Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  AS HAVGAN AND Wulf faced each other on the field, the shouts of the crowd sounded far away. Wulf grinned unpleasantly at Havgan as they waited for the signal to begin the fight.

  Eorl Wiglaf and his retainers stood on a wooden platform at the edge of the field. Sigerric stood with the rest of his warband to the right of the platform, while Wulf’s warband gathered on the left. The field was ringed with spectators, and the noonday sun beat down mercilessly, making the air heavy and still.

  Havgan’s byrnie of interwoven metal covered his body down to mid-thigh, and beneath it his tunic and breeches clung to him like a second skin. His plain helm was like any other warrior’s—fashioned of metal with the tiny figure of a boar at the top. His shield was painted with a boar’s head in the middle, and four rays twisting out from the boar to the edge of the shield. He was wearing the Eorl’s colors of red and gold, while Wulf wore black and green. Havgan gripped his broadsword by the hilt, his elbow bent, letting the sword trail over his right shoulder in the warrior’s fighting stance.

  Wulf grinned again at Havgan. “Fisherman’s son, I hope you have said your prayers to the God. Today you will die, for I will take no pleas for mercy from a churl.”

  Havgan didn’t bother to answer. He would rather save his strength for the fight. And Wulf’s taunts meant nothing to him, for he had heard it all before.

  At last, the Eorl drew his sword and lifted the huge, scarred blade high. “Now do these two champions meet,” he bellowed. “These champions will fight until one is dead. Havgan, son of Hengist, and Wulf, son of Wulfbald, do you understand the terms?”

  Both men nodded. “Then,” the Eorl declared, “let the battle begin.”

  Havgan and Wulf began to circle each other, looking for their chance. Both men held their shields close to their bodies, just under their eyes. Quick as a snake, Wulf feinted left, and as Havgan’s shield moved a fraction to counter, Wulf’s sword slipped under the shield, catching Havgan in the ribs with the flat of the blade. Havgan leapt back, then moved swiftly forward again, grinding his shield against Wulf’s. Havgan moved his shield to the left, forcing Wulf’s shield to move away and swung his sword in low, catching Wulf in the leg. Immediately, Wulf pulled back, and the two men circled each other again.

  Wulf grinned again, though sweat left a sickly sheen on his face and his leg was bleeding. “It will soon be over with you, peasant. No mercy for you. I promise you that.”

  Again, Havgan said nothing. If Wulf wished to use his energy in talk, that was all right with him. He felt very strange, abstracted and detached from the business at hand, as though he watched the battle from far away. He knew he must concentrate on the battle, but he could not. In his mind’s eye a crossroads loomed before him, a curious picture of two paths coming together under a darkening, stormy sky.

  As Wulf opened his mouth for another taunt, Havgan moved in and caught Wulf’s shield with the edge of his own. Pulling with all his might, he flipped Wulf’s shield up and away from Wulf’s body. Even as he did so, his sword came down at an arc, knocking against Wulf’s helmet with a ringing sound. Wulf leapt back, shaking his head to clear it.

  “Time now for you to die, peasant,” Wulf spat and leapt forward, hammering with shield and sword, driving Havgan back with the fury of his onslaught.

  Havgan fell, tripped up by Wulf’s shield cutting below his knees. And Wulf stood over him, his sword rising, glittering balefully, beginning the deadly arc that would end with the blade buried in his heart.

  No! Havgan cried silently in panic. It must not end like this! And so he let the dark thing inside him reach up and out. Wulf’s blade stayed unmoving, high in the air, stilled for an all too brief moment.

  And in that moment, those watching the battle thought only that Wulf was playing with his victim, savoring Havgan’s moment of helplessness. They did not know that Wulf’s muscles had frozen. They did not know that, for all his striving, Wulf could not make the blade fall. And in those few seconds, Havgan rolled to his feet, grasped his shield and sword, and the dark thing receded, releasing Wulf from his bonds.

  Wulf’s eyes were wide and shocked. “You! How did you—” but it was too late to ask such questions. Havgan was upon him, pushing Wulf back, back, farther back with shield and sword. For now Havgan was well and truly focused on the battle. And now he showed himself as the great warrior he was.

