Crimson Fire (44 page)

She wafted down the halls of Caer Dathyl, out the huge doors, and down the outer steps. Dinaswyn was already there. Her aunt gave her a cool look, but said nothing.

They were coming. They crossed the stream that ran on the eastern side of the fortress, then dismounted, leading their horses up to the front steps.

“Dinaswyn,” Gwydion said, nodding brie
fl
y. “Arianrod.”

His voice was cool and detached, but Arianrod had seen a spark in his silvery eyes as he looked her up and down. Just as she had intended, Rhiannon ur Hefeydd’s green eyes sparkled, but with an entirely different emotion. Arianrod almost smiled.

“You remember Rhiannon, don’t you?” Gwydion went on. “I do.” She smiled. “My, Rhiannon, how you have changed.” “Whereas you, Arianrod, are still the same, I see,” Rhian-

non answered with a smile as false as Arianrod’s own.

She opened her mouth to reply in kind, when movement down by the stream caught her eye. The others, following her stricken gaze, turned to the stream to look.

A woman, shrouded in black, knelt by the water. Her long, golden hair was tangled and dirty, splattered with blood and gore. On her shoulder a black raven was perched, ruf
fl
ing through her bloody hair. Tears streamed down the woman’s dirt-streaked face as she lifted her head to the sky and uttered

a shriek of such sorrow, such misery, such utter despair that Arianrod’s soul shrank back before it.

A heap of bloody garments were piled around the woman. She held up a bloodstained leather tunic with the white horse badge of Rheged sewn on its breast. The woman dipped the tunic into the stream and the water ran scarlet. She held the tunic up, the water streaming from it like bloody tears. Then she lifted another garment, this one adorned with the brown hawk of Gwynedd. She dipped it into the water, shrieking and sob- bing. Garment after garment she picked up and dipped into the bloody water. They saw the black wolf of Prydyn and the white swan of Ederynion; the bull of the Druids, the nightingale of the Bards, the dragon of the Dewin. All running red with blood.

“Who is it?” Arianrod whispered, nearly paralyzed with terror. “Who is it?”

“Gwrach Y Rhibyn. The Washer-at-the-Ford,” Gwydion answered, never taking his eyes from the apparition. “It is death. Coming for us all.”

Rhufin, Northern Ederynion

T
HE MAN WALKED
up the gangplank to the waiting ship bound for Andalusia. Once on the continent, it would be a fairly easy matter for him to catch another ship bound for Athelin. His master had impressed on him the need for speed, and he would obey to the best of his considerable ability. The Dreamer had told his master that the Coranians would come to Kymru soon, and the man knew he needed to get to the force before it sailed. He was under orders to go straight to Havgan, the Warleader, and offer not only the aid of his master, but also the aid of a few key disaffected lords throughout Kymru—men who thought

they would rule better than those who currently had that right. With the aid of those lords and the aid of his master, the Coran- ians would surely triumph.

The man was dressed in a tunic and trousers of nondescript brown, for it would never do to wear his robes. Too many peo- ple might wonder what one of the Y Dawnus was doing board- ing a ship. He had, of course, left his torque behind.

Just as his master, one of the Great Ones of Kymru, had ordered.

Kymru Eiddew Mis, 497

H

Meriwdydd, Cynyddu Wythnos

e waited in the darkness, trapped, immobile, help- less, as he had done for so many years. He had lost count of those years long, long ago. The darkness

was complete, but he could feel that the space was small, enclos- ing his prone body. He had lain there, unmoving, for so long that he was shocked to suddenly feel his arm move upward of its own volition and encounter the close-packed earth just above his head.

After all this time, the words of Bran the Dreamer still echoed in his trapped mind. The Dreamer had said to him, “You will pay for what you have done. I will make you pay. Lleu was my friend.” And the Dreamer had wept. And the Dreamer had said, “Yours will be a punishment to last for hun- dreds of years. Your soul will not journey to Gwlad Yr Haf, to await rebirth. Your soul will be bound to the land. And when the enemy nears our shores, you will give warning. To every

cantref, to every commote, to every city, to every village you will ride and warn our people of their danger. Until then, you will wait. And only when that task is complete will your soul be released.”

