise to deliver his older sister Aiofe safely to Carthage’s shore.

After that, Drustan knew not where. Who would want a man/maid with tits, a dick and a bleeding slit.

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