Chapter 42 Chirk Castle

The wind whistled across the battlements of Chirk Castle. Sir Richard stood at the edge of the stone wall, his cloak billowing behind him as he surveyed the growing encampment. The fires scattered across the valley floor glimmered like fallen stars, and the figures moving among them were too distant to count accurately.

"About five hundred men, by my guess," said the man at his side, a grizzled soldier.

Sir Richard's gaze hardened. "No," he replied. "We must assume they have more. They wouldn't march this boldly without reinforcements waiting in the wings."

The soldier nodded grimly, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

"Double the guards on night duty," Sir Richard ordered, his tone firm.

The soldier saluted the commanding knight and left. Alone once more, Sir Richard's eyes remained fixed on the valley, his mind running through every possibility. The castle stood as a bastion of English control, and he'd be damned if a ragtag band of Welsh rebels would wrest it from him.

Down in the valley, the air inside the rebel camp was tense with quiet determination. Inside a tent dimly lit by a single lantern, Gwilym ap Tudur stood at the center of a group of men, their faces shadowed but resolute. Beside him loomed Rhys Ddu, a hulking figure whose presence dominated the small space.

"So," Gwilym said, his voice low but steady, "are we in agreement?"

There was silence for a moment before Rhys Ddu sighed, his arms crossed. "They'll be on alert, no doubt. But we can try." His tone carried the weight of experience, a grim acceptance of what was to come.

Another man, younger and more eager, nodded fervently. "We're with you, Gwilym."

Gwilym looked around the tent, the faces of his comrades flickering in the lantern light. Each man gave him strength, but also a heavy sense of responsibility.

As the others dispersed to prepare, Gwilym stepped outside with Rhys Ddu, the cool night air biting against his skin. The massive man walked beside him in silence until Gwilym finally spoke.

"This will be a dangerous venture," he said, his voice quieter now. "I'm having doubts, if only God could show us a sign...."

Rhys Ddu let out a low chuckle, dark and bitter. "Oh, men will die. That much is certain. But what matters is whether their deaths mean something. If we can take that damned castle," he paused, nodding toward the distant silhouette of Chirk Castle on its hill, "Then their sacrifice won't be in vain."

Gwilym followed his gaze, the castle a dark monolith against the starry sky. Its walls seemed unassailable, and yet, they had to try.

As they stood there, Gwilym's thoughts turned inward. Maybe Gruffudd was right…

Ethan soared through the night sky, the vast expanse of stars above and the rugged Welsh landscape sprawling below. The cool air brushed his face as his white wings spread wide, catching the currents with ease. His movements were clumsy at first, but each beat of his wings brought a growing sense of mastery.

He glided over Llangollen. I wonder how the canister cannons are coming along, he mused. The view from above was captivating, but his mind wandered to the practical. Grav boots would be more ideal, he thought, but then his smile widened as he felt the rush of the wind against his skin. Still... I like this more.

As he flew over the Ceiriog Valley, he spotted movement below—a camp. Tents and fires scattered the dark expanse, tiny figures moving around like ants. His brow furrowed as he muttered to himself, "Why are they here? It'll take another week to make the cannons functional... Are they stupid!?" His wings folded, and he dove toward the treeline.

As he landed, his wings retracted with a tearing sound, the skin on his back splitting open. The pain was brief, the nanobots in his body sealing the wounds and his coat at the back as if they had never been there. He strode toward the camp, his boots crunching against the forest. The glow of the fires grew brighter, the sound of voices drifting toward him.

The men at the camp stirred as they saw him emerge from the shadows. Weapons clattered as they reached for their knives and swords, eyes wary. One man, his voice low and tense, muttered, "Who goes there?"

Ethan's expression remained calm as he approached. "I'm Ieuan ap Glyndŵr," he said, his voice carrying authority. "I've been sent here by my brother, Gruffudd."

The men exchanged uneasy glances. One muttered, "Blonde hair... maybe it's him..."

Another stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Ethan. "Where's your horse, then, little lord? All alone?"

Another scoffed. "I think he's lying. Let's cut him up."

Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out his family's seal, the golden dragon glinting in the firelight. The men's eyes widened as recognition set in.

"Now," Ethan said, his tone sharp, "Take me to your commander."

The man who had spoken first swallowed hard, bowing slightly. "Al... alright, lord. Follow me."

The tent was alive with muffled sounds when Ethan arrived, and his escort hesitated, his face reddening. Clearing his throat, the man called out, "Lord Gwilym."

When no answer came, he called louder. "Lord Gwilym!"

The sounds stopped abruptly, followed by a frustrated hiss from inside.

"What is it!? This better be not about rations." came the irritated voice.

The tent's flap opened, and Gwilym ap Tudur stepped out, his shirt hastily thrown on, his hair tousled. His scowl softened as his eyes fell on Ethan.

"Young Ieuan!" he exclaimed, his face breaking into a grin. He stepped forward and clasped Ethan's shoulders. "Look at you! You've grown boy," His eyes darted around. "Where's your brother?"

"I come alone," Ethan replied evenly.

Gwilym frowned. "Gruffudd is still in Llangollen?"

Ethan nodded.

"And he sent you?" Gwilym asked, his tone curious.

"I came of my own accord," Ethan said firmly.

Gwilym's expression shifted, sizing him up. A slow grin spread across his face. "Good. We need men who can fight." His voice grew louder, a touch of excitement in his tone.

Ethan's voice cut through the moment, resolute. "I see that you intend to take Chirk Castle, and I will help you but i need your word that you'll arm and hold Flint castle next with your men."

Gwilym blinked, then burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. "Did you hear that, Rhys?" he said to the hulking man sitting nearby. "The little lord says he'll take Chirk Castle alone!"

Rhys Ddu, chewing on a piece of dried meat, raised an eyebrow. "Didn't hear him stutter," he rumbled. "The boy's serious."

Laughter echoed through the camp but Ethan didn't flinch. Instead, he glanced around. A silence followed as the men watched him.

"When you march on that castle, you will die!" Ethan said, his voice measured. His gaze locked onto Gwilym. "Are you so impatient that you'd throw away the lives of your men? If you just waited..."

He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "I lost one of my men—a boy just his age." He pointed to a soldier. "I watched as his lame mother and sister held his lifeless body."

His fist clenched. "No more."

Then, his wings began to unfurl, ripping through his back. White and massive, they spread wide, the firelight dancing across their surface.

A cup clattered to the ground.

The men were shocked.

Gwilym stumbled back, falling onto his rear. "What in God's name...?"

One man screamed, clutching a holy pendant. "He's a devil! Run!"

Rhys stood abruptly, stiff with shock, his jaw hanging open.

Ethan flapped his wings once, the gust snuffing out nearby flames. His voice boomed as he took to the air, hovering above the camp.

"I've only ever hoped for one thing—to see this kingdom free. I Ieuan ap Glyndŵr, come to you all as a Welsh son. These wings are no illusion, no trick of faith—they are the mark of strength, proof of what man becomes when he refuses to bow."

He gestured toward Chirk Castle, visible in the distance. "That Castle! Is no fortress. Their ancestors built it to take our land, but now—now it will be a tomb. A tomb where they will all die!

The camp was silent for a moment, the men frozen in awe and fear.

Rhys Ddu was the first to move. He stepped forward, his axe in hand. His voice rumbled like thunder. "I will follow you, Ieuan. If you give us that castle, I'll swear to fight with you, man or devil, and vow to follow you."

The men gasped at the sight.

Then, Rhys raised his axe high and roared, "Let's kill the bastards!"

The cry was infectious. One by one, the men roared in agreement, their weapons raised high.

Gwilym stumbled to his feet, still shaking. "This is madness!" he muttered, turning to Rhys.

Rhys slapped him on the back. "You wanted a sign from God, didn't you? Well, here it is."

Ethan flapped his wings once more, taking to the skies. The men watched as he ascended, a figure of awe and terror.

Below him, the rebels marched forward, their cries rising to meet him.

From above, Ethan watched the men pour out of the camp, his mind already racing.

Now.... how do I take the castle....?