Chapter 44 Reconquista (2)

Morning light cut through the window, casting long beams across the floor. Black stirred, a cold sweat clinging to his back. The dream still clung to him— but vivid as if he had lived it.

Samuel. A soldier from Corwen. He had kissed his wife's forehead, felt her fingers tighten around his hand as he turned away. The weight of leaving. The certainty that he would not return.

Black sat up and rubbed his temples. "That woman…" he muttered. Her face was already fading, yet the ache in his chest remained. His memories twisted—Ethan's thoughts, Samuel's past, his own existence blurred in the tangled mess of a mind that wasn't wholly his.

He pushed the dream aside. There was work to do.

In the study Tarwyn sat across from him, scratching his head, eyes narrowed.

"So you're saying you're his cousin? From his mother's side?" His tone was laced with suspicion, his fingers tapping idly on the desk.

Black met his gaze without flinching. "Are you suggesting that Lord Ieuan is lying?"

A pause. Tarwyn's jaw tensed slightly.

Black picked up his cup, taking a slow sip before setting it down with deliberate weight. "Or do you have complaints about me being the new commander?"

Tarwyn forced a smile, lacing his fingers together. "Of course not, Pwyll has briefed me..."

Good. Because it wasn't up for debate.

Tarwyn leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "Where is the lord, anyway?"

Black shrugged, inwardly saying, I'd like to know where the main me is anyway.

The training field buzzed with movement—men singing, boots grinding into the dirt. They trained hard.

Tarwyn rallied the men and stepped ahead of them, raising his voice gesturing to Black, "I'd like you all to meet your new commander. He—"

Black strode past him.

"I am Commander Black." His voice carried through the air, cutting through murmurs. "You don't know me, and that doesn't matter. What matters is that you will follow my orders—and in doing so, you will thrive together.."

The men straightened, some shifting, others crossing their arms. Doubt. Challenge.

Black took another step forward. Slow. Measured.

"I don't ask for your loyalty. I'll take it. I don't need your trust. I'll earn it. What I demand, what I expect—" his gaze swept over them, pinning them in place—"is obedience."

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts.

"We must waste no time, prepare for we are to march to Corwen."

Then, boots moved. After some time the men fell in line. No cheers, no war cries—just the rhythm of marching feet. As the column passed through the gates, two women stood waiting.

Both heavily pregnant. Both staring daggers. Derfel sinked lower into the formation, trying to disappear among the ranks and hide from the women who eyed and searched for him.

Callwen, grinned and raised his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"This man doesn't shoot blanks! That's a sharpshooter, alright!"

Laughter rippled through the ranks, the kind that lightened the weight of marching.

Derfel groaned, covering his face with a hand. "You lot are insufferable."

And just like that, the march to Corwen began.

The night sky was a vast, empty void, its silence broken only by the distant crash of waves against the estuary. A shadow moved within it—swift and wings sliced through the air with.

The figure descended upon Flint Castle, the stone fortress bathed in flickering torchlight, its guards little more than silhouettes against the battlements. Below, the River Dee gleamed black in the moonlight, sluggish, a vein of life for the English war effort.

A sentry, bored and drowsy, turned his gaze skyward.

He never had time to react.

A projectile tore through his skull with a wet, meaty crack. His head snapped back, the force sending him toppling over the edge. He hit the stone courtyard with a sickening thud, skull splitting like a ripe fruit, brain matter seeping into the cracks.

The man beside him opened his mouth, but before he could scream, another shot punched through his throat, severing flesh, shattering vertebrae. He collapsed, clutching at the ragged hole, gurgling on his own blood.

Then the massacre began.

The winged figure dropped into the courtyard like a specter of death.

Metal shrieked as he tore through armor. A soldier raised his sword—his arm was wrenched from its socket and hurled away before the blade could fall. He screamed.

Men scrambled for their weapons, but it was pointless.

A flick of his wrist sent shards of projectiles tearing through flesh and bone. A knight in chainmail was bisected at the waist, his intestines unraveling onto the cold stone. Another had his skull crushed beneath a single, ruthless stomp.