  In the end, it was easy. Just his warrior’s training, no dark thing, just his sword and his shield as he beat Wulf to the ground, laid his foot on Wulf’s gasping chest, and plunged his sword through this man who now knew him for what he was.

  Suddenly, his warband surrounded him. Cheering him, they lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him from the field, through the city streets, and to Eahl Aecesdun, the temple of the city. The crowd followed shouting, singing, and tossing flowers to Havgan as he was carried by.

  The inside of the temple was dark to eyes accustomed to the sun. Whitred, the Byshop of Cantware, stood next to the altar as Havgan was carried to the front bench and deposited, none too gently, upon it. Sigerric, Talorcan, Baldred, Penda, and Catha all sat down next to him, as they continued to clap him on the back and congratulate him on his victory.

  The crowds filed in, quieting down now, for the atmosphere of the God’s temple dampened their enthusiasm. Wiglaf himself stamped in, followed by his three alders and his nephew, Sledda.

  The ceiling of the huge temple, held up by eight pillars, hung dark and shadowy overhead; its rich carvings a dizzying array of light and dark wood lost in the twisting shadows and fitful light. The pillars and walls were carved with the shapes of dragons, boars, eagles, and bulls, and some animals that there were no names for. So real were these carved figures that they seemed frozen into the walls themselves, trapped there for eternity at the whim of Lytir, the One God.

  The stone altar by which Byshop Whitred stood was draped with a fine, white cloth, on which the golden runes for Lytir gleamed in the light of four white candles set at each corner of the altar. The altar was set with a drinking horn on the left, and the blot bowl, the bowl used to catch the bull’s blood, sat mutely on the right. The hwitel, the ritual knife, glowed wickedly. The pit in front of the altar was uncovered, and nothing could be clearly seen in its shadowy depths, though it seemed that deep inside a darker shadow shifted. Two men stood by the pit, both holding burning torches. One man held his torch up; the other held his torch pointing down to the floor.

  At last the aisle cleared as the crowd took their seats on the wooden benches. Byshop Whitred had tonsured blond hair and large blue eyes. His robe was green, and his sleeves fell away from his heavily muscled arms as he raised his hands to begin the ritual. “Praise now to the Guardian of Heofen, the power of Lytir and his mind-plans who fashioned the beginning of every wonder.”

  And the crowd responded, “Eternal Lord.”

  “He made first heaven as a roof,” Whitred intoned.

  “Holy Creator,” was the response, rushing from hundreds of throats.

  “Then made Middle-Earth as a dwelling place for men.”

  “Master Almighty,” the reverent crowd chanted.

  Then the Byshop shed his robe, picked up the knife and bowl from the altar, and, clad only in a white loincloth, jumped silently into the pit.

  From the pit came a bull’s angry bellow, rebounding throughout the temple as the bull and man fought for life. The two torchbearers stood impassively as the battle went on. The crowd was hushed and still. Then the bull gave a final bellow, and all was silent. A preost shuffled to the edge of the pit, lowering a small ladder into that pool of darkness. Triumphantly Whitred emerged, clutching the knife and the bowl, which was full of blood.

  Cheers rang out as the Byshop calmly handed the knife and bowl to the preost and put back on his robe. The preost poured the blood into the drinking horn and passed the horn first to Havgan as he sat on the front bench. As Havgan took a sip and passed the cup to Sigerric, he began to think again.

 
; He was still stunned by his good fortune, for his waking mind had already made him forget that the dark thing had brought him escape earlier in the battle. He thought only that he had won. That today he would be Gewinnan Daeg King, and wear the golden helm of victory. That today was the crossroads, the day that the God would send him a message that would set him on the right path and help him to fulfill a glorious destiny.

  At that moment he became conscious of a buzzing in his ears that he could not dispel. No, it was more of a murmur, the words too low and indistinct to be understood. Was this it, then? His message from the God? He concentrated harder, and almost he could understand. He strained to make the words clear, but his concentration was broken as, when the crowd had finished drinking the bull’s blood, Whitred took the golden helmet and came to stand before him.

