Chapter 47 Reconquista (5)

At Ruthin Castle, dusk bled into night as Ethan surveyed the ruin around him. Amid shattered battlements and smoldering embers, he was the lone sentinel; the fallen lay in silent testimony to his ceaseless violence. This was the second castle today, he had been a relentless harbinger of death. Conwy Castle awaited his touch.

Below, in the bustling market town of Conwy, life teetered on the edge of a knife. The town's cobbled streets throbbed with a tense energy. Under the oppressive rule of the English, the people toiled and suffered in silence. Today, two English soldiers were patrolling the narrow lanes. Hardling, whose sneer could curdle fresh milk, walked with his companion, Mander—a man with a rigid posture and cold eyes.

At a cramped vegetable stall draped in faded banners and the scent of fresh earth, Gareth sold his modest wares. His hands, roughened by honest labor, trembled slightly as he arranged turnips and cabbages beneath the wary gaze of his neighbors. In the distance, a young boy darted from alley to alley. That boy, Rhys —Gareth's only son, known for his mischievous grin and defiant spirit—had gathered a small clump of dirt in his hand.

"Take that, you pompous swine!" Rhys shouted, hurling the handful of dirt at the soldiers as they passed by. His laugh was a spark of rebellion in a town long dulled by oppression.

Harding's eyes flared with anger. "Come here, little shit!" he barked, lunging after the boy. The soldier's boots pounded against the tones, each step echoing. Rhys, his heart pounding like a frantic drum, bolted toward his father's stall, his small body darting behind crates and baskets. Gareth, eyes widening with parental terror, reached out to shield his son.

"Father—" Rhys whimpered, his voice swallowed by the chaos.

Before Gareth could fully pull him into the stall's shadow, the soldier closed in. With a rough hand, Harding seized Rhys by the collar. "Boy, you'll learn to respect authority!" he spat, the cold glint of his knife catching the light as he unsheathed it.

Gareth's voice rang out, cracking with desperation and anguish. "Please, sir—he's just a child! Have mercy!" He fell to his knees, pleading with all the earnest desperation of a father fighting for his child's life.

Mander's sneer deepened. "What your son did is unforgivable," he declared, his tone final and dripping with disdain. "If we don't punish him, he'll grow into a filthy rebel—and that spirit will infect us all."

The gathered crowd, previously silent and resigned, began to murmur. Whispers of outrage and despair mingled with the dusty air. An elderly woman clutched her shawl tighter, her eyes wide with fearful disbelief as she echoed, "He's but a child…"

Gareth's protests grew more frantic. "I'll do anything, please—I beg you!" he cried, his voice cracking under the weight of impending doom. But the soldiers exchanged cold glances. In one swift, brutal motion, they hoisted Gareth to his feet and dragged him away, leaving Rhys flailing in vain. As the soldier's grip tightened, Rhys was jerked backward and hit a sharp blow against a stone in the ground, his head suffering. He slumped, unconscious, as a ripple of horror swept through the onlookers.

A stout man from the crowd, surged forward. "You killed him!" he shouted, pointing a trembling finger at Harding. "English dogs! You've brought nothing but death upon us!"

Harding scoffed at the accusation as he unsheathed his sword pointing it, "Silence you rabble," he commanded. "We must maintain order—or you'll all be swept aside like vermin."

Amid the rising clamor, a sudden hush fell over the square as all eyes turned upward. From the sky, a luminous figure descended with ethereal grace. His wings, impossibly white and vast, beat the air in a slow, mesmerizing cadence. The man's skin was like fresh snow, his hair golden as summer wheat, and his face—a portrait of beauty that captivated the crowd. Whispers rippled among the people: "It is an angel…" one murmured.

The soldiers now rattled beyond measure, blinked as if waking from a fevered dream. "What are you!?" they muttered, their eyes darting between them and the descending figure. Both soldiers drew their swords in a futile attempt at defense. But in the very next heartbeat, tiny projectiles assailed their knees and joints. The soldiers collapsed, their cries of pain echoing across the square as they writhed on the cobbles.

The air was charged with an electric mix of hope and terror. He strode towards the crowd. As he approached, he gently cradled Rhys's head in his hands. In that tender, surreal moment, the man healed the wound—closing the gash on the boy's head as if stitching the very fabric of fate back together.

"Father…" croaked a barely coherent Rhys as his eyes fluttered open. Gareth sank to his knees beside his son. Tears mingled with relief as he beheld the stranger. "My son… You've saved him… Thank you," Gareth choked out, voice quivering with awe and gratitude.

The townspeople, now emboldened by the miraculous intervention, filled the square with murmurs and exclamations. "An angel has come among us," whispered one. "No, it is Lleu Llaw Gyffes! Look at his wings...." insisted another, a middle-aged woman with fire in her eyes.

Ethan he lifted his gaze to the distant, imposing silhouette of Conwy Castle. With a barely audible murmur, he said, "Let's hope this will be more effective than at Ruthin." Then, with a powerful thrust of his wings, he soared upward, leaving the awestruck crowd to follow his trajectory with hopeful eyes.

High above the market town, as Ethan ascended into the sky, the people's curiosity transformed into resolve. They gathered in small, determined clusters and began a spontaneous march toward Conwy Castle—a fortress that had long symbolized oppression.