The air reeked of iron and open entrails. The garrison of a hundred men died in minutes.

By the time the last body fell, the castle was silent. Blood pooled in the cracks of the courtyard, seeping into the stone, a monument to the massacre.

Then the figure turned, his eyes set on the next target.

High above the land, he flew—a black silhouette against the night sky.

As he neared Chester, his wings shifted. Pores, unseen before, opened along their surface, exhaling something unseen.

He began to circle over the farmlands.

The first spores drifted down like mist. They clung to crops, to the damp earth, unseen and undisturbed. Within hours, they would begin their work.

Crops would wither in their stalks, leaves curling in upon themselves as rot spread from within. The grain stores, even sealed, would not be spared—the spores would find the smallest crack, embedding themselves in the grain, tainting it.

The people of Chester, still asleep, had no idea that death was already in their fields.

Wrexham. Then Oswestry. The pattern repeated—silent wings, a black cloud of ruin drifting upon the wind.

By the time dawn approached, the land behind him was poisoned.

The first rays of sunlight touched his skin, recharging something deep within him. He exhaled, wings stretching wide.

Cheshire, England

Dawn broke over Chester in dull shades of gray. Mist curled over the fields, clinging to the land like a specter. The air was thick, damp, and wrong.

A farmer trudged through the soil, boots heavy, his breath curling in the chill. He had woken early, as always, to tend to the fields, expecting to see green sprouts drinking in the morning light.

Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The fields stretched before him in a sea of rot.

Every leaf—withered, blackened, curled inward as if something had drained the life from them overnight. He knelt, fingers brushing against the brittle husks of winter wheat which they would have harvested in the coming days.. It crumbled in his hands, turning to dust.

His pulse pounded.

He sprinted toward his neighbor's farm. Everywhere was the same. All dead.

A scream tore through the still air.

He turned to see a woman rushing toward him, skirts hiked up, her face twisted in terror.

"The stores!" she gasped, doubling over. "The grain stores—it's all rotted!"

His blood ran cold.

The reserves, the garrisons and city's lifeline. Gone? In a single night?

"This is no disease, there should have been signs.... " he whispered, voice shaking. "Yes! This is the work of witches! The devil's wretched!"

The constable of Chester, Sir Roderic Vaughn, paced the hall like a caged beast. His temper burned hot, his voice sharp as steel.

He slammed his fist against the oak table, rattling the goblets upon it.

"Useless! Every last one of you!" His glare swept across the cluster of local officials, men who now shrank beneath his fury. "We control the richest lands in the north, and yet I wake to find our fields rotted and our stores turned to filth! How?!"

The steward, a gaunt man named Alric, cleared his throat. "Milord, we… we have never seen such blight before. It defies reason."

"Defies reason?" Roderic barked a bitter laugh. "Then find me the cause, or do you plan to tell His Majesty we let his lands die?"

Before Alric could stammer a response, the great doors burst open.

A rider, cloaked in sweat, stumbled into the hall, his breath ragged. Guards flanked him, swords ready, but the man merely raised his trembling hands.

"My lord," he gasped. "I bring dire news."

Roderic waved him forward. "Speak."

The rider wiped the grime from his face, his expression ashen. "It is not only Chester. Wrexham and Oswestry… they suffer the same fate."

A heavy silence fell.

Then, all at once, the hall erupted.

"God preserve us!" an official wailed.

Roderic Vaughn staggered back, gripping the table. His breath hitched. His heart pounded so violently he thought it might give out. A hand steadied him—one of his men, but he shoved it aside.

"We must pray," he murmured.

A priest, standing among the gathered men, lifted his trembling hands. "This is the work of Satan!"

"A curse upon us!" another official added.

The steward snapped. "If we do not act, The peasants will revolt...."

Roderic slowly lifted his head. His gaze burned, but beneath the anger, a cold terror lurked.

Chester was the King's jewel in the north. If the fields failed… if the stores were lost…

The city would starve.