  “Today is Gewinnin Daeg, the Day of the Conqueror,” Whitred said. “This is the day when we honor the great Lytir, the hero who won every tournament, who was victorious in every battle, until he sailed away to Heofen. In his honor, we choose the strongest warrior among us for this day. Today we honor Havgan, son of Hengist, who has won the helm of Lytir.” While he said this, Whitred held out the golden helm, fashioned like the head of a boar with large, ruby eyes. The light washed over the helm, as though it was made of pure fire. Slowly, Havgan reached out to it, and then set it on his golden head.

  “We have not in life set eyes on a man with more might in his frame than this helmed lord,” the Byshop continued, his hands upraised. “Between the seas, south or north, over earth’s stretch, no other man beneath sky’s shifting excels this warrior.”

  “All hail to Lytir’s heir,” the crowd shouted. “All hail to the Gewinnan Daeg King!”

  As he heard these words, Havgan’s heart felt near to bursting with pride, for the fisherman’s son had won a great honor. And it was at that moment, when his joy was at its height, that the muttered words in his mind became clear to him.

  Death to all witches, the voice said clearly. It is not enough to bring death to witches in the Coranian Empire. We must bring death to those in Kymru, that blighted island. We must take Kymru back, we who once held it, and cleanse the land of taint.

  And Havgan closed his eyes with the knowledge. This was it. This was ansuz, his message from the God that had been promised him. He could see it all now so clearly. He could see the stepping stones to power. He would become Bana, the Slayer, the war leader to all of the Coranian Empire. He would marry the emperor’s daughter, and the might of all Corania would be his for the asking. He would hunt the witches in Kymru and kill them all, every one. And perhaps, if he did that, the black thing inside him would diminish and be gone from him. The One God will not turn from me, he thought, if I come to him with the blood of witches on my hands.

  THE CROWD CARRIED Havgan off then for the feast in his honor, and the temple emptied. One man only remained, sitting on his bench staring at the altar. Sledda, wyrce-jaga, hunter of witches, had not really been paying any attention to the ceremony at all, and did not realize that he was alone in the temple. His thoughts were concentrated on one thing only. That, more than anything, he wished to go to Kymru where witches abounded, to hunt and kill them for his God. His thoughts buzzed and shot out from him like arrows, to be buried in the hearts of those who knew how to listen. Death to all witches, he thought. It is not enough to bring death to witches in the Coranian Empire. We must bring death to those in Kymru, that blighted island. We must take Kymru back, we who once held it, and cleanse the land of taint.

  Gwyntdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—early evening

  GWYDION, THE DREAMER of Kymru, was on the floor of his study in the Dreamer’s Tower of Caer Dathyl. He was crouched on all fours, growling, baring his teeth at his prey. She shrieked and ran away as quickly as her legs could carry her. But he leapt forward and caught her at the door. She raised her hand and, with an unintelligible sound, called for Druid’s Fire. His back arched as the invisible missile hit him and he went down, moaning.

  The fire from the hearth flickered over the book-lined walls as she crept to him cautiously, looking down at him as he lay prone on the rich rug of red and black. His close-cropped, black beard shadowed the lower half of his handsome face, and his eyes were closed.

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes and smiled, and she crowed with delight. He sat up, and she put her arms around his neck to ensure that he was all right. Her nearly toothless grin was wide and happy.

  “So,” he said with a laugh, “the great Cariadas, heir to the Dreamer of Kymru, has defeated the terrible monster! You win, my daughter. Savor your victory!”

  She laughed again, her one-year-old fresh face delighted. Her red-gold hair clung to her head in riotous curls and her gray eyes, so like his, were sparkling with glee.

  They heard footsteps outside the study door and looked at each other, both with mock terror on their faces.

  “Oh, no!” Gwydion cried. “She’s come to take you! Well, I will not let her, not I!” He leapt up, Cariadas in his arms, and faced the door. “Fear not, fair maiden!” he went on. “For I will protect you!”

  The study door opened, and Dinaswyn, Gwydion’s aunt, stood there, her arms on her hips, a scowl on her face. Her dark hair, lightly touched by frost, was held back from her face by a red ribbon, and her gray eyes were sparkling with irritation.

