May Earth Rise (33 page)

The two made their way through the silent, fog-shrouded city. Yet though the city was silent, it was not asleep. Everywhere they passed they saw dark figures melting out of the houses, weapons in hand, their movements masked by the fog that the Druids, under Arthur’s direction, were creating. The people of Arberth did not speak as their king passed by but they raised their hands in greeting, and nodded. There were no guards to avoid, for the regular patrols were long dead at the hands of the Kymri. The day they had waited for had come at last, and they had wasted no time.

They passed the place where Nemed Collen, the sacred grove of hazel trees, had once stood. A temple to Lytir brooded uneasily on the hallowed ground. Rhoram let it stand for now. Soon it would be gone. They came to a halt at the east gate. In the distance a wolf howled. Other wolves took up the cry. The fog seemed to thicken.

On the other side of this gate one-third of his Cerddorian army massed, led by his son, Geriant. Outside of the north gate another third waited, led by his Lieutenant, Aidan. The last third waited outside the southern gate, lead by Lluched, the Gwarda of Creuddyn.

They were ready. At last. To take back what was theirs.

He took Achren’s hand in his and kissed her palm. Her hand curved to fit his cheek and he smiled down at her, delighted at this proof of tenderness. She smiled back and nodded. At that moment a wolf howled, breaking the stillness.

Instantly the fog over the city lifted. The huge iron bars that locked the gates shot up into the air and the gates burst open, impelled by the power of the Druids who fought on his side this time. Armed Cerddorian, shouting Rhoram’s name, poured into the city.

Geriant strode through the gates, a golden helmet in his hands. He knelt before his father and offered it up to him. Rhoram solemnly took the helmet fashioned in the shape of a wolf’s head with emerald eyes. He set it on his head and motioned for his son to rise. Just then a pack of huge, black wolves burst through the gate, mingling freely and fearlessly with the Cerddorian. Their leader, the largest wolf Rhoram had ever seen, halted before him. The wolf’s dark eyes glittered in the sudden dawn. Rhoram stretched out his hand and the wolf sniffed it. Then the beast lifted his head and howled again as hundreds of wolves answered the call. Then the animals sprang forward into the city, hunting Coranian prey.

And Rhoram joined them.

N
OON FOUND RHORAM
seated in the Great Hall. His massive chair, canopied with velvety cloth of forest green and embroidered with gold threads and emeralds, had been brought into the hall from his receiving chamber and set on the dais. Around his neck the torque of the rulers of Prydyn glittered with gold and emeralds. He discarded his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked golden hair. His blue eyes glittered as he surveyed the hall he had not sat in for almost three years.

The boar’s head banner of red and gold had been taken down and his own wolf’s head banner had been put back in its place. The black wolf’s head worked on a field of forest green fringed with gold seemed to survey the huge hall with satisfaction as its emerald eyes glittered.

Geriant stood to the right of the massive chair, his sword drawn and ready. His tunic of forest green was streaked with blood, as was Rhoram’s, but it was all Coranian blood and he moved freely, satisfying Rhoram that his son had taken no hurt. To his left Achren stood, and her sword was also drawn, her tunic blood splattered. Yet she, too, had come through this day with only minor wounds.

Ellywen stood at the foot of the dais. Although the hem of her Druid’s robe was soaked in blood the woman appeared to be as cool and composed as ever. Rhoram’s Dewin, Cadell, stood next to Ellywen, his brown eyes calm as he surveyed the hall.

Rhoram’s counselor and dearest friend, Dafydd Penfro, stood next to Ellywen. In this battle even Dafydd Penfro, who was not a warrior, had taken part, for he would not be stopped. He now mounted the steps, a brimming cup of wine in his steady hands. Emeralds flashed from the golden goblet as Dafydd knelt before Rhoram, offering the cup.

Rhoram took it and swallowed the contents of the cup in a few gulps. He rose and turned the cup over to show he had drunk it all and his warriors, gathered throughout the hall, cheered.

Arberth was theirs again. Not only Arberth, but all of Prydyn was free. For the Bards had brought him word that Marared, Achren’s sister, had been victorious in Brycheiniog. And Dadweir Heavy-Hand had retaken Brychan. Morfydd, the Lady of Elfed, had been released and led her warriors against the enemy, freeing her cantref. Rheu Rhywdd, Lord of Gwarthaf, had also been freed and had retaken his cantref. In Aeron, forces lead by Eisywed of Anhuniog had swept through the cantref, and the enemy had fled before her.