Cautiously, he stretched forth both his arms and again en- countered nothing more than dirt and rock beneath his quest- ing
fi
ngers. He blinked again, convinced that the darkness was lifting. From somewhere a glow began to emanate. He tried to sit up, but the chamber was too small. He craned his neck to look down at his body and found that the building light was coming from himself. He was glowing.

He shifted his neck to look up, expecting to see a roof of sod. And he did, at
fi
rst. But then, with a tearing, rending sound, the sod split in two, pulling up and away. Above him, he saw stars.

Slowly, strength was returning to his dead body. He sat up and pulled himself from the earth, until he stood upright beneath the starry sky. Again, he looked down at himself. He was shining brighter now with a pale, white light. He bent over his grave, reached down into it, and pulled out a silver spear. As he grasped it, the spear began to shine with the same pale light. Now he was armed and ready to ride. He heard the sound of a horse’s whinny and knew that his mount had come. The horse neighed
fi
ercely and reared up, ready for battle. Like himself and his spear, the horse glowed white in the darkness. Its eyes were blood red.

He mounted the horse and looked again up at the sky. The starry constellations told him it was springtime. And his dead soul told him it was time to ride.

Dinmael, Ederynion

O
LWEN SAT UP
in bed, jerked from her sleep by. . .by something. She listened, unsure what had startled her. From far off, she heard the pounding of hooves. She left the bed and went to the window, peering out into the dark night. She could see no movement, but something was coming.

Behind her, still in bed, Llwyd sat up, grumbling. “What are you doing? What’s happening?”

Olwen didn’t bother to answer. She
fl
ung open the door

and rushed to the landing. Before she could take the stairs, her children came running from their rooms. Elen was pale and trembling. Lludd’s skin was ashen, but he did not shake.

Olwen, barely pausing, pulled Elen along behind her and down the stairs, Lludd following closely. She
fl
ung open the door of the ystafell and stepped into the courtyard. It was
fi
lled with people. The sound of hooves came on, growing louder and louder. Without pausing, she ran to the closed gates of the for- tress and grasped the heavy bar. Other hands helped to lift it, and she pushed at the doors. In the streets of the city, her people were pouring out of their homes, babbling questions.

And then she saw it. They all did. On the wall of the city, a horse and rider had suddenly appeared. The
fi
gure of a man stood up in the ghostly stirrups. He glowed brightly in the dark night, and lifted a glowing spear. “People of Dinmael,” the phan- tom shouted, his voice hollow and doom-laden. “The enemy comes to our shores! Prepare yourselves to
fi
ght. The time is come!” The horse danced on the top of the wall, then leapt away, leaving only a bright afterimage before their horri
fi
ed eyes.

Beside her Angharad said quietly, “My Queen. We are ready. Command us.” Angharad’s face was pale, her red hair

in disarray. But her voice was steady.

So it had come at last. There was much to be done. “Ang- harad, time to tear up the docks. And ready the rowboats for the archers. Send out the contingent under Emrys to the cliffs. Have them work out the
fi
nal trajectory of the catapults. Send Talhearn the Bard with them to keep the lines of communica- tion open.”

What else? There was so much to do. “Begin evacuation of the city. We won’t be able hold the enemy for long. And there is a change in plan—send Lludd and Elen away with the city folk. Tell them it is their duty to lead their people to safety.”

“It won’t matter what I tell them. They won’t go.” “Then I’ll tell them.”

“That won’t matter, either,” Angharad pointed out calmly. “They will do as I say. Where’s Llwyd Cilcoed? He goes, too.” But Llwyd could not be found.

