by Holly Taylor
“I told you once before, but you didn’t believe me,” he went on as though she had not spoken. “You didn’t think I would just let it go, did you?”
“I thought—and do think—that you don’t know what you are saying,” she said firmly.
“I won’t wait forever, Achren, for you to decide to believe me. And, unlike every other man you have ever met, I don’t fear you.”
“This is hardly the time or the place to—” she began.
But she was wrong. For this was exactly the time and place. This moment, before he cast the die and risked everything on the throw he was making here this morning. The end of this day would see him either restored to his own hall or dead in it. And it was that knowledge that drove him now as he reached out, pulled her to him, and fastened his lips over hers.
The kiss was sweet, sweeter than he had thought possible. He held her tightly against him, feeling every line and curve of her body against his. Her mouth parted beneath his questing lips and he moaned softly as he held her even tighter.
He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, savoring the taste of her. At last he released her and they were both breathless. “Now do you believe me?” he asked.
“Rhoram,” she began.
He released her and crossed the room, softly opening the door. “When you get her bring her to me,” he said. “You know where I will be.” Before he stepped out into the night he looked back at her. “Oh, and save my place,” he grinned. “Because I’ll be back to take up where I left off.”
And then he slipped out into the courtyard of Caer Tir. He did not look back.
HE CROSSED THE silent courtyard swiftly, melting into the shadows that were cast by the flickering torches set at intervals along the fortress walls. Dense, pale fog covered the sky, cutting off visibility.
The watchtower was only a few feet from the walls of the king’s ystafell, so Rhoram did not have far to go to reach his destination. He crept through the narrow alleyway between the back of the ystafell and the walls of Caer Tir until he was directly beneath the second-story window of what used to be his chambers.
He pulled out the weighted, thin rope where he had secured it on his belt. He whirled the weight over his head once, twice, three times, then let it fly. It arched overhead and then snaked down, catching the eave as it did so, wrapping securely around the protruding wood. He pulled down on it to ensure it was fastened tightly. He wrapped the rope around his forearm, then began to climb up the wall.
When he reached the second-story window he pulled his dagger from his belt and deftly flicked the catch. He soundlessly opened the casement outward, then climbed inside.
He knew the room well, so he easily avoided the furniture in the darkened chamber, creeping silently until he stood at the foot of the huge bed. By the light of the stars he barely made out the outline on the coverlet—a wolf’s head worked in black on a dark green background. The sleeper’s even breathing seemed to make the wolf’s head nod back at him, as though the animal bade him go on.
Rhoram softly made his way to the fireplace and stirred the glowing coals, laying a log on top of them. Flames licked at the wood then grew to illuminate the chamber. The sleeper stirred but did not awaken.
Rhoram opened the oaken chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out the scabbard he saw lying on top. He pulled the blade from the scabbard and tossed the naked blade onto the end of the bed. Then he drew his own sword with a steely hiss.
The sleeper awoke. His red hair was awry; his small piglike eyes widened at the sight of Rhoram and his scar whitened on his face.
“Wake up, Erfin,” Rhoram said softly. “Wake up and die.”
Erfin, who, for all his cowardice always retained a great deal of cunning sprang to the end of the bed, snatched up the sword, and rolled over the coverlet to the floor in one fluid movement.
Rhoram did not move; he merely watched Erfin. “Did you think I was going to stop you?” he asked softly. “Then you are indeed a fool.”
“You are the fool,” Erfin snarled. “You should have killed me while I slept.”
“I wanted to,” Rhoram said in a confidential tone. “I really did. But High King Arthur thought it would be best to kill you in a duel. He felt I would enjoy that more.”
“A duel? Did you learn nothing from last time?”
“I learned a great deal. And more since then,” Rhoram answered gently. “Now, brother mine, fight me.”
“I don’t have to fight you,” Erfin sneered. “I only have to raise my voice and guards will come running.”
“I’m afraid not,” Rhoram said apologetically. “For your guards are dead by now.”
“Achren,” Erfin said flatly.
“Indeed,” Rhoram agreed. “You are, nonetheless, welcome to try to summon help. As a matter of fact, I think I might like that.”
“Rhoram,” Erfin began, licking his lips nervously. “Brother-in-law, remember our common kin. My sister, your wife. By our laws if you kill me you would be guilty of fratricide. The punishment by the gods for that is severe.”
“The punishment, Erfin, for betraying one’s king is even more so,” Rhoram countered. “And by Kymric law she is no longer my wife. For she deserted me and sought to betray me. Therefore you are no longer my brother. Say goodbye to this world, Erfin. For the next awaits you.”