“Bring the prisoners in,” Rhoram called out as the cheers died. “Bring them, to receive the king’s justice.”

At his words he saw Aidan push a man in front of him through the crowd, Aidan’s dagger at the man’s neck. The man wore a black robe with a tabard of green, now torn and stained. His white-blond hair was sweat-soaked and pressed to his pale scalp. His dark eyes glittered with a mixture of fear and contempt.

When Aidan and his prisoner reached the bottom of the dais Aidan flung the man face forward on the steps, for his hands were bound behind him. The man pulled himself to his knees and looked up at Rhoram with hatred.

“Well, Master-wyrce-jaga,” Rhoram said softly. “How does it feel to be a prisoner? Much like, I think, the Y Dawnus you captured and sent to their deaths these past three years.”

Eamer of Geddingas, Master-wyrce-jaga of Prydyn, spat at Rhoram’s feet. Quick as lightening Achren flew at the man, grabbing him by his hair and pulling his head back to expose his throat. The tip of her dagger dug into his skin and blood welled. She looked up at Rhoram, waiting for his signal.

“Eamer of Corania,” he said softly. “I regret that we can only kill you once, for many lives have been lost due to you. It is far too late for you to learn mercy, and I have no intention of attempting to teach you. The ‘witches’ of Kymru will remember the moment you lost your life with a smile. That gift I can give them. And will.”

At Rhoram’s nod Achren slit the wyrce-jaga’s throat. Blood gushed from his neck as he fell forward. Two warriors stepped up and grabbed the dying man’s body, hauling it away from the hall and down the steps to the great bonfire that burned in the center of the courtyard of Caer Tir. Eamer tried to scream but it was impossible with a severed windpipe. The two warriors threw the body in and the fire roared as it reached for the pale flesh.

Back in the hall Dafydd Penfro called out. “Bring in the next prisoner!”

At this Lluched, the Gwarda of Creuddyn, came into the hall, pushing a man before her who was dressed in a stained and rumpled robe of green. The man’s dark hair hung lankly on either side of his fat face and his beady eyes were filled with terror.

Lluched halted with the man at the bottom of the steps and forced the man to his knees. She then planted her foot on the small of his back and pushed him forward so that he lay prone.

“Bow before the King of Prydyn, fool,” she hissed. Out of the corner of his eyes Rhoram saw Aidan smile fondly at Lluched.

“Whitred of Sceaping, one-time Byshyp of Prydyn, what have you to say to us? For surely you can think of something to say that will make us want to spare you,” Rhoram said.

Whitred rose to his knees, looking up at Rhoram, the dawn of hope in his eyes. “Do not kill me, King Rhoram,” Whitred begged, his voice shaking. “For I can be of use to you.”

“How so?” Rhoram asked, feigning interest.

“I could tell you many things,” he said, licking his lips.

“Such as?”

“The location of Coranian soldiers throughout Prydyn, their strength and numbers. Their battle plans. That at least must be worth a great deal.”

Rhoram sighed. “Well, it would, Whitred, if it weren’t for the fact that these soldiers are all either dead or in retreat to Eiodel.”

Whitred gasped and turned even paler.

“Of course, all the wyrce-jaga are dead. Them we will not spare. Do you see, now, Whitred, that your information is useless? Still, you offered it and that is of value. Valuable enough, perhaps, to spare your life.”

“You won’t regret it,” Whitred began, eagerly.

“Except for one thing,” Rhoram went on, as though Whitred had not spoken. “My Druid, Ellywen ur Saidi, tells me that you have some very unpleasant habits. Habits that involve young boys of my city.”

Whitred’s face fell and tears gathered in his eyes.

“So you see, Whitred,” Rhoram said in a confidential tone, “I can’t possibly let you live. Nor will we kill you as swiftly as we killed Eamer. For these boys will never forget what was done to them. For that you will pay for a long, long time.”

At Rhoram’s gesture two more warriors grabbed Whitred by the arms, hauling him to his feet. The Byshyp began to blubber as they pulled him through the crowd of warriors, many of whom spat on him in contempt. They pushed him down the steps and into the courtyard. His hands were already bound with iron, and they bound his feet also. With a mighty shout they flung him into the fire. Whitred’s screams pierced the noonday sky and the smell of burnt flesh spiraled with the smoke up into the clean air.

