by Holly Taylor
Madoc grinned fiercely. “I have more than warriors, brother. I have five Druids to do my bidding!”
Griffi stiffened from his place next to Uthyr. The red-haired Druid furiously shouted, “What Druid dares to betray their King? Come forth, traitors, and receive your punishment!”
“Druid of Uthyr,” Madoc replied, “you do not understand. The Druids act on the will of the Archdruid himself.”
“You lie!” Griffi shot back.
Madoc gestured, and five Druids cowled in brown robes trimmed with green stepped up from the ranks of the army to stand before him. One Druid handed Madoc a scroll, tied off with ribbons of brown and green.
“I have a message for you from your Archdruid,” Madoc called, holding up the scroll. “Read it.”
Contemptuously, Griffi gestured, and the scroll flew out of Madoc’s grasp, arced up high in the air, and came to Griffi’s waiting hands. As Griffi read, all color drained from his freckled face. At last, he raised his head and looked at Uthyr.
“My King,” he rasped. “The Archdruid has bound all Druids to the Coranian Warleader. We are ordered to support those acting on this Warleader’s behalf.”
Griffi and Uthyr, Druid and King, stared at each other. “What will you do, Griffi ap Iaen?” Uthyr asked softly. “If you wish, I will give you safe passage out of the city. I owe you that much for the many years of loyal service you have given me and mine.”
In a choked voice, Griffi answered, “How can you ask me such a thing? Do you not know me?”
Slowly, Uthyr smiled. He reached out his hand for the Archdruid’s letter, and Griffi handed it to him without demur. Uthyr crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it high in the air. When the paper reached its apex and began to descend, Griffi gestured, and it burst into flame. Ashes drifted down onto Madoc’s upturned face.
Enraged, one of Madoc’s Druids stepped forward and, with a wave of his hand, sent a ball of fire whistling through the sky, heading straight toward Griffi. But at Griffi’s gesture, a wheel of flame shot forth from the walls. High in the air, the ball of fire was met by the wheel of flame. The wheel consumed the enemy Druid’s fire, then sped on through the sky to land in the middle of Madoc’s army. Men and horses scattered. Some were not fast enough, and they screamed as they burned.
Quickly, Uthyr turned to Ygraine, who still stood unflinching by his side. “Better organize a fire brigade,” he said. “Looks like things are going to get hot in the city.”
“Certainly,” she replied crisply.
“Cai, Bedwyr,” Uthyr called, turning to his Captain and lieutenant. “Now is a good time, while they are still scattered. Let’s go.” Uthyr swiftly kissed his wife. To Griffi he said, “Stay here with Ygraine. Fight those fires.”
The three men raced down the stairs and mounted their horses. Without further pause, Uthyr gave the order, and four hundred men and women of Tegeingl poured out of the city to face seven hundred warriors. And the killing began.
UTHYR SAT ALONE in the eastern watchtower in the city he still held. Night had fallen, masking the field where the armies had fought that day. He was grateful that the dark spared him the sight of the bloody ground. He did not want to look at the meadow where so many of his people had died. For they had all been his people—even those who had fought for Madoc.
As dusk fell, Uthyr’s warriors had gathered the bodies of their comrades, intermingling peacefully with Madoc’s warriors who had come to the field to claim the bodies of their own dead. At the edge of the field, a huge bonfire rose into the night, set to burn the bodies of the enemy dead. The dead of Uthyr’s warband were to be burned in the marketplace at the center of the city. In a few moments he must leave the tower and lead the ceremony in their honor.
The glow of the fire mesmerized him. Madoc had lost half his force today, and the fire was tremendous. It blossomed in the night like an evil flower, fed by the power of Madoc’s three remaining Druids.
Over and over in the battle today, Uthyr had come close to Madoc, only to be turned from his prey by the vagaries of battle. It was the dearest wish of his heart to come to grips with his brother, to make him pay for what he had done.
He sighed. He was fated to die. But, please the gods, not at Madoc’s hands. He raised his eyes to the starry sky. Let someone else kill me, he begged silently to whatever Shining Ones might be listening. Do not let it be Madoc.
