by Holly Taylor
“Such a question,” Efa said with contempt. “To get them to talk, of course.”
“Of course,” Ellywen said softly.
And though Ellywen did not gasp, did not cry out, did not even move when she saw the prisoners, Penda knew that he had the right people. For Ellywen’s face tightened and for a brief moment he saw the truth in her fine, gray eyes.
For the prisoners were none other than the smith himself and the proprietors of the two stalls Ellywen visited most. The three Kymric men held their heads high as they were brought through the hall and up to the dais. Behind them their wives and children followed silently, their faces solemn and still. One of the women carried a small baby in her arms. Another of them held the hands of two little boys. The third, the wife of the smith, led three young girls and two young men, all with their heads held high, pride in their Kymric faces.
For a moment Penda wished he could be anywhere but here as he studied the three families. Then he mentally shook himself. He had a job to do, and he would do it.
“You are accused of being spies for the Cerddorian of Prydyn,” Penda began.
“I would be proud to be, were it the truth,” the smith interrupted.
“It is the truth,” Penda said. “And one that I will not argue with you. Not here. You will all be taken to the cells and held there until you tell me the details that I wish to know. And be advised that we will do whatever we must to learn what we want to know.”
The three families merely looked at Penda with contempt in their eyes. But they paled nonetheless. Penda hoped that he would not have to actually hurt these folk for he had not had them brought here in order to hear anything from them. They would tell him nothing and he knew it. No, he had them brought here for a different reason—to trap Ellywen ur Saidi. That was another thing he did not wish to do. But his life was not his own; it had not been his own for many years. His life belonged to the Golden Man and Penda would do what he must do to serve him.
“How dare you take these people prisoner without consulting me!” Erfin began.
But Efa knew better than to let Erfin go on. She laid a hand on her brother’s arm and put her finger to her lips. Erfin subsided with a frown, but he subsided nonetheless.
Penda, who had not even glanced over at Erfin, sat quietly. It was harder for him to do this than he had thought. He was not quite sure why—he should be used to doing these kinds of things by now. He looked over at Ellywen. Ellywen was looking back at him with something almost like pity in her eyes. “Take them away,” Penda said after a moment.
Guards led the families from the hall as Ellywen gestured for the Coranian minstrel. The minstrel bowed as he reached the high table.
“What is your wish?” the minstrel asked.
“It is my wish that you should play a tune for General Penda,” Ellywen said.
The minstrel bowed again. “Anything for my lord.”
“Play the ‘Lament to Mierce.'”
The minstrel froze, looking at Ellywen with shocked eyes.
“I—”
“Do you not wish to have it played, General?” Ellywen asked innocently, turning to Penda. “Do you not wish to hear a song from your homeland?”
Penda gripped the armrests of his chair. He would not let Ellywen know how close to the mark she had come. “If you wish to hear it played it is nothing to me.”
“Indeed?” Ellywen said with raised brows. She turned to the minstrel who stood trembling, his face pale. “Then, minstrel, play the song for me.”
The minstrel hesitated a moment, then brought the lute up to playing position. He strummed the opening chords of the song that was written hundreds of years ago when the Coranian king, Sigger, killed the King of Mierce, captured and raped the Queen, spitted the baby prince on his deadly spear, and ground all of Mierce beneath his merciless heel.
“The forms of our kinsmen take shape in the silence
In rapture we greet them; in gladness we scan
Old comrades remembered. But they melt into air
With no word of greeting to gladden our hearts.
Then again surges our sorrow upon us;
And grimly we spur our weary souls
Once more to toil under our yoke.
Alas for Mierce, you are no longer.
One by one, proud warriors died
The battlements crumbled, the wine halls burned;
Now joyless and silent the heroes are sleeping
Where the proud host fell by the walls they defended.
Alas for Mierce, you are no longer.
We brood on old legends of battle and bloodshed,
And heavy the mood that troubles our hearts:
Where now is the warrior? Where is the warhorse?
Come to defend us from this heavy yoke.
You are caught forever in the grave’s embrace.
