by J. M. Hofer
Victorious, the red dragon returned to the mountain. She climbed inside its rocky wound and disappeared, reclaiming her domain.
Breathless, Taliesin sat on top of the mountain and watched the sunrise. He sat there until he had memorized every detail of the battle he had witnessed, determined to compose a ballad that would do justice to the glory and power of what he had seen.
When he felt ready, he climbed down to Vortigern’s camp, now in shambles. “Where is your king?” he demanded of the first person he saw. “Tell him Taliesin has advice for him, upon which his life depends.”
It was not long before the man returned and led him to where Vortigern sat. He turned and looked at him with tired and puffy eyes. “What advice would you give me, bard?”
“This mountain belongs to the Red Dragon now. Close the gap in its side. Let her sleep there in peace, and you may build your fortress. Attempt to disturb her, and you shall die.”
“And what of the white?”
“The white has fled. He shall bother you no more.”
Vortigern nodded, sweat dripping off his brow. “You have done well, Bard. What would you ask of me in return? If it is within my power to grant, I shall.”
“My needs are few. I ask only for a horse and your assurance that you shall never attack, nor suffer any attack, upon the villages of my loved ones. Commit their names to memory—they be Maes Gwythno and Mynyth Aur.”
“I give you my word, it shall be as you have asked.”
Satisfied, Taliesin rode for Mynyth Aur the next morning upon a dappled silver stallion.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Redemption
Uthyr and Emrys could not have chosen a more auspicious time to embark on their campaign against Vortigern. They landed on the shores of Dumnonia in the wake of the treachery at Ambrius, which had everyone in an outrage. None would support Vortigern in the face of such heinous evil, regardless of past favors or professed alliances. As a result, chieftains rallied to support Emrys, uniting under his banner and pledging him fealty. In return, Emrys swore to drive the Saxons back and deliver retribution for the calamities wrought upon them by Vortigern and Hengist.
As Uthyr and Emrys gathered support, they also gained valuable information. Through their supporters, they learned Vortigern had fled to Gwyneth to put himself beyond the reach of his growing number of enemies and fortify his position. He was building a fortress deep in the mountains, said to be near impregnable.
“Rumor says he has a powerful druid in his counsel who’s charmed a dragon to guard it for him,” Uthyr said to Emrys.
Emrys smiled and rolled his eyes. “A dragon, now, is it?”
“You know how the common folk love their stories. Regardless, we need eyes in Gwyneth. Defeating Vortigern is the key to everything. Those loyal to us will take heart, seeing we mean what we say. And those who aren’t will no longer have a choice—unless they wish to become Saxons. So, I want to know every move Vortigern makes, every person he receives, and everything he eats and drinks. I want to know when the man shits and for how long.”
Emrys grimaced. “Choose your men, then.”
Uthyr turned to leave, but Emrys held up a hand. “Wait. Have them call upon the chieftain Amlawth spoke of—the one he went north to procure swords from.“
Uthyr nodded, thinking it was a good idea. “Bran of the Oaks, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m counting on Amlawth to make an ally of him.”
“I can’t imagine that’ll be too hard. Their daughters seem to have become the best of friends.” Uthyr thought of Igerna and could not restrain a rush of desire. Never had he beheld a more perfect woman. When the time was right, he would ask Amlawth for her hand. After I’ve made a name for myself. Then, I’ll make her mine.
Emrys nodded. “Not only that, he personally escorted the man’s daughter home. Between that and the generous offer I authorized Amlawth to make for the swords I want, I think we can safely assume we have an ally in the north. Send your men to him and find out—with gifts, of course. With Bran’s counsel and support, I’m sure they will be far more effective in their endeavors to ascertain Vortigern’s strength and plans.”
Uthyr nodded, noting the fatigue on his brother’s face. “Not long now, brother—we’ll soon have our chance.
Emrys gave him a half-smile. “I know.”
“You were right to refuse Vortigern’s offer.” He patted him on the back.
“I know that, as well.”
Uthyr admired his brother’s unwavering honor. Soon after their arrival, Vortigern learned of the sympathy Emrys was stirring up in Dumnonia. Aware of his compromised position, he sent an emissary with what many would consider a generous—and some, a desperate—peace offering of several western kingdoms. A less patient or confident man might have taken his offer, but Emrys had refused. “Vortigern be damned,” he had said to Uthyr after the emissary left. “I’ll win the hearts of these kings and chieftains for myself.” He had proceeded to do exactly that, choosing his allies with care. Unlike many men of power who ruled a court of sycophants, he preferred to surround himself with those who were wiser and smarter than he was.
Well, except for me, Uthyr thought. He had never been able to best Emrys in anything except a fight. In their childhood, he had tried to study the way Emrys did, but it had been no use. Any activity that did not involve movement or exertion had been of little or no interest to him. He soon learned every man had talents and faults, like mountains and valleys, in the landscape of his character. A wise man explored them both and built his home where his crops would flourish. He stopped trying to emulate his brother and instead did what he did best. It had made them a formidable pair, the combination of their skills and talents exactly what was needed for them to triumph.