He closed his eyes, remembering the last sight of his beloved thirteen-year-old daughter, Morrigan. Her dark eyes, so like her mother’s, had been misted with the sheen of tears that she had struggled to prevent from falling. She had tried to smile bravely at him as he said farewell. He had known he would never see her again. And she had guessed that truth somehow, as well. He had seen the knowledge in her tear-filled eyes.
He had taken the ring from his finger, put it into her slender hands, and solemnly spoke the words handed down to the rulers of his house for the last two hundred years, words he himself had last heard from the lips of his dying mother.
“This ring,” he had whispered, his throat tight, “is never to fall into the hands of any but those of our house, the house of PenHebog. Surrender this ring only to one who speaks these words, words first given to us by Bran the Dreamer: ‘In the name of the High King to be, surrender Bran’s gift to me.’ Give the ring to one who speaks those words and no other. Do you understand?”
Morrigan had nodded her head and repeated the words perfectly. Then he had held her in his strong arms and kissed her good-bye, giving her into the keeping of Neuad, his Dewin. Neuad would escort Morrigan to the mountains, to a hiding place already prepared against this day. As she rode away, Morrigan had sat straight on her pony, her thin shoulders unbowed. And so she was gone.
Arthur was safe in Dinas Emrys. Now Morrigan was safe in Mynydd Tawel. His children would live. And, with the help of Gwydion, they would drive off the enemy and take their rightful places in Kymru. Morrigan would be Queen of Gwynedd. And Arthur would be High King of Kymru itself.
He heard light footsteps ascending the tower stairs. He knew that rhythm as he knew the beat of his own heart. At last she had come to him. He felt her cool hand smooth his hair back from his forehead, then she settled on the floor next to him. She did not speak, and he, too, kept silent.
At last she turned her head to look at him, and he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her tunic and trousers were bloodstained. Her auburn hair was not yet loosened from its tight braids. Weariness lined her proud face. But her dark eyes were clear and bright, undimmed by tears.
“Husband,” she said at last, “you are late. They wait for you to begin the burning.”
He rose to his feet, helping her to stand also.
“I have heavy news, Uthyr. Arday cannot be found.”
“Arday?”
“Our steward,” she said crisply.
“Yes. Thank you. I know who she is. I just don’t—”
“Our steward, who is also the sister of Menwaed, the Lord of Arllechwedd.”
“You think her brother is planning something? In league with Madoc?”
Ygraine shrugged. “She is gone. I fear that she slipped out of the city because she knew that her brother was to join Madoc in battle against us.”
“Well, why not?” he said bitterly. “What’s one more traitor? All in a day’s work here in Gwynedd.”
She ignored his bitter tone. “Arllechwedd is to the far north. I fear that his task is to keep the forces of northern Rhos from coming to our aid. And if northern Rhos does not come to our aid, we are lost.”
“Ah, Ygraine,” Uthyr said, “we are lost anyway.”
“Perhaps,” she said coolly. “Perhaps not. We are not done trying yet.”
He looked into her dark eyes, pools of shadow in the fading light. For the first time in many years, he saw something in them he had thought gone forever. Something that had fled from her eyes long ago.
“I want you to leave tonight,” he said abruptly, forcing the words past his ac
hing throat. “We lack the power now to even wage war beyond the city gates. You must go. Morrigan will need you. One day she will be Queen of Gwynedd. And you have sworn to stay alive for her.”
She stood silently for a time, her head bowed. At last she whispered, in a broken voice that Uthyr had never heard from her before, “But, cariad, life without you means nothing to me.”
Uthyr was shocked. For years now he had thought her love for him was dead. For years he had given her every shred of himself that he had to give, in hopes that she would turn back to him. And now, now that it was too late…
She raised her head, and tears were in her eyes. Through the years, he could count on one hand the times he had seen her cry. She studied his face, as though storing up memories of him for long, cold nights when he would be gone from her side. “Ah, Uthyr,” she whispered, “did you really not know? Had I not said? You are my life. You are my heart. Without you, I have neither, and life holds nothing for me.”
He reached out and touched her face, her tears washing over his hand. “Would that I had known that years ago, my love. Much loneliness you might have saved me.”
“Would that I had known, too. And now it is too late. There is so little time left to us. Oh, Uthyr, do not send me from you. Let me die here with you. Please.”
