Chapter 45 Reconquista (3)

Flint Castle, North Wales

The air around Flint Castle was thick with the stench of decay, the ground beneath the men slick with a mix of blood and entrails. The heavy, oppressive smell of death clung to everything.

This were Gwilym's men sent to arm the castle, they marched through the gates, and were greeted by a horrifying sight. The once-imposing stone walls were now lined with bodies, their broken, twisted forms strung up by their limbs. Some bodies were mutilated beyond recognition—faces crushed in, eyes gouged out, and skulls split open like cracked eggs. The flies were thick, swarming over the piles of flesh that littered the ground. A soldier stepped forward, eyes wide with terror. His stomach churned, and he gagged as he raised a hand to his mouth, the bile creeping up his throat. "What... in God's is that monster...." he gasped, voice trembling.

Another man, staring at the horrors around him, whispered, "One man... one man did this." He could hardly believe the words as they left his mouth. "No one should have this kind of power."

The rest of the men stood frozen, their limbs heavy with disbelief, but a bald man shook his head, his eyes narrowing. "Be glad he's on our side." His voice was rough, the edge of resentment and awe buried deep beneath it. He turned to the men around him, his expression hardening. "Enough gawking. Clean up the mess. This castle is ours now, and we've got work to do."

Reluctantly, the soldiers got to their feet, their faces ashen, their movements slow and hesitant. No one spoke a word as they trudged to the grisly task of clearing the remains.

Back at Chirk Castle, the morning sun beat down. Ethan lay on his back atop the stone walls, his chest bare and glistening in the light, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. He stroked a small sheep, his hands gentle.

Gwilym's eyes flicked to Ethan with a mix of frustration and envy. "He's been at it for hours," Gwilym muttered.

Rhys, leaning against the weathered stone, didn't take his eyes off the scene. "Rest perhaps, maybe it's only at night that his powers reach their full force," he said, his voice a low murmur.

Gwilym scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "Of course. Forces of evil are always fond of the dark." He shot a pointed look at Ethan, whose eyes remained half closed, seemingly unaware of the men watching him.

Finally, Ethan's loud voice broke the silence. "You want to talk?" He opened his eyes.

The tension in the air thickened as Gwilym and Rhys exchanged looks. There was no denying it: Ethan was no ordinary man. There was something unnatural about him, a presence that made the air feel heavier.

Rhys, stepping forward, was the first to break the quiet. "Let's talk then."

Ethan didn't move, but there was a shift in his gaze. Rhys climbed the walls to stand at his side, his face set. Gwilym followed, sitting next to Ethan, his gaze hard.

"So you killed every man in Flint..." Gwilym asked in a low tone, as Ethan stood slowly, his broad shoulders rippling as he stretched. "Yes, I killed every man at Flint. But I spared one. So the English know what's coming."

Gwilym said, his voice edged with anger. "Why the hell would you spare anyone!? He even saw what you did, and if the English know of you we will lose the suprise element!"

Ethan said his voice sharp, "Let them know. It will not save them, but listen." He gestured to men below. "Split your forces to march on Denbigh, Conwy, and Ruthin. We have six hundred men left." His tone left no room for argument.

Gwilym's jaw clenched so tight it could have shattered stone. His fists tightened, and a vein in his neck bulged with fury. "Brat, you dare to command me!?" His voice was low, venomous, the resentment cutting through his teeth. "Just because you've sold your soul to the devil doesn't mean you can order my men around!"

Rhys stepped between them, raising a hand to ease the tension. "He must have had his reasons, i assume you'll do the same to those castles....alone" he said, his voice firm but trying to diffuse the brewing conflict.

Ethan's eyes never left Gwilym, the edge in his gaze sharpening. "Yes....alone."

Rhys, raised a brow. "And what of the other castles, further west?" he asked, trying to keep the conversation on track.

Ethan's expression remained unreadable. "My army will take care of those." Gwilym then chuckled raising his hands, "How many men do you have?" Ethan rubbed his chin and his tone suggestive, "90 fighting men last time i checked."

A laugh erupted as Gwilym held his belly, a dead silence following. Rhys eyed Ethan, thinking, "He's intending to take those castles with 90 men?" Ethan then spoke, "Rhys, I know the weight you carry. The vow you made in Ceiriog..." His voice softened." There's really no need to honor it not after what happened in Aberystwyth."

Rhys froze, the words sinking into his chest like daggers. The of that day, flooded him.

Rhys gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. "I have not forgetten what happened…" His voice was tight, full of resentment.

Ethan's hand fell heavily on his shoulder. "In the end, it's not the walls we defend—it's our spirit. And that, can never be conquered."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. The air was thick, heavy with unsaid words. Then, with a whip of motion, Ethan's wings unfurled, the sound of the bone and muscle cracking as they spread wide.

Gwilym, unable to hold his tongue, scoffed. "Why don't you just fly to London and kill those bastards yourself? End it all."

Ethan turned slowly, his smirk sharp, "Where's the fun in that?" His voice was almost a whisper, full of mocking amusement.