Alas for Mierce, you are no longer.”
That night, Penda dreamed. And wept as he did so.
His spirit flew high in the darkening sky. Purple clouds, swollen with the brewing storm massed above him. Beneath him he recognized Beranburg, nestled at the foot of Mount Badon and tears came to his eyes. Home. He was home.
Mount Badon rose from the silent earth to pierce the brooding sky. Studded with tall pine from its base to near the top of its jagged peak, the mountain itself seemed to glow and pulse with power in the dim, uncertain light.
He saw orange flames dotting an area on the side of the mountain and flew closer, for his knew that it was the Heiden, the Old Believers, come to the mountain to worship the Old Ones on Galdra Necht, the Night of Magic. This was the time when the Heiden would honor Wuotan One-Eye, the God of Magic.
Wuotan had hung on Irminsul, the World Tree, for nine days. The son of Death and War, he had torn out his own eye to obtain knowledge of the runes.
And on Galdra Necht the Wild Hunt, led by Wuotan and by Holda of the Waters, would ride on the wings of the storm over Mount Badon, and may the gods help those mortals that they found in their path.
His spirit spiraled down and he saw that the Heiden had gathered in a clearing surrounded by tall, heady pines draped in long ribbons of gray and lavender. Torches glittered around the clearing, held by the steady hands of the warriors of the Eorl of Lindisfarne. A rough-hewn altar of stone sat in the middle of the clearing. A drinking horn of silver was set in a polished holder of bone on the left side of the altar while a bowl fashioned from glittering gold sat on the right. At the front of the altar the blade of a long knife glinted in the firelight. Laid across the back was a piece of leather strung with tiny bells. Candles of purple and gray sat at each corner. A banner of gray, worked with the purple rune of Wuotan was draped over the front of the altar. The rune, a circle divided into four quarters, shimmered briefly.
The clearing was filled with those Penda knew from the town of Beranburg, over one hundred folk. His heart ached as his eyes went directly to his young son. Readwyth was ten years old now. The boy’s dark blond hair, so like Penda’s, glistened in the torchlight. His blue eyes—so like Penda’s dead wife’s—were shining as he looked up at his grandfather.
Eorl Peada stood quietly, his gray hair braided in hundreds of tiny braids, each braid tied off with a ring of bronze. Peada’s dark eyes glittered in the torchlight as the Godia, the Priestess, dressed in a robe of pure white, took her place behind the altar. Next to her stood the Hod, the Sacrificer, in a robe of black, his black hood secured over his face. On his arm he held an eagle, the bird of Wuotan. The bird strained against its bonds but could not break free. The Priestess picked up the string of bells and shook it. The delicate sound floated over the clearing and the crowd fell silent.
“The Dis are with us, the gods have come,” the Godia called.
“Wuotan and Donor, Fal and Fro and Logi, Dag and Mani, Saxnot and Tiw.”
“Hail to the Dis,” the Heiden responded.
“The Disir are with us, the goddesses have come. Nerthus and Freya, Holda and Nehalennia, Sunna a
nd Sif, Natt and the Wyrd.”
“Hail to the Disir.”
“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 Wuotan,” the Priestess continued. Her blond hair shimmered and her beautiful voice soothed as she effortlessly captured the magic and mystery of the night. “This is the night of Wuotan. Wielder of magic, Wearer of Masks, the Hanged Man.”
“Blessed be the Leader of the Hunt,” the Heiden called out. As they did so lightning flashed above them. A clap of thunder so huge that some of the people covered their ears boomed across the sky.
The Godia smiled and lifted the drinking horn. “Drink now, ye followers of the old ways. Drink now, ye hidden, ye faithful ones,” she called. She took a sip from the massive horn and then passed it around the clearing. When all had sipped and the horn was returned to the altar, she nodded to the black cloaked Sacrificer.
“All hail to Wuotan,” the Hod called out. “Lord of Magic, One-Eye, who hung nine days on Irminsul and gained wisdom. Accept our sacrifice.” He lifted the eagle high over his head then swiftly broke its neck. He then slit its throat with the ritual knife, catching the blood in the golden bowl and draining it from the still-warm body.
