Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  These four men would each bear Havgan the news that the four kingdoms were no longer his. And they would give Havgan Arthur’s message—to leave Kymru or die.

  But it would be this first message that would be most important. Arthur wanted Havgan to know as soon as possible about Afalon.

  Which was why, before he left the island, the entire Coranian compound was burning with Druid’s Fire, cleansing Afalon of the Coranian taint. Thick, black smoke billowed up into the air, sending a message to Havgan.

  The Y Dawnus were free.

  Leave or die.

  Part 4

  The Final Battle

  It is fitting to rise up against them,

  We expect no hesitant uprising;

  The edges of swords,

  The points of spears,

  It is right to ply them gladly.

  High King Idris

  Circa 128

  Chapter

  * * *

  Twenty

  Ystrad Marc hell, Kingdom of Rheged,

  Eiodel & Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn

  Gwernan Mis, 500

  Gwyntdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

  Prince Aesc of Corania stood at the prow of his ship, letting the clean wind wash over him. The huge, carved figurehead, fashioned like the head of a snarling boar with blood red, ruby eyes, jutted forward toward the nearing shore as though hungry and anxious to feed. Misty green land loomed just ahead, rising from the sea like a beautiful woman rising at dawn. Behind him over one hundred ships followed, their sails of red and gold filling out in the freshening breeze.

  Aesc had not thought that Kymru would be so beautiful.

  Now he understood why his ancestors had always longed to have it for their own. And he understood a little better why Havgan wanted it so. And understood better still why his nephew by marriage refused to admit he couldn’t hold this land.

  Beautiful though this land was, it was important to Havgan in a way Aesc still did not fully understand. But he had not needed to understand it to support it. He had long supported Havgan’s bid for power against the wishes of his sister-in-law. He had seen strength in the fisherman’s son long ago. Strength that Aesc knew his Empire needed, strength he knew his brother did not have, and never would. Havgan, through his marriage to Aelfwyn, would one day be Emperor of Corania. Because of that he would soon need to leave Kymru and return to the Empire. Aesc was eager to subdue this land, allowing Havgan to do just that.

  It was because of this that he had complied with Havgan’s request, delivered just one month ago by the old sailor who had escaped Kymru with the news. It seemed that there was a young Kymric man, a man known as Arthur ap Uthyr, who had challenged Havgan. This man was able to harness the power of the Kymric witches in such a way that communication between Kymru and the Empire had effectively been cut off. Havgan had known that a final battle was coming and needed reinforcements.

  Aesc had gathered a force as quickly as he could. His need for haste resulted in a force of only eight thousand. Even that had been a struggle to get, for there were many Coranian lords who saw no profit in the subjugation of Kymru. He wondered if there would ever be enough warriors to subdue this proud land. Something in the inviting but mysterious land he saw before him made him decide there would not.

  He had originally thought that his sister-in-law would have attempted to prevent him from gathering these men to aid Havgan. But Athelflead had not. She was not, Aesc thought, sorry to see him go. There had never been any love lost between them. The Empress had charged Aesc to determine that her daughter, Aelfwyn, was well. And then she had turned her back on the venture. No doubt she hoped that neither Aesc nor Havgan would return.

  His brother had merely given his blessing in the vague, preoccupied way he had. Athelred always did that. The Emperor was far more comfortable on his knees, petitioning Lytir for various things than ruling the Empire. Aesc sometimes wondered if Lytir ever wearied of Athelred’s devotion.

  In fact, the only one who had tried to prevent Aesc from coming was his sister, Aesthryth. She had argued long and hard with him, saying that he should let the Kymri be. He thought that, perhaps, she wanted Havgan to fail. Which was why, Aesc thought, she had urged Aelfwyn to join Havgan in Kymru. Aesc had always sensed that she was afraid of Havgan, but he had never known why. There were, to tell the truth, things about his sister that he had never understood. Things, indeed, that he had tried hard not to understand. For she had a way of knowing about things that were to happen, a way of sensing things that others did not. Indeed, he would have been afraid of her if he didn’t love her so much.

  “Almost there, great lord.”