  “She should have been in bed an hour ago,” Dinaswyn accused.

  “I wanted to spend more time with her. I haven’t been back very long,” Gwydion protested. “And I was a long time away.”

  “Nonetheless, it is past her bedtime,” Dinaswyn insisted. “And you’ve been back for over a week. Not, of course, that I have any idea where you were.”

  Gwydion sighed to himself. That he had not told Dinaswyn exactly where he had been still rankled. Knowing his aunt, it always would. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her as much as it was that he needed to distance himself from her. He had been the Dreamer of Kymru now for four years, and she still seemed to have trouble remembering that.

  Besides, where he had been and what he had been doing was far too secret to be bandied about. He had recently taken young Arthur, the Prince of Gwynedd, from Tegeingl and deposited the boy in the care of Myrrdin in the tiny village of Dinas Emrys. And that was something he wanted no one to know who didn’t have to. And Dinaswyn didn’t have to.

  “Where I have been and what I have been doing is surely my business,” he said coolly.

  “As I well know,” Dinaswyn replied as she crossed to him and took Cariadas from his arms. “Now, little one,” Dinaswyn said softly to the little girl, “say good-night to your da and go to bed.”

  Cariadas yawned and leaned forward to put her little arms around Gwydion’s neck. She kissed his cheek then nestled against Dinaswyn’s chest, her eyelids already drooping. He smiled as he gently stroked her hair, then whispered his good-night.

  Dinaswyn turned and went to the study door. She hesitated a moment, then turned around. “I see the signs,” she said quietly. “You will dream tonight. If there is need, call me.”

  “I will,” he said, knowing that he wouldn’t.

  She knew it, too, but did not say it. She left, cradling the already-sleeping Cariadas.

  She was right. The signs were there. He had been restless all day, and had been having trouble concentrating. There was a dream awaiting him, and it was an important one, as he had learned to judge these matters.

  He climbed the steps leading to Ystafell Yr Arymes, the Chamber of Prophecy at the top of the Dreamer’s Tower. When he entered the room, he lifted his hand and called Druid’s Fire. Blue and orange flames immediately flickered from the brazier that stood next to the simple pallet in the middle of the room. Sapphires, pearls, opals, and emeralds glittered around the four round windows that pierced the tower walls. Onyx and bloodstone gleamed from the floor as he crossed over to the pallet.

  He discarded his robe and lay down, his hands behind his head, eyeing the constellations that glittered t
hrough the glass roof of the chamber. His eyes picked out the constellation of Arderydd, the High Eagle, the sign of the High Kings of Kymru. He thought of young Arthur, safe for the moment, in the tiny mountain village of Dinas Emrys. He wondered again what terrible thing the future had in store that a new High King had been born to combat it. He knew that it would be revealed to him in time, and he hoped with all his heart that he would be able to meet whatever challenge was in store.

  Still looking up at the stars, he recited the Dreamer’s prayer:

  “Annwyn with me laying down, Aertan with me sleeping.

  The white flame of Nantsovelta in my soul,

  The mantle of Modron about my shoulders,

  The protection of Taran over me, taking my hand,

  And in my heart, the fire of Mabon.

  If malice should threaten my life

  Then the Shining Ones between me and evil.

  From tonight till a year from tonight,

  And this very night,

  And forever,

  And for eternity.

  Awen.”

  And then he slept, as the waning moon bathed him in its dying, silvery beams.

  HE WAS STANDING at the crossroads. On either side of the road, tall grass stretched to the horizon as far as he could see. Wind rippled the grass, creating patterns that lay just beyond the edge of understanding. Around and around the wind played, drawing shapes that constantly flickered and vanished, shifting over and over across the plain.

  Storm clouds hovered, piled high in the darkening sky. The threatening black and purple clouds were laced with flashes of lightning. But there was no rain. And no sound other than the wind whipping mercilessly past him as he stood at the crossroads, unable to go on.

  It was here that the road parted. The road leading to the right stretched out to the horizon, shining with a warm, steady glow in the flickering light of the gathering storm. Wide and straight, it was a safe path, the one he wanted to take. The one he would have taken, if he could only move. But, somehow, the decision was not his to make.