Carefully, reverently, he set the dead eagle down on the altar, then picked up the bowl of blood. He dipped a bundle of oak leaves into the bowl and, walking slowly around the clearing, he sprinkled the blood on the bowed heads of each of the Heiden. At last he returned to the altar and sprinkled blood on the long, silky hair of the priestess. He lifted the bowl and drank the remaining blood then set the bowl back on the altar.
The Priestess lifted her slim hands and called, “Lord of Magic, hear our plea. Give us a message, speak to us with magic.” From the cord around her waist she unhooked a white bag made of swan’s skin.
For some reason Penda began to feel cold and afraid. He knew this was a dream—how could it not be? And if only a dream, what harm could come to him? So why be afraid? But he was.
At the Priestess’ gesture the black-clad Hod reached into the bag and pulled out a rune made of gold. He held the rune high, then laid it on the altar. “He has chosen Ansuz,” the Godia called. “Choose another.”
Again the black figure reached into the bag and pulled out a rune. The Priestess named it. “He has chosen Chalk. Choose another.”
Something in the man’s movements, some dimly recognized pattern made Penda’s blood run cold. He did not fully understand why but it was enough to make it difficult to take a breath, enough to bathe him in the sheen of terror.
The shadowy figure chose another rune, which the Priestess then set on the altar. “He has chosen Beorc.”
The Priestess studied the runes then lifted her head to the Heiden. “The message that the Sacrificer has chosen is not complete. See here. He has chosen Ansuz. A good rune, for it means a message from the gods. He has chosen Chalk. A difficult rune, for it means barrenness, poison. It is the dead man’s rune. The third is Beorc, the rune for growth, rebirth, and new life. What has been chosen tonight is a message from the gods. It speaks of a life of sorrow, a living death. Then, finally, of a new life. But how is the new life obtained? That is what is not clear. To determine this, he must chose another.”
Once again, the Sacrificer reached into the bag and pulled out a golden rune. As it glittered above his cowled head, the Priestess cried, “It is Seid. The rune for the magician, the sorceress. It is only through the witches that a new life will be given to the one who suffers. Through this alone!”
A cold, fierce wind whipped through the pines, moaning and crying. The torches guttered fitfully, bent by the wind. Overhead another flash of white lightening almost blinded the Heiden. They raised their hands over their faces and bowed their heads to the storm—all but Penda, the Godia, and the Hod. These three lifted their faces to the night sky and watched as the storm clouds rushed in over the mountain.
A figure rode across the sky—a dark, hooded shape on a horse as pale as bone. The figure held a spear in its hand and as it raised the spear another flash of lightning tore the night. Following the figure was a woman on a gray horse, dressed in a gown of sea green. Her eyes flashed and changed to the gray of an angry sea. She raised a horn of mother of pearl to her lips and as she blew thunder boomed and rumbled.
Behind these two came a pack of slavering white dogs with eyes of blood red. They rode the sky on the wings of the lightening, baying hungrily. Behind them came skeletal figures, their bony hands gripping the reins as they rode pale horses, and they screamed of despair and madness.
The Wild Hunt has come to Mount Badon on Galdra Necht, Penda thought. And may the gods have mercy on us now. But he was not sure there would be any mercy. At least, not for him. For he knew now, he felt the horror of what he had done.
He had supported the Coranians, those who held his country in bondage. He had not tried to stop the hunting of the Heiden, the believers in the Old Gods, or of the Wiccan, those with psychic gifts akin to the Y Dawnus. Worse yet, he had journeyed to Kymru to crush that land as his own had been crushed, to crush the people, as his own had been, to crush their witches, as the Wiccan were.
The Heiden cried out as the Hunt circled the sky, coming ever closer to the clearing on the mountain. The figure with the spear raised it again and the lightning almost blinded Penda. The figure swooped over the clearing and slowed his horse, coming to rest before the altar. It threw back its hood. His hair and beard were long and gray. A scar twisted up one cheek to disappear into an empty eye socket. In that empty socket lightning brimmed.