  Jarred from his reverie, Aesc turned to look at his companion. The old sailor’s scanty, gray hair tossed wildly in the wind. His almost toothless mouth was grinning and his blue eyes sparkled in his seamed, weathered face.

  “Yes, almost there, Torgar,” Aesc said absently. “After we land it should take us ten days to reach Havgan in Eiodel. From what I hear of the witches, they will know we are here much sooner than that.”

  “And think, perhaps, to attack us.”

  “I think not. We are too big a host for them to risk a pitched battle before they are ready. I think we will make it to Eiodel alive and intact.”

  After that, they would see.

  Addiendydd, Lleihau Wythnos—afternoon

  SIGERRIC SLOWLY CLIMBED the stone steps up to the battlements of Eiodel. Overhead the sun shone, but it seemed to do little to warm him. A slight breeze played in the air, tugging at his cloak and ruffling his light brown hair, playing over his too-thin face as though trying to get his attention. But his attention was focused on other things, focused on the news that the last few weeks had brought.

  Kymru was slipping through Havgan’s hands. As Sigerric had always known it would. As, indeed, it always had. Only now even Havgan could not deny that.

  Two weeks ago black smoke had stained the sky over Afalon. When Havgan and Sigerric had arrived to investigate, they had found the entire island deserted. The camp where the Y Dawnus had been held and tortured was destroyed. The huts, the whipping post, all of it had been cleansed with fire. The bones and ashes of the Coranian guards had littered the compound. Havgan had not said a word as they rode back to Eiodel. And Sigerric had known better than to speak the thought they were both having.

  Arthur had taken back the Y Dawnus when he was ready. Just as he always said he would.

  Three days later, Ecgfrith, Byshop of Gwynedd, had rode into Eiodel, staggered from his horse, and fallen at Havgan’s feet, exhausted. He had gasped out his message—Gwynedd had fallen from Coranian control. Queen Morrigan herself had killed General Catha. And her captain, Cai, had killed Wulfhere, the Master-wyrce-jaga, in battle. Indeed, while some Coranian warriors had been spared and were now returning to Eiodel, no wyrce-jagas had been left alive.

  It had taken a few moments for Ecgfrith to gather what courage he had left and give Havgan the other message, the message given him by Morrigan, passed on from her brother, Arthur ap Uthyr himself.

  Leave or die.

  To everyone’s surprise, Havgan had not flown into a rage at this. He had simply told his servants to take care of Ecgfrith. Then he had left the hall, grabbed a spear from one of his soldiers and gone straight to Cadair Idris. He had said nothing, merely looked up at the closed Doors. Then he had plunged the spear into the ground at the foot of the stairs and stalked away.

  He had said one thing and one thing only to Sigerric on the walk back. He had said, “I will not leave.”

  As though, Sigerric had thought, he needed Havgan to tell him that. He had always known that Havgan would never, never leave Kymru—alive.

  Two days later Oswy, the Byshop of Rheged, had come to Eiodel, carrying his message. Rheged had fallen. Queen Enid had killed Morcant Wheldig. The Dewin, Bledri, had been exiled, put in a small boat and cast adrift in the sea. Saebald, the Master-wyrce-jaga, had been killed in battle by Teleri, King Owein’s l
ieutenant. All the wyrce-jaga had been killed.

  And Havgan was to leave or die.

  Again, Havgan had taken a spear and marched to Cadair Idris. Again, he plunged the spear into the ground next to the first. Then he had walked away.

  Five days after that Cuthwine, Byshop of Ederynion, had come to Eiodel with the news that Ederynion was once again in Kymric hands.

  And that Havgan was to leave or die.

  And now a third spear stood before the steps of Cadair Idris.

  Sigerric reached the top of the battlements. Havgan stood looking out at Cadair Idris. He did not turn around when Sigerric joined him at the wall. Sun flashed off of Havgan’s golden cloak and ruby rings. But his face was bleak, his amber hawk eyes were hooded as he gazed at the mountain.

  “I believe the messenger from Prydyn will be here today,” Sigerric said. “Whoever was sent from Arberth would have the longest way to come.”

  “I suppose Penda is dead.”

