Free The Hallowed Isle Book Two by Diana L. Paxson

farmstead, where the rich fields sloped down toward the sea, lay on the border between the lands the two leaders ruled.
    Hæsta himself had come down to escort his guests from the landing. As they approached his hall, more men came out of it—a thickset, muscular man with grizzled hair and a king’s torque who they said was Aelle, and behind him a tall young man with red hair. The child he carried on his shoulder stared at the newcomers with bright, considering eyes.
    â€œHe has brought Ceretic, I see,” said Byrhtwold, “and that must be Ceretic’s young son. That’s a man to watch, lad. If he fights half as well as he talks, he’ll be calling himself a king too one of these days.”
    Oesc nodded, understanding that this was one of the men with whom he would have to deal, in friendship or without it, when his own turn came to rule. Hengest’s bid to claim lordship over all the men who had come over from Germania had failed, and Aelle seemed content with his coastal hills. Despite their numbers, the Saxon settlements were scattered, each under its own chieftain—men who had never gone under the yoke of Rome and saw no reason to bow down before one of their own.
    Octha might have united them, Oesc thought grimly, until his battle-luck failed. But no—it had not been bad luck that felled him, but the sorcery in Uthir’s sword. I might do it . . . he thought grimly, and Artor will be my opponent if I do. Then they were dismounting, and Hæsta led them into the friendly shelter, its air blue with woodsmoke and the welcome scents of cooking food, of his hall.
    That night, new clouds rolled in from the sea. For three days, rain and sleet kept the Saxons inside the hall. They scarcely noticed. Hæsta had been brewing for weeks in preparation for the feasting, and so long as the ale-vats did not run dry, no one would complain.
    In a break between the discussions, Oesc sat by the long hearth, carving scraps of wood into crude figures of horses and split twig-men to ride them. As each one was finished, he gave it to the child beside him. Cynric, he was called, with hair as red as his father’s, the legacy of the British grandfather who had given Ceretic his name.
    â€œThat is a mighty army—” said Ceretic, looking down at his son. Cynric nodded, took the rider that Oesc had just finished and set it in order with the others.
    â€œThese with the bark on are Romans, because of their armor, and the peeled ones are Saxons,” the child explained. Several of the figures fell over and he set them up again.
    â€œI see you are placing your unmounted warriors in a wedge formation—” commented Ceretic.
    â€œ He told me—” said Cynric, pointing at Oesc.
    â€œIt was what my father used at Verulamium.” Oesc swallowed, his stomach knotting as he remembered that day.
    â€œAh, yes.” Ceretic transferred his attention from the child. “You were in that battle, I have heard.”
    Oesc flushed. “Against my father’s orders,” he said with a quelling look at Cynric. “But I brought away his head so that the British should not dishonor it. I have sworn that I will avenge him one day.”
    â€œPerhaps we will march to battle together. For now, I am in Aelle’s following, but my father rules in Venta, and he refused to acknowledge Ambrosius as his master. It is certain he will not bow before this child the British are calling high king!”
    â€œYou are British?” Oesc stared at him. But of course, he thought as he looked at the milky Celtic skin and bright hair, it must be true.
    â€œMy father is—” Ceretic’s lips twisted wryly. “Maglos took my mother as a second wife when he made alliance with Aelle. I grew up speaking both tongues equally. My father likes Saxons because they are good fighters, and if this new high king tries to recover the lands around Venta, Maglos will need more men