Llwynarth, Rheged

U
RIEN WOKE AND
leapt from his bed, his warrior instincts hum- ming. Ellirri stirred and opened eyes heavy with sleep. They had gotten to sleep late, though they had gone to bed early. Dis- tracted though he was, Urien had time to grin in remembrance. It had been a wonderful evening.

But now something was coming. They did not speak, but dressed hastily. So quick were they that they were ready when the door burst open and their son Elphin, the only one of their children still left in the city, ran into the room. They had al- ready sent the others away, dispatching Owein south just a week before in the company of Trystan and sending Enid and Rhi- wallon to nearby Coed Addien in the care of their steward.

Taking Ellirri’s hand, Urien clattered down the stairs, Elphin following as they rushed into the crowded courtyard. Teleri, commanding in Trystan’s absence, had gathered all the soldiers. She walked up to Urien calmly, and crisply reported that his warband was ready.

Before he could frame a reply, a glowing horse appeared on the top of the fortress wall. The
fi
gure of a man stood up in the stirrups. His pale face glowed, and his blood-red eyes shone brightly in the dark night. He lifted a glowing spear above his head. “People of Llwynarth,” the apparition shouted. “The enemy is coming! Prepare to
fi
ght. Prepare to die!” The horse reared up and neighed
fi
ercely. Then it sprang from the wall and was lost to their sight.

“Teleri,” Urien said swiftly, “it will be as we planned. The enemy will not reach the city for another six days. Take your contingents and position yourselves just off the Sarn Ermyn road. Harass them as you can. I will gather the levies that are coming from Amgoed and Gwinionydd, and march out to meet them before they reach Llwynarth. We’ll probably en- gage them around Peris.”

A cry rose up from outside the gates. Urien bolted to the closed doors, lifted the heavy bar, and
fl
ung it aside. He pushed the doors open as a stream of people came running. They car- ried the body of a man and gently laid him down at Urien’s feet. The man’s arm was hanging at an awkward angle. Blood poured down his face. “Fetch Bledri,” Urien said to Elphin.

His son took off at a dead run.

The man reached out a feeble hand and clutched his tunic. “King Urien?”

“Don’t try to talk. The doctor’s coming.”

“No time,” the man whispered.

“Da!” Elphin panted, “Mam says Bledri is gone!”

With a supreme effort, the dying man spoke again. “Mor- cant. Morcant Whledig. On the road. To the south.”

Urien’s brows raised. Morcant was the Lord of Penrhyn. Urien had already prepared for the defense of Rheged and had ordered Morcant to, when the time came, take his warriors and defend the south coast. What was he doing here near Llwyn- arth? He must have decided that defending the city would be more fun. Urien would have Morcant’s ears for that. “Yes, he’s on the road,” Urien replied in a soothing tone. “He brings his men to me to
fi
ght the enemy.”

“No,” the man whispered. “He brings his men to
fi
ght you.”

Gwent, Rheged

O
WEIN
’
S EYES POPPED
open. High above him the uncaring stars gleamed bright and cold. He frowned. Something had woken him. He sat up next to the dying camp
fi
re. All around him, men and women were stirring, coming awake. Beside him, Trystan sprang up, reaching for his sword.

Owein found himself on his feet, his spear in his hand. He looked around frantically, trying to pinpoint the source of the horse’s hooves that were coming so swiftly. But it was useless. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere.

All around him, his warriors waited, gripping their weap- ons tensely, peering into the dark night. Suddenly a pale horse came rushing down to them from the night sky like a falling star. The
fi
gure of a man stood up in the stirrups, raising a shining spear.

“Warriors of Rheged,” it said with a huge and terrible

voice. “The enemy comes! To arms, warriors. Now is the time to
fi
ght!” Then the horse sped off into the night.

“Oh, gods, she tricked us!” Owein said. “Who tricked us?” Trystan asked, puzzled.

“Mam,” he said grimly. “She sent us away, just at the right time!”