Rhoram sprang forward, his sword glittering. Erfin brought up his blade and the fight was joined. The two men fought back and forth across the room, Rhoram raining blows that Erfin barely deflected in time.
“You are slower, Erfin, than last time,” Rhoram taunted. “Consorting with the enemy has made you fat.”
Erfin did not have the breath to answer, but neither did he stop parrying the blows. But he was so sorely beset by Rhoram that he could not even attempt to do anything other than defend himself. Attack was out of the question.
At last Rhoram tired of baiting the man and determined to make an end. With a swing of his sword he sent Erfin’s blade flying across the room. He backed Erfin up against the wall, the point of his blade set against Erfin’s chest. A bright bead of blood blossomed on Erfin’s white nightshirt.
“Brother,” Erfin panted. “I am unarmed. You would kill me now? Without a chance to defend myself?”
“Do you think this some kind of game? You had your chance to defend yourself. And you lost.”
“Rhoram—” Erfin began.
But Rhoram did not let him finish. He thrust the blade forward into Erfin’s heart. Blood gushed from Erfin’s mouth and his astonished eyes widened in pain, then glazed over as he sank to the floor.
Rhoram pulled his blade from Erfin’s chest and contemptuously wiped it on Erfin’s nightshirt, never taking his gaze off his dying brother-in-law. He smiled as the spirit fled Erfin’s eyes, beginning its journey to the Land of Summer. Once there Erfin would be judged by Aertan the Weaver. Rhoram did not doubt that the judgement would be harsh, the penalty severe.
The door of the chamber burst open. A stumbling figure was thrust into the room, landing at Rhoram’s feet. The second figure stepped in to the room calmly and closed the door.
“Efa,” Rhoram said to the woman who sprawled on the floor where Achren had flung her. “How nice to see you again.”
“Rhoram!” Efa exclaimed as she rose shakily to her feet. She wore a night-robe of forest green, embroidered with gold thread. Her rich, red hair was unbound, flowing over her gown in a fiery cascade.
He glanced over at his Captain and smiled. “Any trouble?” he asked.
“Not a bit,” Achren replied. “The guards are dead. And so, I see, is Erfin.”
“So he is,” Rhoram agreed.
Efa, Rhoram’s one-time queen, raised her hands to her mouth and gasped as she saw the bloody carcass of her brother. She raised her beautiful, velvety brown eyes to Rhoram and he saw her pull herself back from the hysteria that was rising to the surface. He saw her begin to calculate her effect on him, and how she might be able to use it.
He
considered stopping her before she even began, but reconsidered. This might even be better than killing Erfin.
“Rhoram,” Efa whispered. “You killed him. Oh, cariad, I’m glad you killed him.”
“You are glad I killed him,” Rhoram repeated.
“Yes. Oh, yes. He held me a virtual prisoner here. Did you really think I had deserted you? Oh, yes, I did think to do it. But just for a time. Just until I was sure you were sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“For how badly you treated me. Did you think I didn’t know about your other women?”
“Of course I thought you knew,” Rhoram said. “You have always known. And never cared.”
“Oh, but I did!”
“You cared about being Queen of Prydyn,” he said flatly. “That is all you ever cared for.”
“Oh, cariad, you are wrong. Wrong about me.”
He stepped forward and gazed down at Efa for a few moments, long enough for a sensuous smile, for hope, to dawn on that lovely face. At last he spoke. “High King Arthur has commanded me to spare you,” he said softly. “If it were not for that you would be dead by now.”
“You would kill me? Your wife?”
“You are no longer my wife. And I would indeed kill you—as payment for the lives you took. I have been told of how you used your knowledge of Arberth and its people to betray the Y Dawnus to the Coranians. It is only my duty to my High King that persuades me to let you live.”
He signaled to Achren and stepped back. Without a word his captain swiftly and efficiently bound and gagged the former Queen of Prydyn.
“Now we go?” Achren asked.
“Now we go,” Rhoram replied.
AFTER BINDING EFA securely and leaving her in Erfin’s rooms, Rhoram and Achren made their way from the ystafell and across the courtyard to the gate, keeping to the shadows. Achren swiftly dispatched the guard at the gate, and the two of them slipped through. Rhoram turned back as they moved out of Caer Tir and into the city. The golden doors gleamed even in the heavy fog. The wolf’s head outlined in onyx seemed to shimmer, and the emerald eyes glittered balefully.
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.
NOON 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 me
rcy, 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.”
