Free The Beast of Caer Baddan by Rebecca Vaughn Page B

voice of Annon, whom he had left but a half an hour before.
    “Prince Owain!” the boy cried.
    “What!” Owain replied, rubbing his painted forehead with the back of his hand.
    “Prince Owain!”
    Owain turned from the ending skirmish and with backwards glances, went to the spot where his soldiers had first lined up for battle. He found Annon standing on a bounded pile of hay, exactly where Owain had left him at the start of the battle, so the boy could watch what happened.
    “What is wrong?” Owain asked.
    “It is dark,” Annon said, relieved. “I could not see you.”
    “This is war, Boy,” Owain said, amused.
    He took Annon down from his designated high point and started messing up his long hair.
    “Ow!” the boy cried. “Stop!”
    Owain laughed. “Let us go.”
    “Shall I fight?” Annon asked, his eyes brightening at the thought.
    “No. I shall fight, and you shall stay close to me. It is nearly over. Let us find Prince Britu.”
    He went into the town to find the last remnants of the battle which had fled therein, and Annon followed close behind him.
    One by one the scattered Gewissae warriors would run up to strike them, but Owain's quick movement would not let a blow find its mark. He then sliced through their necks or arms and left them dead.
    “You are the most amazing warrior in the world,” Annon said, his awe clear from his voice.
    “Not as amazing as the Pendragons of old,” Owain replied. “Now they were great men.”
    His thoughts traveled to his grandmother and what she used to say about the Pendragons and their daring feats.
    “A little of their souls live in us, Annon,” Owain continued. “If we can touch it, we too shall be great.”
    “I think you already are,” the boy replied.
    Owain smiled, laughing at the idea, for he had to agree with it. As long as the battle raged and his body was high with energy and anticipation, he felt as though he too was great.

    The darkness of the mead hall felt heavy around them, as if they breathed some invisible weight instead of air.
    “Do you hear that?” one woman asked.
    They listened.
    “There is no sound,” Ardith said, with an annoyed frown.
    “Yea,” the woman said, and her voice became sharp. “There is no sound.”
    Leola understood what the woman meant, and her heart panged inside her from the knowledge.
    “What does that mean?” Ardith asked.
    Leola lowered her head and looked away, unsure of how to explain it to her young friend.
    “What does that mean?” Ardith said again.
    “If the men had won, they would now be returning, singing the songs of victory and praising their champions all the way back here to the mead hall,” Leola replied.
    “They have lost,” said another woman.
    “No!” Ardith screamed and began to weep. “No! No!”
    Leola clasped her tightly and rocked her back and forth.
    What happens now? What do we do?
    There was nothing to do but sit and wait. This would not be too hard for her as she was still tired from a sleepless night. She only wished that she was not so damp and cold from the stream water. The cold air in the mead hall had given her clothing no opportunity to dry.
    “What of my father?” Ardith cried. “Where is he?”
    “Shh,” Leola replied. “Perhaps he has escaped the battle. Do not think on it.”
    But her own thoughts traveled to her uncle, Fensalir, and the uncertainty of his fate.
    Is he dead? Are they all dead? What has happened?
    Leola squinted her eyes, as if by trying to see better in the dark, she might hear more clearly. Then the faint cheers and songs of wars consumed her ears.
    “What is it?” Ardith whispered.
    One of the women wailed aloud.
    “What is it!” Ardith screamed. “What is it!”
    “Shh,” Leola said, trying to calm her.
    “It is an unknown song in some other language,” another woman replied. “The Britisc have won, and we are doomed.”
    A strange odor crept into the hall, and although from a distance, it was strong and putrid.
    “What is