Ethan's silhouette emerged above the stone walls of Conwy Castle. He hovered there for a moment, silent and watchful, as his eyes swept over the darkened courtyards and stout stone towers. With a slow exhalation, he released a fine dust of his fungal spores into the castle's open windows and archways. The particles drifted like ghostly motes in the air, each one carrying a potent, insidious

inside the castle succumbed to a fog of disorientation, men unable to muster the strength to remain upright. Murmurs of confusion rippled.

Outside, at the castle gates, the townspeople had amassed in a tight, anxious throng. Gareth, still holding Rhys close, looked up at the looming fortress. "Look—the gates!" he exclaimed, a mixture of disbelief and cautious hope coloring his voice.

But fear still gnawed at many hearts. "What if it is a trap?" muttered a gaunt, middle-aged man, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

Before anyone could answer, the massive wooden gates creaked open further, revealing a scene that seemed torn from a nightmare. English soldiers, battered and disoriented were crawling out in droves. The sight was surreal—a chaotic jumble of soldiers struggling to rise, while the townspeople's hearts pounded with a mix of vengeance and liberation.

At that precise moment, an elderly man emerged from the crowd. His name was Morgan, his eyes still burning with defiance. Morgan kicked one of the stumbling soldiers to the ground. He then unsheathed the soldier's sword.

"Your tyranny ends today!" Morgan bellowed, his voice cracking like a battle hymn. With unerring precision, he advanced on a soldier. The blade found its mark—a clean, brutal slice along the soldier's neck.

Even as some soldiers attempted to retreat, the old man's s fury was unbridled. "Go on—cry for help if you must!" Morgan shouted, his voice resonating.

Inspired by Morgan's audacity, a surge of rebellion swept through the gathered folk. Men, women, and even the elderly seized any weapon they could and advanced upon the disoriented English soldiers. The castle became chaos.

England, London

King Henry IV stirred beneath robes, his face pale, his body weakened by sickness. He had spent days bedridden, leaving the affairs of state in the hands of his son and council. Now, roused from his slumber, his sharp eyes scanned the room lingering on Prince Henry, who stood among the gathered lords.

Henry's voice was hoarse but firm. "You look far too comfortable at my seat, Hal. Should I be worried?"

Prince Henry. "Only that I have kept it warm in your absence, Father."

Sir William Gascoigne, the Chief Justice, spoke next, his grizzled features betraying little emotion. "Your Majesty, the prince has done well in your stead. He has studied the matters of court and state, ensured justice is upheld, and handled affairs with great diligence."

The king grunted, shifting against the weight of his sickness. "Good. Then you have learned that ruling is more than war, more than sword and fire."

Before Hal could respond, John Doreward, Speaker of the Commons, cleared his throat. He shuffled a parchment in his hands, glancing at the prince before addressing the king.

"Your Grace, troubling news reaches us from the borderlands. Fields left to rot, crops failing overnight. We have reports of farmers abandoning their lands, whispering of ill omens."

A tension settled over the room. The king frowned, his eyes narrowing. "A plague?"

Archbishop Arundel, raised a reassuring hand. "Only a blight, my lord. A misfortune of nature, nothing more. It will pass."

But the king was unconvinced. His fingers gripped his seat. "And will this misfortune hinder our supply lines? Will it weaken our grip on Wales?"

Prince Henry shifted uncomfortably. His hands clenched behind beneath.

King Henry's gaze bore into his son. "I may be sick, but I can feel it in my bones. There is something you are not telling me." His voice grew sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. "Speak."

No one dared answer. The air was thick with unease.

Then, Sir Beaufort, the Chancellor, sighed, "Your Majesty… several castles have fallen in the north."

King Henry's face darkened. "Which?"

Beaufort hesitated before answering. "Flint. Chirk. Both lost. The garrisons lost...."

The king's breathing grew heavier, his fists trembling with suppressed fury. His body too weak for his anger.

Prince Henry's voice was careful. "Father, the situation is not beyond repair. We will—"

But the king wasn't listening. His fury boiled over. "You intended to keep this from me!? Am I to rule from my grave while my kingdom falls apart." He struck the arm of his chair, sending a goblet tumbling to the floor.

Silence followed. No one dared speak until Beaufort cleared his throat again.

"There is… another matter."

The king's glare snapped to him. "What now?"

Beaufort hesitated before speaking. "A figure has been sighted on the borders. Something unnatural. A winged man."

The words hung heavy in the air. Even the fire seemed to dim.

Prince Henry scoffed. "Tavern gossip. The peasants love their tales."

Beaufort shook his head. "We have too many reports to ignore, my lord. If it is a tale, it is one spoken from many lips, in many places. This… thing has been seen at every site of devastation. It is no mere rumor."

The king exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again.

"Send reinforcements north," he ordered, voice rough but commanding. "Retake what we have lost. We will squash the welsh rebels once again just like we did the Percy's. And send the Duke of Clarence."

Prince Henry nodded, his expression grim. "Yes brother...does need the experience."

The meeting continued, but the king's mind lingered on Beaufort's words. A devil at his doorstep. And a kingdom slipping through his fingers.