by Holly Taylor
Gwydion shook his head. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling I should see it just the same.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll call you if someone comes by and looks too closely. Kneel down so it looks like you’re praying.”
Gwydion sank to his knees and bowed his head. After a moment he could feel a part of him separating from his physical body. That part of him rose and hovered for a moment, looking down at those gathered in the church. He saw his own body, limp and unobtrusively braced by Rhiannon, who knelt beside him.
He flew out of the monastery and over the mountain, looking for a spark of light to guide him to the Heiden. The star-strewn sky was clear. The full moon rode the night, its silvery beams turning the tall pine trees spread below into inky shadows.
There, to his left. A pinpoint of flame. He spiraled down closer and closer to the clearing, at last coming to rest at the very edge. He hovered, looking down at the crowd of people gathered there.
A stone altar was decorated with candles of gold and white. A gold banner with a rune of white and a white banner with a rune of gold were spread across the stone. He looked closely at the runes. They were for Fro and Freya, the Lord and Lady. These were brother and sister, the Ercar, the peaceful gods, the children of Narve, the Lord of Death, and Erce, the gentle Goddess of Peace.
A drinking horn of silver rested on the left of the altar. On the right was a bowl of gold. In the front a long knife glinted. Tiny bells strung on a peace of leather rested at the back. The trees that surrounded the clearing were hung with long ribbons of white and gold. Torches were placed in a ring around the clearing.
Gwydion studied the crowd and thought he recognized many of the people he had seen coming from the church that morning. A rough count showed there to be over a hundred people gathered here. Up front, near the altar, he saw the Eorl of Lindisfarne, surrounded by ten of his warriors. Gwydion wondered if Penda knew and thought he probably did.
The crowd, which was whispering softly, fell silent at the sound of clear, tinkling bells. A woman dressed in a robe of pure white was standing behind the altar, shaking the bells. This was the Godia, the priestess for this secret group. A man in a hooded robe of black stood next to her. He was called was the Hod, the Sacrificer. In his hands he held a falcon, tied to his wrist with leather thongs. The falcon hissed and spread his wings, but was tethered too tightly to fly.
The Godia said formally, “The Dis are with us, the gods have come. Wuotan and Donar; Fal and Fro and Logi; Dag and Mani; Saxnot and Tiw.”
The crowd responded, “Hail to the Dis.”
“The Disir are with us, the goddesses have come. Nerthus and Freya; Holda and Nehalennia; Sunna and Sif; Natt and the Wyrd.”
“Hail to the Disir.”
The Godia continued, “The Afliae are with us, the powerful ones have come. Hail to Narve, The One that Binds. Hail to Ostara, The Warrior Goddess. Hail to Erce, Gentle Mother. Hail to these, the Afliae.”
“Hail to the Afliae.”
“This is the night of Fro and Freya,” she continued. “Freya, bringer of fertility; Fro, bringer of dreams.”
“Blessed be the Lord and Lady,” the crowd said reverently.
The Godia picked up the drinking horn. Her long, blond hair sparkled in the light of the torches. Her fine, blue eyes kindled. “Drink now, ye followers of the old ways. Drink now, ye hidden, ye faithful ones.” She took a sip and passed the horn to the Eorl. He drank briefly, then passed the horn to his warriors. Slowly the horn made its way through the crowd until all had drunk.
Then the Hod, his face still hidden by his black veil, lifted the falcon in his hands.
“All hail to Lady Freya, all hail to Lord Fro.
To she who gives life, to he who gives dreams.
Accept our sacrifice.”
THE HOD GRASPED the falcon with both hands and snapped its neck. He then took the knife from the altar and cut the bird’s throat, catching the blood in a bowl. Taking up a bundle of leaves, he dipped them into the blood and sprinkled tiny drops of blood on each worshipper, making his way through the crowd. Last, he sprinkled the head of the Godia, and the blood made dark, sinuous lines in her long, blond hair. Finally, the Hod drank the remaining blood, then set the bowl down on the altar.
The Godia lifted her hands.
“A dream came to me
at deep midnight.
When humankind
kept to their beds—
the dream of dreams!
I shall declare it.”
The crowd hushed and drew closer to hear the dream given to her by Lord Fro.