With a single beat of his wings, Ethan soared into the sky, his figure becoming a shadow against the brightening sun. The men below watched in silent awe, their faces pale with a mixture of fear and awe.

One soldier, squinting into the dazzling sunlight, muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. "That's no devil."

Corwen

Black's warband rode into Corwen with the precision of a death sentence. The town's gates, not heavily fortified, stood like a warning to anyone who might try to defend it. As the riders approached, the first thing Black noticed was the heavy silence, the type that settled over a place that had already given up. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

The guards atop the gates stirred, eyes narrowing as they watched the approaching riders. Their armor was weathered, mismatched—these weren't seasoned men. They didn't have the strength or resolve of hardened soldiers. As Black's eyes flicked over them, his thoughts were clear.

One of the guards, his voice cracking in fear, "Our men—our men were defeated! What… weapons do you they carry?"

Black's voice rang out, steady and commanding, "Open the gates, and we will spare you good men of Corwen. We only want Lord Cadogan."

The guard hesitated, his fingers gripping the bowstring, but before he could speak, another voice—a sharp, urgent whisper—cut through the air. It was Tarwyn, rifle already in hand, aimed at the guard with a cold calmness that sent a shiver down the man's spine. "Tchtch. I wouldn't do that if I were you," Tarwyn muttered, his tone a quiet threat.

The other guards froze. Black's eyes scanned the tension, his lips curling into a slight smirk.

Without another word, a guard nodded as the four archers tried to shoot their arrows, but it was too late. The shots fell short, and in an instant, Rifles thundered. One guard dropped, then another, then the third. The last archer didn't even have time to scream before his body jerked back, lifeless.

The remaining guards stood in stunned silence.

Black's voice sliced through the stillness. "Open the gates, or you will have the same fate."

The gates creaked, hesitated—and then slowly began to open. The warband moved in, their horses' hooves pounding against the cobblestones as they rode into the heart of Corwen.

As Black passed through the streets, the poverty of the town hit him like a slap. The market stalls were empty, the buildings sagging and decayed, their windows dark. Callwen, spat as he surveyed the miserable scene. "There's nothing to pillage here," he muttered, his voice thick with disgust. "What a fucking shithole."

Black didn't respond. His eyes scanned the faces of the people who dared peek from behind broken doors. But there was one face that caught his attention. A woman. Her eyes met his for a brief, silent moment, and then she turned. Something about her tugged at him—something familiar.

He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. "To the manor," Black commanded, his voice like iron.

They reached Lord Cadogan's manor, a sprawling stone building that had once commanded respect but now looked like a dying giant. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spilled wine. Cadogan stood in the center of his hall, shouting at his men, his voice a frantic screech. "How the hell did we fail! Peter you scoundrel...."

A squire, wide-eyed and panicked, tugged at Cadogan's armor, struggling to get it on his bloated belly. The squire's hands trembled, but Cadogan, furious, shoved him away. "No! I won't run like a dog with tail between it's legs..."

He staggered away from his men, his face contorting with rage and fear, the weight of his failure sinking in. "My son… he must have failed," he mumbled under his breath. "We're doomed…All of you leave me, i want to be alone."

In a drunken stupor, he poured himself another cup of wine, the liquid dripping down into his beard. Without another word, he pulled out a knife and, with a grimace, plunged it into his own chest. The blood spread quickly, staining the floor as he slumped forward, the life draining from him.

At the manor's entrance, Black and his men dismounted. The guards had surrendered quickly.

"Search the place," Black shouted. "Find Lord Cadogan and bring him to me!"

The warband spread out, moving through the manor with brutal efficiency. It wasn't long before Callwen found the lord's body, still slumped over his table. "Treacherous cunt killed himself!"

"Find his silver," Callwen ordered, his gaze falling on the silver-plated cutlery that had once belonged to a proud lord.

A door creaked open, and Callwen pushed through. Inside, three women huddled in the corner, their eyes wide with fear. Callwen raised an eyebrow. "Are you his whores?" he asked, his tone flat, almost bored.

The women nodded.

The soldiers leered, moving toward them. As his hand reached out, Callwen stepped forward, blocking his path. "Remember the lord's rule," Callwen growled. "We pillage, but we don't harm women or children."

One soldier spat, but bowed dramatically. "Yes, my liege." His voice dripped with mockery, but he stepped back nonetheless.

Callwen stood, his hand tight around the pouch of coins. He tossed it onto the floor, the clink of the metal sharp in the silence. "I want all three of you," he said, voice low, like a command.

The women exchanged a brief glance—something unspoken passing between them. Then, without a word, one of them bent, scooped the pouch up, and threw it back at him. The weight of it landed on the floor with a dull thud.

They moved toward him. Their steps were slow, deliberate, predatory. He swallowed, heart hammering as they closed the distance. Callwen's eyes darted from one to the other, his pulse quickening as they surrounded him, fascination creeping up his spine.

One woman, her lips curling into a smile, grasped his arm, tugging him with surprising strength. "You've already paid us," she purred, her voice a blend of warmth and mockery. Her fingers grazed his skin, sending a chill through him despite the heat in the room.

Callwen's breath caught in his throat, his mind racing. This wasn't what he expected.