At Rhoram’s nod Geriant left the dais and brought in the last prisoner. The man walked through the crowd of warriors with his head held high. Chains bound his hands in front of him. His sweat-soaked, dark blond hair framed his pale face but his dark eyes were unafraid as he halted at the bottom of the dais.

“Penda of Lindisfarne,” Rhoram said solemnly.

“Rhoram of Prydyn,” Penda replied, bowing his head briefly.

Ellywen stepped forward to stand next to Penda. “My King,” Ellywen said, bowing. “I beg a boon from you. I, who have no right to beg for anything.”

“What would you, Ellywen?” Rhoram asked. Though he had a pretty good idea of what his Druid was going to say.

“I beg that you spare this man’s life. For he has spared mine. If not for him I would be in Afalon, dead by now. True, he set a trap for Cadell and I. But then he let Cadell go so that he might warn you that I was taken. And then he sent me to Afalon, with only two warriors for company, knowing that you would rescue me on the way and wishing to make it easier for you. I was able to lead my fellow Druids in the fight for you today only because Penda spared me. Through the strength of the High King we called the fog to hide your movements from the enemy. We unbarred the gates so your army might come into the city. We fought with our gifts today for you and our High King. Although I have no right to ask, for I owe you much, I ask in spite of that. I ask for the life of Penda of Lindisfarne. For he is an honorable man.”

Rhoram hesitated, for he, too, wanted to spare Penda. But Penda was one of Havgan’s generals and closest friends. To spare him would be, perhaps, foolish.

Do not kill Penda,
Arthur’s voice sounded in Rhoram’s mind.
Send him to Havgan. For I have a message for him to carry.

“And the message?” Rhoram asked, hiding his astonishment. He had known that Arthur was strong, but he was still shocked to see the proof of it.

Tell him this. Tell him that he must carry a message to Havgan. He must tell the Golden Man to leave Kymru. This will be one of his very last chances to leave our land alive. If Havgan does not leave he will die.

Rhoram turned to Penda. “My High King tells me that you must take a message to Havgan.”

“And the message?” Penda asked.

“Leave Kymru or die.”

“I will tell him,” Penda whispered. “But he will not leave.”

“Our High King has made his will known, and we will obey,” Rhoram said. At his nod Geriant unbound Penda’s hands. “My son will see to it that you are provisioned for your journey and that a fresh horse is given to you. We will send word throughout Kymru that you are to leave our kingdom unmolested and allowed to reach Eiodel.”

“My thanks again to you, General Penda,” Ellywen said softly, “for my life. I do not know what happened to you in your heart to lead you to do so, but I am grateful.”

“It was a dream, Ellywen,” Penda said. “A dream I had. In the dream I was freed from my oath to the Golden Man. Wuoton One-Eye himself said it was so. I will remain in Kymru until Havgan either leaves or is dead. If I am still alive by then I will return to my father in Lindisfarne. I will never again hunt the Heiden, for, in truth, I am one of them, as my father is. And I will never run from that truth again.”

“The blessings of the Protectors on you, Penda,” Ellywen said.

Penda bowed to Ellywen, then to Rhoram. Geriant led him out of the hall and gave him to two Kymric warriors to outfit and send on his way. When Geriant returned and mounted the steps, Rhoram opened his mouth to dismiss the audience. But a female voice called out, stopping him.

“Justice, King of Prydyn,” she cried. Lluched made her way through the crowd to stand at the foot of the dais. “I claim justice,” she repeated.

Rhoram’s brow rose. “And what injustice has been done to you, Lluched, that I might set right?”

Lluched’s hair, usually woven in tiny braids and bound with copper beads, was now lose and flowing around her shoulders in a dark cloud of riotous waves. Her large, dark eyes flashed. “One of your warriors has played fast and loose with me,” she claimed, “and for that he must pay.”

Rhoram’s eyes flashed to Aidan. His lieutenant’s eyes were wide with apprehension. But his mouth was trying not to curve in a smile.

“This man,” Lluched said, gesturing to Aidan, “has promised to wed me but refuses to do so.”

“I never promised that,” Aidan protested. “Not once.”

“It was implied,” Lluched said haughtily.

“In what way was it implied?” Aidan cried.

“Every time you kissed me,” Lluched replied firmly. “Every time you held me. Every time you sweet-talked me into—”

“No need to get into specifics,” Aidan said hastily. “I think we all understand.”

“Aidan,” Rhoram said, trying desperately not to laugh. “Is this true?”