“A golden boar with eyes of blood and tusks of ivory was vomited up by the sea. And the boar grew and grew until he was a giant. He crushed the Heiden under his hooves, slaughtering us until the land ran red with blood. There were many who eagerly helped him.”
The Eorl bowed his gray head, his fists clenched.
“Hatred for those Across the Water grew and grew in the golden boar’s breast, though he did not know why. Then came a raven from Across the Water, black as night with eyes of opal, a harp in his talons. He followed the golden boar, seeking a way to keep him from crossing the water. But the raven could not stop the boar.” The Godia lifted her flawless face to the night sky. Her blue eyes seemed to look right at Gwydion, though he knew it was not possible that she could see him.
The crowd was silent. Somewhere in the night, the wind began to rise. “And the boar came to the Hunt,” she continued. The crowd gasped as the wind began to blow harder. “And the raven followed.” Far off, Gwydion thought he heard muffled cries. The crowd shifted uneasily as the wind began to tug at them.
“The golden boar goes to meet the Hunt!” she cried, and then tore her robe to show an amulet of amber in the shape of a hammer. She plucked the necklace from around her throat and held it high. Just then Gwydion felt a tug, something urging him to return to his body. He resisted for a moment, wanting to hear more.
“He comes!” the Godia shouted over the keening of the wind. “He comes! Fly, raven! Fly to him now. The Hunt rides. And the Old Ones laugh!”
Thunder crashed upon the clearing, and the trees shook. Gwydion fled over the trees, through a night sky that had suddenly filled with dark clouds. The face of the moon was shrouded as thunder rumbled.
He slammed back into his body. Rhiannon was shaking him. He opened his eyes. Thunder rolled over the church, and the monks began to pray louder.
“Havgan,” Gwydion gasped. “Where is he?”
“Gone,” she hissed back. “Just this moment.”
Gwydion leapt to his feet. He grabbed her hand, and they slipped out of the church, thunder crashing in their ears. Up ahead they saw Havgan making his way out the monastery gate and up the mountain.
Lightning flared, almost blinding them as they followed Havgan through the trees. If Havgan heard them over the wind and thunder, he gave no sign. He walked swiftly, almost running. Gwydion and Rhiannon followed as quickly as they could. Still it did not rain, but the wind howled like a mad thing and flash after flash of lightning split the sky.
The trees began to thin as they neared the top of the mountain. Gwydion grabbed Rhiannon’s arm and held her back at the edge of the forest. Havgan stood now almost at the peak. Wind whipped his cloak, but he stood firm and lifted his tawny head, staring at the sky as something moved across it.
The Wild Hunt had come.
The dogs were white with blood-red eyes. They tore across the sky on the wings of lightning, baying hungry cries. Behind them rode a dark, hooded shape on a pale horse. The shape held a spear in his hand, and each time he raised the spear, lightning flickered across the sky. Next to him rode another figure in the shape of a woman with a gown of green. Seaweed hung from her tawny hair. A girdle of pearls encircled her slim waist. Her eyes were many-colored—now sea green, now the blue of a calm lake, now the gray of angry waves. She raised a horn to her lips and blew, and as she did, thunder rumbled. The wind had the smell of t
he sea as it tore across the sky and swooped down the mountain. Behind these two figures, skeletal horses with fiery eyes fanned out across the sky. Hooded riders with hands of white bone screamed of despair and madness.
The Hunt swooped, and the dogs scrambled down the mountain peak. They crouched and growled, crawling on their bellies close to where Havgan stood. The hooded figure on his gray horse swooped down and landed in front of Havgan, who did not flinch. The women’s horse landed next, while the skeletal horses and their riders remained in the sky.
The cloaked figure threw back his hood. His hair and beard were long and gray. A scar twisted up one cheek, disappearing into an empty eye socket. The other eye was filled with lightning. “Mortal,” the figure said, his voice like the rushing wind. “I claim you for my own!”
“Wuotan One-Eye!” Havgan shouted, “you cannot. I belong to the One God!”
Wuotan, the God of Magic, laughed and thunder pealed. “The One God is not enough to protect you, mortal. Not here!”
“I am Havgan, son of Hengist. I have been called by Lytir himself. And you may not touch me.”
Wuotan laughed again. Thunder rolled. “Son of Hengist? Think you so? Then you know nothing. Nothing.”
