Cry of Sorrow

by Holly Taylor

  DEDICATION:

  To my sisters Julie, Kerry and Christine, my companions in

  joy, in grief and in life. I love you all more than I can say.

  Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2008 by Holly Taylor

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  Interior map by James Tampa

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN#9781933836263

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  Previous accolades for Crimson Fire:

  “… excellent fantasy … There is plenty of action, irony, and emotion in this tale of two kinds of people: religious zealots and paranormals. This is a richly crafted book. We look forward to reviewing the rest of the series and rated this book a score of five hearts.”

  —Bob Spear, Heartland Reviews

  “This is a terrific epic fantasy with an enjoyable final twist that readers will sort of see coming, but will be surprised anyway. The story line is fast-paced and filled with action as the ethnic cleansing seems heading into Armageddon unless Rhiannon and Gwydion can stop the obsessed Warleader from his final solution. Sub-genre fans will enjoy Holly Taylor’s fine tale once the genocidal countdown to a country-wide High Noon begins.”

  —Harriet Klausner

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  They sing after thy song,

  The Kymri in their grief,

  On account of their loss

  Long is the cry of sorrow.

  There is blood upon the spears.

  The waves are bearings

  hips upon the sea.

  Taliesin

  Fifth Master Bard of Kymru

  Circa 275

  Part 1

  The Hunted

  Dismal is this life, to be without a soft bed;

  A cold frosty dwelling, harshness of snowy wind.

  Cold icy wind, faint shadow of a feeble sun,

  The shelter of a single tree on the top of the level moor.

  Enduring the shower, stepping along deer-paths,

  Traversing greenswards on a morning of raw frost.

  High King Idris

  Circa 129

  Prologue

  Coed Aderyn

  Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru

  Bedwen Mis, 499

  Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—night

  Gwydion ap Awst, Dreamer of Kymru, twisted and turned on his narrow, sweat-soaked pallet. His face, illuminated by the shining moon that slipped through the shimmering waterfall and into the cave, was rigid with loss, with grief, with unyielding pain. And the dream unfolded.

  He stood in a dark forest, lit fitfully by the pale light of the waning moon riding high overhead. The dark trees surrounded him, hemming him in tightly. The night was cold, and he was alone in a strange place he did not know. The silence hummed loudly in his ears, drumming like thunder with every beat of his heart. Inky black shadows stretched around him, growing and wavering in the uncertain light.

  Suddenly the trees shivered as a chill wind blew through the forest, moaning and wailing of loss and despair. Leaves fallen from nearly bare branches rustled around him like the rattling bones of a restless corpse.

  Faintly, so faintly he could not be sure at first that he really heard it, a horn began to blow, the note drifting through the forest on the wings of the sobbing wind. Again, he heard the call, coming closer now. And though he thought he knew who sounded that call, it was not the cool, clear note he had heard in times past. It was soft, mournful, as though sent vainly into the air with a dying breath.

  The sound of horses’ hooves on the ground was muffled, and came slowly. He turned toward the sound, and the aching slowness of it frightened him, until he was terrified of what he would see.

  Perhaps they had come to him too late. Perhaps they were dying even now, this moment. Perhaps there would be nothing left of them for him to save.

  A faint glimmer of topaz through the dark trees caught Gwydion’s terrified gaze. The horse was pale and skeletal. The rider was slumped over the horse’s neck, the horn dangling in his hand, forgotten. With an effort, he raised his head, staring at Gwydion with the eyes of an owl. The antlers that grew from his once-proud forehead gleamed faintly in the moonlight. His once-muscular, bare chest was hollow and frail.

  “Cerrunnos,” Gwydion whispered past the ache in his throat. “Leader of the Hunt. Protector of Kymru.”

  A rustling of leaves, stirred by the hooves of a black horse, a glimmer of amethyst, and she was there. As her dark horse staggered into the tiny clearing, she slowly straightened and lifted her head. Her once-white tunic was tattered and stained with dirt and blood. Her shadowy hair was tangled and dusty. But her amethyst eyes still had the power to awe him with their pitiless gaze.

  “Cerridwen,” Gwydion whispered. “Lady of the Wood. Protectress of Kymru.”

  The two figures stared down at Gwydion but did not speak. Their harsh, labored breathing frightened Gwydion. “What have they done to you? What have they done to you both?” he cried.

  “You know what they have done, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos replied, his voice hollow. “They came and took Kymru for their own.”

  “Two years ago they came,” Cerridwen whispered. Once, her voice had been like the silvery chime of bells. But no more.

  “You … you are dying. I did not know that the Shining Ones could die.”

  “Didn’t you?” Cerridwen asked slowly. “For we can. But not yet. Not just yet. Still do I ride with the Horned God, the Master of the Hunt.” She reached out with her pale, wasted hand to the god by her side. Cerrunnos, with a mighty effort, took her hand in his own. The god’s topaz eyes fixed on Gwydion, and the Dreamer was startled to see the life that still blazed there. No, the gods were not dead. Not yet.