“Ygraine, you cannot stay. Morrigan needs you. You have promised. I know you too well. You keep your promises.”
She pulled away from him and stood at the tower’s edge, staring out at the fire in the meadow. At last, she turned to him. “I remember saying I would choose my time to leave your side. And that time is not yet.”
“Then when?”
“Soon. Why, do you tire of my presence?”
For an answer he grabbed her and pulled her to him, his mouth crushing hers in a passionate kiss, a kiss she returned so enthusiastically he was left weak at the knees. Her dark eyes were full of promise, and a hint of desperation, as she reached out to him at last, now in the shadow of death, finally understanding all she would lose when he was gone.
KING AND QUEEN approached the market square hand in hand, their heads high, as they came to honor the dead. Men and women who had fought to the death that day lay in long rows, pale and cold on the cobblestones. Surviving friends and family had done the best for their fallen, washing away the blood, straightening mangled limbs, placing weapons into dead hands.
Around the square the people stood silently. Uthyr saw Nest, Cai’s wife, standing next to her husband, holding his hand. Cai’s other hand rested on the shoulder of his twelve-year old son, Garanwyn.
Griffi, his brown robe an inky shadow at the edge of the torchlight, stepped out from the fringes of the crowd and stood before Uthyr and Ygraine. His freckled face was sooty, and his robes were torn. But his dark brown eyes were steady.
“All is in readiness, my King,” he said, gesturing toward the fallen warriors. “I await your command.”
Susanna bowed low, her harp clutched between her hands. At Uthyr’s gesture, she raised her clear voice in the traditional song of farewell to departing souls.
“In Gwlad Yr Haf, in the Land of Summer,
Still they live, still they live.
They shall not be killed, shall not be wounded.
No fire, no sun, no moon shall burn them.
No lake, no water, no sea shall drown them.
They lie inpeace, and laugh and sing.
The dead are gone, yet still they live.”
As the last note faded away, Uthyr stepped forth with Ygraine at his side. The King and Queen of the dying kingdom stood proudly and saluted the dead. “Farewell, brave men and women,” Uthyr called up to the sky. “Fare you well until we meet again!”
“Go now, good souls, and await rebirth,” Griffi intoned. “Go now and know you live on in our hearts. Go now to meadows sweet in the Land of Summer. Soon we shall meet again!” So saying Griffi raised his hands. Fire sprung from his fingertips. He gestured toward the bodies, and the flames shot forth, hungrily consuming the bodies.
Griffi lowered his hands and bowed his head in grief and loss. Susanna clasped his hand, her eyes brimming as she stared at the flames. Suddenly, her head snapped up, her eyes opened wide.
“Susanna!” Ygraine exclaimed, grabbing the Bard’s arm.
Susanna turned to Uthyr, her blue eyes alight. “It is the Bards of northern Rhos! They speak to me! The Gwardas of Crueddyn and Uwch Dulas are leading them to our aid. They are over four hundred strong, and will be at our city gates by morning!”
Uthyr gestured for Cai and Bedwyr to attend him. “With these four hundred I will see Madoc driven from the field. Come, all of you, we have plans to make.”
“Wait,” Griffi cried. “Susanna, are there any Druids in their train?”
Her face clouded. “None,” she said gently. “Their Druids have gone.”
Griffi’s shoulders slumped, and he turned toward the fire, not daring to look at anyone. Uthyr put his hand on the Druid’s shoulder. “We knew this,” Uthyr said. “There could have been no other answer.”
“No one,” Griffi said dully. “No one has defied the Archdruid.”
“What is that to you?” Ygraine asked sharply.
Griffi’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and hurt. “What is that to me? It is my honor at stake!”
“No,” Ygraine said coldly. “It is not your honor. You alone hold that. You answer only for the honor of Griffi the Druid. And your honor remains. Unbroken. So you will stand, even to the last.”
For a moment Griffi was silent, his head bowed. Then he slowly raised his face to the challenge in Ygraine’s eyes. “Yes, my Queen. So I will stand. Even to the last.”
Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late morning
TWO DAYS LATER, Uthyr led four hundred warriors out of Tegeingl, with the intent of finishing off Madoc’s depleted forces.