The hounds bayed, and the skeletons laughed their mad laughter. “Nothing,” they chanted and the wind hissed. “Nothing.”
Then Holda, the Goddess of Water, spoke, and her voice was like that of the waves that crash on the shore. “You were warned, Havgan, son of—” then she laughed and lightning flashed. “Well, no matter that now. You were warned by the wyrd-galdra. But you have not taken heed. I am Holda, who claims your past. And this is Wuotan, the Hanged Man, who made you what you are. You were warned. And still you do not turn from your path.”
“I come … I come now to bargain.”
The hounds bayed again. And Wuotan, with his eye of lightning said, “You have nothing to give us that we want.”
“I offer you a chance to hunt,” Havgan replied.
“We hunt now,” Holda said coldly.
“A chance to hunt in a new land. To hunt the witches of Kymru.”
Rhiannon gasped and clutched Gwydion’s arm. “Oh, Gwydion,” she said in his ear. “What if they accept?”
“Then may the Protectors help us,” Gwydion breathed.
Wuotan laughed, and the skeletons laughed with him. “Hunt the Kymri? What care we for them? We do not hate them.”
“I offer you—”
Holda cut in, “We know what you offer us. We know you as you do not. Go to those Across the Sea, Havgan. Your destiny awaits you there. And so do I. You cannot run from me.”
“I am protected by Lytir. You cannot hurt me.”
Wuotan laughed again. “You are wrong, mortal. But that is no matter. You are wrong about so many things. We know you. Go to meet your fate. The Hunt remains here. We have no quarrel with those Across the Sea.” Wuotan turned his horse.
“Wait!” Havgan shouted. “Wait!”
“Wait?” Wuotan laughed again, and thunder rolled. “There is another Hunt Across the Sea that waits for you. Go to them!”
Wuotan’s pale horse shot back up into the sky. The dogs followed, their white bodies glistening. The skeletal horses neighed fiercely, and their riders howled.
“We shall meet again, Havgan,” Holda said, then raised her horn to her lips. Her eyes turned a startling shade of amber, her hair to honey-blond. Lightning shot down and played across the jagged peak of the mountain. “Until then!” And she was gone, shooting up into the stormy sky.
Chapter 11
Elmete, Marc of Bernice
Weal of Dere, Coranian Empire
Falmonath, 496
Mandaeg, Sol 37—late afternoon
Rhiannon sighed in weariness as they made their way through the winding streets of Elmete. They were here at last after six weeks on the road. She shivered, for the city had a pall of hopelessness over it. Elmete was still in general disrepair, even two generations after their defeat at the hands of Aelle, the present Emperor’s grandfather.
They occasionally passed shells of burned-out houses that seemed to look at them with empty eyes. They passed heaps of rubble from fallen buildings, cairns for the countless warriors who had died defending their homes. The streets were cobbled in some places, leaving other patches bare, filled now with mud that splattered freely on their cloaks and coated the legs of their horses.
As they rode by, people stopped their work and stared sullenly, resigned to the task of digging a life out of the grave of their once-beautiful city. Sorrow hung over the place like a pall over a corpse. Laughter, warmth, pride—all gone. And Rhiannon’s heart felt cold, for she wondered if this was the fate in store for Kymru.
Up ahead Havgan was slowing his horse before a large, rambling wooden house. It was three stories high, built with interlocking pieces of light and dark wood. The shutters on the windows were open, and bright flowers of red and yellow grew in boxes beneath them. The roof was made of wood shingles, and there were gables carved in the shapes of eagles, dragons, and falcons.
The large front door was open, and when they dismounted, a man came down the steps to greet them. Sigerric gave a shout and vaulted from his horse, greeting the man with an exuberant hug.
“Talorcan!” Sigerric exclaimed. “Good to see you, man.”
Talorcan grinned. “Here at last. I have been watching for you for over a week now.” Talorcan looked to be in his mid-thirties. His hair was dark blond, pulled back now in a leather thong. His eyes were a startling green in a deeply tanned, somewhat thin face. His high cheekbones stood out like spars. Something about his eyes, Rhiannon thought, made him look haunted. But by what, she could not tell.
Talorcan’s face brightened even more as Penda came up to greet him, and again as he gripped forearms with Catha. Then he turned to Havgan, and it seemed to Rhiannon that some of the light fled from his face, to be replaced by a tense wariness. “My Lord Havgan,” he said formally.