  “Now is the time, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos said. “Kymru is crushed beneath the heel of the enemy. The Druids have turned from Modron, and so our Great Mother will not allow the land to be fruitful. The King of the Winds moans of death and sorrow. The Lord of the Sun turns his fa
ce from the land. The Lady of the Waters looks upon rivers of blood. The Lord of Chaos is glutted with the souls of the dead. The Weaver cuts thread after thread. And now, the Wheel prepares to turn again.”

  “And so we have come,” Cerridwen said, her voice merely a whisper. “Now is the time, Dreamer. And this is the dream we have promised. The Hunt for the Four Treasures begins. Your task, to make a High King for Kymru, one who will drive the enemy from this land, continues. Look, now, for these are the ones who hold the key.” She pointed to the ground at Gwydion’s feet. Moonbeams began to gather on the dead ground, forming a silvery pool of light.

  Trembling, Gwydion gazed into the pool.

  “Complete is the prison of the Queen in Caer Dwyr,” Cerridwen chanted. Within the pool Gwydion saw the face of a young woman. Her auburn hair was scattered with pearls, her deep blue eyes filled with anger and pain. Manacles shackled her wrists, and though she twisted and turned, she could not break free. The pool shimmered again, and the face was gone.

  “Sorrowful was the exile of the King from Caer Tir,” Cerrunnos intoned, and the pool began to cast an emerald glow. Gwydion saw a man with golden hair, lines of pain and sorrow chiseled into his handsome, pale features. His blue eyes were dark with loss and despair as he strained his arms toward something he could not reach.

  “Fast was the trap of the woman in Caer Erias,” Cerridwen sang, as the pool shimmered again, glimmering like the fire in the heart of an opal. A young girl, with hair of reddish gold, struggled against unseen bonds. A wedding veil spilled from a gold circlet across her brow, and silent screams of horror poured from her blue eyes.

  “Many were the girl’s tears for the dead of Caer Gwynt,” Cerrunnos chanted, as the pool shimmered sapphire blue. The face of a young woman swam to the surface. Her auburn hair was dusty and tangled, and tears streamed from her dark eyes, spilling down her cold, set face.

  Then the pool shimmered again, casting a rainbow of light through the trees—silver and green, yellow and blue—sending a glimmer of hope spinning up into the sky. A huge eagle sprang from the pool with a cry of defiance, and followed the light up through the trees, soaring free, unfettered through the dark night.

  “Look now, Dreamer, and see what you must see,” Cerridwen said softly. Gwydion wrenched his eyes from the eagle’s flight, returning his gaze to the pool.

  A large, square-cut stone swam to the surface. It was shot through with streaks of silver, which crosscrossed the stone like a net. At each silvery junction a white pearl gleamed.

  Cerrunnos said, “Look now at Gwyr Yr Brenin, the Seeker of the King. The Stone you seek.”

  And though Gwydion did not know it, at that moment Rhiannon ur Hefeydd called out in her sleep. “The water. Please, please, no.” Her words echoed hollowly in the cave in which she slept.

  In the dream, another object swam to the surface of the pool. It was a cauldron of gold, interlaced with a dizzying array of spirals, the lip of the bowl covered with emeralds.

  Cerridwen said, “Buarth Y Greu, Circle of Blood. The Cauldron you seek.”

  While far away, in Ogaf Greu on the shores of Prydyn, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram moaned in her sleep, her blond hair drenched with sweat. “No. The earth. No,” she pleaded softly.

  Another shimmer and Gwydion saw a spear, the shaft twined with silver and gold. Fiery opals gleamed around its shaft.

  “Erias Yr Gwydd, Blaze of Knowledge,” Cerridwen said. “The Spear you seek.”

  At that moment Gwydion’s sleeping body, which lay dreaming on his pallet, twisted in fear. “The fire. Oh, the fire,” he moaned.

  Another object hurtled to the surface of the pool. It was a sword. The hilt was silver mesh, chased with gold, formed in the shape of a hawk, and studded with sapphires.

  “Meirig Yr Llech,” Cerrunnos intoned. “The Guardian of the Stone. The Sword you seek.”

  While far off, in the tiny village of Dinas Emrys, in the mountains of Eyri, Arthur ap Uthyr called out, “The air. No. No. I can’t.”

  And then, to Gwydion’s horror, a man he knew appeared on the opposite edge of the pool. He was dressed in shining gold, and his amber eyes gleamed with a terrible need. On his head he wore a helmet fashioned like the head of a boar, with ivory tusks and baleful, ruby eyes. He held a huge sword, the blade carved with boar’s heads. The Golden Man raised his head, his amber eyes boring into Gwydion’s gray ones. “I will find the Treasures, Dreamer. Find them—and you. I will take them, and enter Cadair Idris. I will kill you all,” Havgan rasped, then vanished.

  The pool, still glowing at Gwydion’s feet, abruptly winked out.