  “Yes,” Sigerric replied sadly past the lump in his throat. “I suppose he is.”

  Havgan was silent, staring out at Cadair Idris.

  Sigerric gestured to the Coranian warriors camped outside of Eiodel. “They have been coming here for the last two weeks. I do not think we will get more.”

  “I don’t suppose we will.”

  “I calculate we will likely get twelve thousand, all told,” Sigerric went on.

  “Very likely,” Havgan replied.

  “The count of the Kymri at Llyn Mwyngil is twelve thousand. In terms of numbers of men, we appear to be evenly matched.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you know as well as I that Arthur has the Y Dawnus with him. We have heard of what they did under Arthur’s direction. I do not know if we can withstand that.”

  But Havgan did not answer.

  Sigerric tried again. “And we have seen no wyrce-jagas come. I believe that they are all dead. Except for the few still left at the bardic college, Neuadd Gorsedd. But they seem to be sparing the preosts. Most of them are returning to Eadwig at Y Ty Dewin.”

  “A boon,” Havgan said dryly, then lapsed back into brooding silence.

  Sigerric quieted. Cadair Idris gleamed, golden and silver beneath the sun. Wildflowers dotted the plain—bright blue forget-me-nots and yellow corydalis waved in the light breeze. Primroses and golden globeflowers nodded. White alyssum and red rockrose twined around the steps of Cadir Idris.

  “Havgan—” Sigerric began.

  “You would truly dare?” Havgan asked quietly. “I am surprised. Even coming from you.”

  “Who else should it come from but me?” Sigerric asked, his throat tight.

  “Arianrod. It comes from her.”

  “Yes. For she loves you as I do. Please—”

  But Sigerric did not finish his sentence for a distant shout made him look to the northwest. Havgan, too, turned and saw the rider approaching.

  “The messenger from Prydyn,” Havgan said, narrowing his eyes against the sun.

  “Yes. It would seem so. I will tell the servants to give the poor man something to drink. Come with me and hear—” Sigerric gasped, grasping Havgan’s arm. “I think, I think it’s—”

  “I do, too,” Havgan said slowly, not taking his eyes off of the rider.

  “Arthur spared him,” Sigerric said, almost in awe. “Come on!” Sigerric leapt for the stairs, not even looking to see if Havgan was behind him. He rushed down the steps and into the courtyard, arriving just as the rider entered the fortress. He pushed through the warriors gathered there and ran to the rider, catching the man even as he fell from his horse.

  “Penda,” Sigerric rasped. “Penda, you’re alive.”

  Penda’s dark blond hair was sweat-soaked and his brown eyes were dull with weariness. But he smiled weakly up at Sigerric. “After a fashion,” he croaked.

  Sigerric called for ale. A brimming cup was thrust in his hands and he put the cup to Penda’s lips.

  “Havgan?” Penda asked after taking a swallow.

  “Right behind me,” Sigerric assured him. He looked over and saw that Havgan had descended much more slowly, and was just now entering the bustling courtyard. Havgan walked with a measured pace to Penda and slowly knelt down beside his blood-brother.

  “Penda,” Havgan said quietly. “You are alive.”

  “I am,” Penda said.

  “Why?”

  “I was asked to give you a message. We have lost Prydyn. The Master-wyrce-jaga, Eamer, as well as Byshop Whitred, were executed by King Rhoram.”

  “I ask you again, Penda, why are you alive?” Havgan repeated his amber eyes glittering coldly.

  “I told you. Rhoram spared me. To give you a message.”

  “Speak the rest of it, Penda,” Sigerric said sadly, “although we know what it is. We have heard it from the other three kingdoms already.”

  Penda’s brown eyes were wary as he looked up at Havgan. “I deliver this message to you because I gave my word. It is not a message I wish to give.”

  “Speak it,” Havgan said coldly.

  “Arthur ap Uthyr says that you must leave Kymru or die.”

  Havgan stood up, stepping back from his friends. Sigerric helped Penda up and the two men stood, facing Havgan.

  “I ask you again, Penda, son of Peada, why are you alive?”

  Shocked, Sigerric answered. “You heard him. He was spared to give you a message.”