“Where’s Baldred?” Havgan asked.
“He’s coming,” Talorcan said, gesturing them inside the house. “We got word that you were at the gates, so he left to let the Archbyshop and the Arch-wyrce-jaga know that you had arrived. He’ll be back shortly.”
Rhiannon noticed that Talorcan had not greeted Sledda, and judging by Sledda’s face, the wyrce-jaga had noticed it, too.
“These are my minstrels,” Havgan said. “Guido Asti and Rhea Varins, from Turin.”
Gwydion bowed and Rhiannon curtsied. Talorcan smiled. “You are welcome, minstrels, to Elmete, and to the house of my father. Come, everyone. My father and mother are waiting to greet you.”
“Where is your brother” Sigerric asked.
“Not here,” Talrocan replied carefully.
“Where, then?” Havgan asked, his eyes swiftly going to Talorcan’s face.
“Faeder sent him to my grandsire in Gefrin,” Talorcan replied, not quite meeting Havgan’s gaze.
“To get him out of my way?” Havgan asked softly.
“He doesn’t want Tohrtmund to join your warband, Havgan. You know that. He needs my brother here, particularly when I am away.”
“I am anxious to see your father again,” Penda said, breaking into the palpable tension. “Is he well?”
“He is,” Talorcan said swiftly. “And my mother, too.”
“Then let us greet them,” Havgan said with a genial smile that did not quite reach his amber eyes, “for I know they are anxious to greet me.”
Without reply Talorcan led them through a large hall, and then through a host of smaller rooms, until they reached the inner courtyard. A garden took up much of the space. Bright flowers and well-trimmed hedges lined the paths. Stone benches were grouped in the middle of the garden. On one bench sat a man and woman.
The man was old but hale. His broad shoulders were unbent, but his face was heavily lined. His hair was lightening from dark blond to white, and it was braided in the old-fashioned manner. He wore a tuni
c and trousers of dark green.
Traces of beauty still lingered in the woman’s face, her fine, high cheekbones and her brilliant green eyes, which matched her emerald dress. She was thin, perhaps too thin. Her once-blond hair was nearly white.
“Havgan, son of Hengist,” Talorcan was saying, pride in his voice, “you remember my father, Talmund, Eorl of Bernice. And my mother, Lady Ingilda.”
The Eorl and his lady stood, and Havgan bowed to them, then introduced the members of his party. Ingilda gestured for them to sit and then signaled a servant to bring them refreshment.
“Welcome, Havgan, to the marc of Bernice,” the Eorl said, though his blue eyes were wary.
“This evening,” Ingilda said warmly, “we shall have a feast in your honor. The lord of my son is most welcome here.”
“Lady Ingilda, I am honored. With your permission, my minstrels will play for us.”
Ingilda’s eyes went to Gwydion and Rhiannon, who, as befitted servants, were standing off to one side. “Do you know any songs of Dere?” she asked, her eyes lighting up, her voice hungry.
“My Lady, we know many,” Gwydion replied. “We know ‘The Words of Ine’ and ‘The Battle of Elmete.’ We know ‘The Wise Man.’ And we know ‘The Lament.’“
“‘The Lament,’“ Ingilda repeated, her eyes taking on the look of one who sees things far away and long ago. “Yes. You must play it tonight.”
Talorcan opened his mouth to speak, but the Eorl forestalled him. “I think, my dear,” he said quietly, “it would be best if—”
“I wish to hear it,” Ingilda said firmly.
The Eorl nodded and managed a strained smile, shooting a sharp look at his son. “Very well.”
Just then a man in a tunic and trousers of rich blue wool bounded into the garden. The man had light brown hair and brown eyes. He was stocky and heavily muscled. His heavy face lit up as he saw Havgan. Havgan stood, and the two men embraced.
“Baldred!” Havgan exclaimed. “I heard you were too busy to be here when we arrived. No doubt you were trying on the latest fashions?”
“Ha,” Baldred replied. “You’re just jealous of my new clothes. I was busy looking after your business. As usual.” He grinned and then quickly greeted the other members of the party, clapping Catha on the back, sharing a joke with Sigerric and Penda, even properly greeting Sledda with what seemed to be genuine goodwill.
