The moon hung low, casting a pale, sickly light over the blackened hills of Gwynedd. Smoke rose from the distant ruins of the Welsh fields, the smell of charred earth and burning homes thick in the air. The English had burned everything, leaving the land desolate, with nothing but ash and ruin to mark their passage. Rhys Ddu's blood boiled at the sight of it. He had seen many things in his life—battles, death, destruction—but nothing filled him with such an all-consuming rage as the sight of his homeland reduced to this.
Around him, his men gathered, rough and scarred, their faces hardened by war and the relentless cruelty of the invaders. They were the last of the rebels who had not scattered at the sight of defeat. Those who had run were dead to him. There was no honor in fleeing. These men—his men—were loyal, and they had one thing on their minds: revenge.
Rhys Ddu's heart thundered in his chest, the taste of blood already in his mouth as he surveyed the path ahead. A small party of English soldiers—no more than a dozen—moved along the winding trail, their voices carrying on the night air. They were a patrol, burning what little remained of the Welsh food supply.
"We strike fast, we strike hard," Rhys Ddu muttered to himself, his voice a growl. His fingers wrapped tightly around the haft of his axe, his knuckles white with tension. The English had done enough damage. It was time to make them bleed.
Cydifor, his lieutenant and the fiercest of his men, gave a grim nod, eyes flashing with the same hunger for blood that gnawed at Rhys Ddu. "We have the high ground. They'll never see it coming."
Rhys Ddu's lips curled into a feral smile. "No, they won't."
The Welsh warriors fanned out, melting into the shadows of the hills, moving like phantoms. The plan was simple—guerilla warfare. Strike from the shadows, and before the English even knew what hit them, vanish into the night.
Rhys Ddu crept silently to the crest of the ridge, his eyes locked on the group of English soldiers below. He could hear their voices, muffled by the distance, but he didn't care about their idle chatter. What mattered was the moment they would realize their mistake.
The first arrow flew, released from the dark with deadly precision. It found its mark, embedding itself in the throat of an Englishman at the rear of the group. The man stumbled forward, his hand going to his neck as he tried to stop the flow of blood. He never had the chance to cry out. A second arrow found another target, and the Englishman fell to the ground with a gurgle.
Chaos erupted.
Rhys Ddu's voice rang out, sharp and guttural: "Take them!"
He didn't wait. His feet carried him down the slope like a tidal wave, his axe raised high, ready to rend flesh. His warriors followed, roaring like beasts unleashed from their cages. The English soldiers barely had time to react before the storm hit.
Rhys Ddu's axe cleaved through the air, its blade sinking deep into the chest of the first soldier it encountered. The man's armor was no match for the power behind the strike. Blood erupted from the wound, spraying across Rhys Ddu's face as the soldier crumpled to the ground. His sword clattered uselessly to the dirt.
"Piss on your armor!" Rhys Ddu snarled, kicking the fallen man aside.
Another soldier raised his sword, but Rhys Ddu was faster. He twisted his body and swung his axe in a brutal arc, severing the Englishman's arm at the elbow. The man screamed as his sword fell from his now useless hand. But that was all he had time for. Rhys Ddu's next blow took him across the throat, and the soldier fell with a choke, his life spilling onto the ground.
"Kill this fucking bastards!" Rhys Ddu roared, his heart pounding with the rhythm of slaughter.
Cydifor was at his side, hacking through the soldiers with brutal efficiency. He waded through the confusion, his sword flashing like lightning, cutting down one Englishman after another. The battle was over before it even began. The English were disoriented, their formation shattered, their cries of panic swallowed by the roar of Welsh fury.
One soldier turned to flee, his face pale with terror. Rhys Ddu's eyes locked onto him, and in that moment, there was nothing but the thrill of the hunt.
"Running away like a chicken?" Rhys Ddu spat, his voice low and venomous.
He ran after the man, his long legs eating up the distance between them. The Englishman was slower, his breath ragged as he stumbled over the rocks. But he didn't get far. Rhys Ddu caught him in a few powerful strides, slamming into the back of the man's legs and sending him sprawling into the dirt.
The Englishman scrambled to his feet, desperate, his eyes wild with fear. "Mercy!" he cried, his voice hoarse. "Please, mercy!"
"Mercy?" Rhys Ddu growled, standing over him, his axe raised high.
With a roar, Rhys Ddu brought the axe down, splitting the man's skull with one swift strike. The Englishman's body hit the ground with a sickening thud, his blood spraying across the stones.
Around him, the Welsh were finishing the job. The English soldiers had no chance. Every single one of them fell. Some died quickly, their throats slashed or their chests split open. Others begged for their lives, their pleas falling on deaf ears.
Rhys Ddu looked down at the bodies of the fallen Englishmen, his heart still racing.
He turned to his men, his voice hard and unyielding. "We're not done yet...."
He raised his axe high, the blade reflecting the moonlight. "We fight for our land. We fight for our people. And we fight to make them fucking pay."
The Welsh warriors roared in agreement, their voices rising to the heavens. And Rhys Ddu would make sure they remembered that, until the very last of them was dead at his feet.
"Onward!" Rhys Ddu shouted. "To Llangollen!"
The warriors rallied around him, and with the blood of their enemies still fresh on their hands, they disappeared into the night, leaving behind the bodies of the slain English. The war was far from over, but Rhys Ddu had made one thing clear: the Welsh would fight for their freedom, no matter the cost.