The Priestess fell to her knees, her hands raised as she cried, “Wuotan has come, ye Heiden! He has come!”
The Sacrificer stood as though frozen before the one-eyed god. From the sky above the clearing the woman guided her horse to rest next to Wuotan’s. Her stormy eyes flashed as the Priestess cried out, “It is Holda, Goddess of the Waters, daughter of Fro and Freya. Ye Heiden, the Wild Hunt has come!”
Still the hooded Sacrificer did not move, standing before Wuotan and Holda as though transfixed. Penda took a step forward to stand next to the Priestess, but no one looked at him. Then Wuotan One-Eye took a step forward and yanked off the Sacrificer’s black hood.
And to Penda’s horror his own face was revealed. The people in the clearing melted away. The Priestess, the altar, Penda’s father and son, they were all gone. He stood alone in a clearing in a forest he did not recognize. He looked down and he was clothed in a black robe.
But Wuotan One-Eye had not disappeared. The God of Magic still sat his bone-white horse and held a black hood in his scarred hands. And Holda, too, had not gone, but sat her gray horse calmly, looking down at Penda.
“Wuotan, I—”
“You betrayed me,” the god said. “You betrayed them all.” Lightning flashed from Wuotan’s empty eye socket and burned the ground at Penda’s feet.
“Yes,” Penda whispered and bowed his head. “I did. You are right to have your dogs tear me limb from limb, to have your Hunt kill me. I ask only that you do not punish my father, my son, or my people for what I have done. Punish me alone, for I deserve it.”
“You knew what you were doing,” Holda accused as thunder pealed.
“I did,” Penda said.
“And did not stop it.”
“No. I did not. My oath—”
“Was no more binding for you than for Gwydion ap Awst.”
Penda’s head came up. “Gwydion took the Brotherhood Oath with Havgan. And he—”
“Broke it,” Wuotan said as lightening flashed. “Think you this was wrong?”
“He gave his word—”
“And you think it is more important to keep your word to a madman than to do what you know to be right?” Wuotan asked.
“I was wrong,” Penda whispered. “Wrong. And it is too la
te to mend it.”
“It is not too late,” Wuotan said. “Lift your head, Penda of Lindisfarne.”
Penda lifted his head and stared at Wuotan and Holda. The figures changed, melted into different figures, figures Penda recognized from the Kymric stories he had heard.
Wuotan’s face elongated and darkened. Antlers sprang from his forehead and his eye sockets filled with the gleam of topaz as both eyes changed into the eyes of an owl. The spear in his hand changed to a hunting horn and his muscular, bare chest gleamed in the now-still night as calm starlight bathed the clearing.
Holda’s outlines changed and flowed into the figure of a woman with amethyst eyes. Her dark, silky hair hung down to her waist. Her white, knee-length tunic glowed as her horse’s hide darkened to black. At her feet white dogs with blood-red eyes gamboled and panted, sniffing at Penda and at the leaves on the forest floor.
“You know what Seid means,” the woman said, her purple gaze glittering. “You know the way to a new life.”
“You know how to find that life,” the man said, his topaz eyes flashing. “You know what you must do. Do it, and the new life you were promised becomes true.”
“But Wuotan, Holda, where did they—”
“It is all one,” said the goddess Cerridwen, Queen of the Wood.
“We are all one,” said the god Cerrunnos, Master of the Wild Hunt. “Did you not know?”
“I—” Penda began. But he did not finish. For perhaps he had known. Perhaps he had always known. In any case, he now understood what he must do. He had not known the true meaning of honor. He had not known that it did not always mean keeping one’s word. Yes, now he knew the truth.
And the truth set him free.
HE WOKE WITH a start to pounding on his door. “Stop that noise,” he shouted as he sprang from his bed. He knew what he would see when he opened the door. Nor was he wrong.
“You were right, lord,” the captain of his guard said, grinning. “The witch tried to rescue the captives. And she had another witch with her. We have captured them both.”