In the battle yesterday, Madoc’s army had been trapped by Uthyr’s remaining one hundred and fifty warriors and the fresh forces of northern Rhos. The two forces had closed in on Madoc like a hammer and anvil. But to Uthyr’s disappointment, Madoc had not fought to the finish, but had gathered his weakened army and retreated south.
Uthyr, determined not to wait for his brother to find reinforcements, now led his warriors to finish off what yesterday had started. Cai was on his left and Bedwyr on his right as they rode through the countryside to come to grips with Madoc.
He turned to one of the Bards of northern Rhos who had come with him on this errand. Uthyr had left his own Bard, Susanna, back at the city to aid Ygraine, whose task it was to hold the walls. Not that Uthyr expected the city to see any action today. Their speculation on the movements of Menwaed of Arllechwedd was just that—speculation. As a precaution, Uthyr had left one of the Dewin from Rhos in the city with orders to scout the countryside for trouble. The other Dewin he had with him now, scouting for the whereabouts of Madoc’s army.
Uthyr’s warriors moved swiftly on their horses in the bright morning. They had come a good four leagues or so in the last few hours. The Dewin halted his horse and signaled to Uthyr. He pointed to the fringe of the great forest of Coed Dulas. “Here is where they shifted into the forest early this morning, as I saw in my Wind-Ride,” the Dewin reported.
“Where are they now?”
The Dewin shook his head. “I’m not sure. I have been checking through the forest, but can see no sign of them.”
Suddenly, the Bard stiffened in his saddle. Uthyr, his heart pounding, waited for him to speak. Blinking rapidly, the Bard fixed his gaze on Uthyr. “Susanna calls me. The Dewin has spotted the forces of Arllechwedd coming downriver from the north.”
“What banner?” he asked urgently. “What banner do they fly?”
“They fly the banner of the golden boar. The banner of the Coranian Warleader.”
“How many?”
“Over five hundred. And they are only an hour away by river. My King, they will reach the city before we do!”
“King Ut
hyr!” the Dewin shouted. “Madoc’s army, I have spotted them! They doubled back toward the city, to join with Arllechwedd and attack!”
“Then we ride,” Uthyr said, the grimness of his tone masking his terror. “We ride back to Tegeingl as though the hounds of Cerronnos himself are at our heels.”
ALL THROUGH THAT terrible ride, the Dewin and the Bard rode next to Uthyr, each reporting what they were seeing and hearing from the city. The forces of Arllechwedd had attacked, but the city still held. The west gate had nearly been breached. Griffi’s fire had so far been able to keep the back the enemy, but the other Druids were seeking to batter the gate with tremendous boulders. The city was moments away from destruction, but Ygraine still held on. Uthyr gritted his teeth and rode.
At last the sights and sounds of battle reached them. Quickly, Uthyr arrayed his army. No time for fine points now. They must break the battle at the west gate immediately. But as he rode down to the gates, his army shouting defiance behind him, he saw he was already too late. The gate had been burned to the ground, and the combined forces of Madoc and Menwaed were streaming into the city.
A shout of pure rage was torn from his throat as he hurled his horse into the beleaguered city. Behind him his warriors followed and began to do battle. With Cai on one side and Bedwyr on the other, Uthyr descended upon the enemy like a whirlwind. The three men hurled their spears, then, as one, drew their swords and began to kill.
Out of the corner of his eye, Uthyr saw Ygraine near the gate, calmly ordering the noncombatants to drench the flames. A group of warriors guarded the townsfolk as they fought the fire. If the fire gained a greater foothold into the city, it would all burn.
With a shout, Uthyr battled toward her, followed by Cai and Bedwyr. But the line of warriors surrounding the fire fighters was breached. Enemy warriors began to slaughter the townsfolk, their aim to let the fire rage.
Beside him, Cai gasped, then shouted “Nest!” He called out his wife’s name, and she turned her head from fighting the fire just long enough to see the sword of the enemy warrior glitter before her eyes in the afternoon light. Just long enough to reach out a hand toward her husband as the blade buried itself in her chest. The enemy warrior wrenched the sword from her body and raised his blade for another blow when Garanwyn, Cai’s son, leapt up and grabbed the warrior’s wrist. Swift as lightning, the warrior pulled a short knife from his belt and stabbed the boy through the heart.