  “Now is the time we have spoken of, Gwydion ap Awst,” Cerridwen said. “The Hunt for the Treasures begins. We give you these two clues. Remember the Song of the Caers. Use the rings as your guide.”

  As Cerridwen and Cerrunnos turned their horses to go, Gwydion cried out. “Wait! I have never heard of the Song of the Caers. And I don’t know which rings you speak of! Please, you must tell me! Help me!”

  “This is a mystery for you to unravel, Dreamer,” Cerrunnos said coldly.

  “And yours to unravel soon. The Treasures must be found, and brought to Cadair Idris before the year is out,” Cerridwen said. “Or Kymru will die beneath your feet, never to return to life again.”

  “But Cadair Idris is surrounded by the enemy! How can we get through?”

  Cerridwen went on as though Gwydion had not spoken. “There the High King must go with the Treasures in his hands. And there he will undergo the Tynged Mawr, the Great Fate, and, if found worthy, he will have the power to free our land. And so your task begins again, Dreamer. It is time.”

  As GWYDION WOKE, shivering in the cave, the faces of those seen in the pool burned in his mind. Queen Elen of Ederynion, held captive in Dinmael by the Coranians. King Rhoram of Prydyn, hiding out in the caves of Ogaf Greu, his country ruled by his traitorous brother-in-law. Princess Enid of Rheged, hiding from the enemy with her brother, King Owein. Queen Morrigan, Uthyr’s daughter, hiding in the mountains of Gwynedd while her uncle ruled in her stead. These four held the key, somehow, in some way, to finding what he must now seek.

  The last words of Cerridwen rang in his mind, fresh and vibrant, as he rose from his pallet and knelt by the sleeping Rhiannon. The moonlight turned the waterfall that stretched across the cave mouth into a curtain of shimmering silver. The silvery light outlined her sleeping face, a face that had become dear to him, though he would not speak this truth aloud. Her shadowy hair was tangled, as though her sleep was restless, too. Gently he reached out and touched her rich hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and shook her awake.

  And as her green eyes opened and fastened on him, it was Cerridwen’s words that rang throughout the cave.

  “It is time,” he said.

  Chapter 1

  Eiodel

  Gwytheryn, Kymru

  Bedwen Mis, 499

  Gwaithdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

  Havgan, Warleader of the Coranian Empire and the self-styled master of Kymru, gazed upon Cadair Idris, passionate hatred on his handsome face.

  The deserted mountain hall of the High King remained closed to him. After two years of trying, the Doors would not open. Not yet.

  Not ever, a voice inside whispered, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Gwydion the Dreamer, Havgan’s most hated enemy. You are not the High King, the voice went on. And you never will be.

  But he would be. When he found the Four Treasures, then the doors of Cadair Idris would open to him, and he would walk into the mountain that defied him. He would walk through in triumph, and the place would be his. All of Kymru would be his.

  When he found the Treasures. And he would. He must.

  For crushing Kymru beneath his heel had not been enough. Driving the Bards and the Dewin from their halls had not been enough. Killing Kymru’s Kings and Queens had not been enough. For even now he could feel Kymru slipping through his fingers, as it had from the ve
ry beginning.

  His gaze played over the plain from which the defiant mountain sprang. It was early spring, and the day was crisp and cool. The grasses of the plain were brown, yet here and there patches of pale green could be seen. The trees of Coed Llachar, the forest to the west of the mountain stood tall and proud, guarding their green silences closely. The standing stones of Galar Carreg, the burial place of the High Kings of Kymru, loomed coldly, keeping their secrets to themselves.

  Far off at the edge of the western horizon, he caught a glimpse of the silvery waters of Llyn Mwyngil, shining clear and cold. A cool breeze blew over the meadow, creating swirling patterns in the grass. But, once again, the message in those patterns eluded him. The wildflowers that dotted the plain were just beginning to raise their heads. Yet even the once-vibrant colors of the wildflowers looked pale, washed out, lifeless. Almost as though Kymru was dying beneath his feet even as he tried to take it for his own.

  The harvests for the past two years had been poor, and some of the Kymri had starved. The earth gave food grudgingly, if at all. Oh, he knew what the people were saying. They said that Modron, the Great Mother, was angry that her children, the Druids, had turned from her. In retaliation, she withheld her blessing from the earth.

  Not true, Havgan knew. For his God was stronger than the gods of the Kymri. It was obvious that Lytir, the One God, was displeased, and he showed it by the poor harvests. And he must be displeased because the witches—the Dewin, the Bards, and that hateful Dreamer—were still alive, still free, still defying Havgan and his God.

  But not for much longer. Today he would meet with his inner circle, to bring to fruition plans that would make his dream a reality, plans that had been in the making for the past two years. Today, the battle for Kymru would begin again. And this time, when the battle was over, his victory would be complete.

  It had been the strange dream two nights ago that made him understand victory was in his grasp. For the search for the Treasures was beginning. When Gwydion ap Awst found them, he would turn to find Havgan right behind him.