  “Catha was not spared,” Havgan said. “And Baldred was killed some time ago. Talorcan has deserted me for the enemy. What about you, Penda?”

  Penda drew away from Sigerric and squared his shoulders, confronting Havgan. “Do you dare to question my loyalty to our oath? Do you dare?”

  “Yes I dare,” Havgan shouted. “Why are you alive? What did you do for them that they let you go?”

  Penda lunged at Havgan and the two men went down. They rolled on the ground like dogs, snarling. Sigerric snapped a command and several warriors pulled the two men apart. They held Penda securely but were afraid to do the same with Havgan. So it was Sigerric that held Havgan back.

  “How dare you!” Penda panted, rage in every line of his exhausted face. “I gave up everything for you! My father, my son, my very soul! It was bad in Corania, with your obsession to persecute the Heiden and the Wiccan. Innocents fell beneath your bloody blade. But then I followed you to Kymru! Followed you here because I had promised. And here it was worse—infinitely worse. For these people had done nothing to you—nothing except to live in a land that you wanted. And I helped you. I helped you and their blood will always be on my hands! A thousand lifetimes would not be enough to change that.”

  “You should not be alive,” Havgan said, fury making his amber eyes gleam like a deadly knife’s edge. “If you truly were on my side, you would be dead.”

  “Your side!” Penda spat. “I am your blood brother. And it shames me to say that I am on your side. But say it I will. I took an oath. And this is an oath I shall not break. I will fight for you against the Kymri when they come for you. But that will be the last time I stand by your side. For in that battle one of us will die. In that battle, one way or the other, I will be released from you!”

  Suddenly thunder pealed out, though there was no cloud in the sky.

  Tears filled Sigerric’s eyes at Penda’s words, at the look on Havgan’s white face.

  “Kymru herself witnesses my vow,” Penda said bitterly. “One way or the other, I will be free.”

  EVENING DESCENDED ON Eiodel, adding its own shadows to the dark fortress. Arianrod stood alone at the battlements, looking out onto the velvety dark plain. Cadair Idris rose from the shadows, gleaming silver under the light of the distant stars.

  Arianrod’s honey-blond hair was wrapped loosely in a linen band. She wore a simple, shapeless shift of creamy linen and a cloak of rich brown, for it was late spring and the nights were still cool. She laid a hand on her swollen belly, and felt the child leap beneath her fingers. She pressed a little harder i
n an attempt to be closer to her unborn son. She had a longing to hold him, a need to hold on to what she loved.

  For everything, everything else was slipping away.

  After the first few messages had come she had begged Havgan to leave Kymru. She had promised to leave Kymru with him, if he wished. She had promised to stay behind, if that was what he wanted. She had even promised that he could take their son and turn his back on her. Anything—anything he wanted. If only he would save his own life and leave Kymru far behind.

  But he always refused. And she understood at last that no amount of pleading would change his mind. And she understood what he needed from her. He needed her to believe in him. He needed her to tell him that he would defeat his enemies. He needed her to look into his amber eyes, so like her own, and tell him that she would never turn her face from him.

  And so she had. For she would do anything for him. Anything at all.

  For the past week she had been Wind-Riding, scouring Kymru as far as she could to give him any information she could find. Her abilities would let her see only twenty leagues away. It should have enabled her to see up to thirty, but her pregnancy was affecting her range. Nonetheless, twenty had been enough, so far, to tell him what he needed to know.

  She had seen that the Kymri were staging on the shores of Llyn Mwyngil. Soon, she knew, they would begin to march toward Eiodel. When Arthur was ready. She was surprised he hadn’t struck before this. But she thought she knew what he was waiting for. For the festival of Calan Llachar was only two days away. And this year, as there had been on the day Arthur was born eighteen years ago, there would be a total eclipse of the sun.

  That would be the day Arthur would strike. That would be the day Havgan died.

  She closed her eyes as tears spilled from them, flowing down her pale, strained face. She was glad Havgan was not here to see that. He and the others were even now in the hall, sitting down to the evening meal. But she was not ready to join him. Not yet. Not while she was weeping.