Uthyr knew kingdoms were won on the battlefield, but it was only under shrewd leadership that they were kept. That had been proven a thousand times over a thousand centuries. Only together could they destroy the enemies of Brython and restore her to glory, and, together, he was certain, they would do just that.
***
Moons passed. Uthyr and Emrys continued building alliances through the summer, one chieftain at a time, patiently crafting their opportunity to destroy Vortigern. They used Caer Glou as their headquarters until they could build their own. From there, they could keep eyes on the borderlands while continuing to recruit the chieftains of Gwyneth to their cause.
When they were certain the time was nigh, they summoned their most-trusted men to plan their attack. Among them were their allies from the southern kingdoms of Dumnonia, Gorlois and Amlawth, and, of course, the ever-loyal Eldol of Caer Glou, the only other survivor of the slaughter at Ambrius.
For days, the council examined and discussed the maps and reports brought back from the scouts they had sent north. With the information gathered, Emrys, Uthyr and their men were able to put together a comprehensive picture of the situation they would be marching into. They discussed the number of warriors and weapons they had, the best way to approach, timing, distances, road conditions and supplies, and argued the finer points of every possible plan of attack late into the night. The most heated debate of all, however, was not about strategies.
“My man returned just this morning,” Eldol said. “He says farmers and soldiers alike are telling tales of a horrifying fight between two dragons in the night sky.”
Uthyr shook his head and chuckled.
“Bring your man here, please,” Emrys asked. “I’d like to question him myself.”
“As you wish. He’s just outside.”
Uthyr looked over at his brother with raised brows, but before he could say anything, Eldol brought in his scout. “Go ahead,” Eldol prompted, encouraging the youth.
Emrys beckoned the boy forward. “Tell me everything you know about these dragons.”
The young man nodded and untied the fastenings on a large leather pouch he was carrying. “I could tell you tales all night, commander, but I daresay none will convince
you of the truth so much as these will.”
He reached into the pouch and tossed a handful of what appeared to be giant red and white flower petals on the table. They glistened in the candlelight, seeming to glow from within; the white like the moon, and the red like a hot bed of coals.
Emrys gasped. “What are they?”
Uthyr leaned in closer, bewildered.
“Dragon scales, your grace. Nearly lost my life collectin’ ‘em.”
Emrys picked one up, his mouth agape as he turned it around in the candlelight, and then shot Uthyr a look. “Summon Myrthin, at once.”
***
Uthyr cringed. Myrthin was the druid whom their cousin, King Budic, had often summoned for counsel on matters of the spirit world. Unlike Uthyr, Emrys had been captivated by the strange man since the moment they met. During their childhood, he often stole away to the dirty hut in the woods where Myrthin lived, sometimes spending the entire day listening to his strange and cryptic speeches. Uthyr resented the time he spent there. His brother was all he had, and, like most children, he did not like sharing—least of all the things he loved most. Over the years, he learned to tolerate Myrthin. He even grew to respect the extent of his knowledge, but he did not trust him. Oh, no. He did not trust him in the least.
When Emrys decided it was time to return to Brython and reclaim their father’s throne, he had insisted on bringing Myrthin with them. Though Uthyr did not like it, he had no choice but to agree.
In spite of his misgivings about Myrthin, however, Uthyr agreed that consulting him on the matter of dragons seemed wholly appropriate.
Who better to address the question of dragons than the old warlock?
***
The telltale rattle of bones, stones and shells announced Myrthin’s approach long before his unblinking eyes appeared in the hall. He wore more talismans and charms about his neck than anyone Uthyr had ever met.
“Where are they?” he demanded upon entering.
Though Uthyr often skimmed over formalities, he was offended by Myrthin’s utter disregard for them. He was about to protest, when he felt his brother’s hand squeeze his arm.
“Myrthin.” Emrys motioned toward the scales on the table. “Come. Tell me what you think.”
Myrthin approached the table as if it were a cradle holding a newborn baby he dared not awaken. He picked up one of the red scales with reverence and smiled, almost wickedly, as he turned it around in the light. “Dragons,” he whispered to himself. His eyes clouded over a moment but then fixated on Emrys. “Dragons—make no mistake.”
“It’s true, then.”
Myrthin cocked his head. “Where, exactly, were these found?”
“Near Vortigern’s fortress, deep in the Eryri.”
Myrthin nodded. “Might I keep one of each, your grace?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Myrthin’s pupils dilated. He reached for a white scale with trembling fingers, making Uthyr uneasy. What’s he going to do with them?
That was something that would remain a mystery, it seemed, for Myrthin left before dawn the next day without a word to anyone. Uthyr was not surprised to hear it. Bastard’s always disappearing.
***
On a clear morning, a few days after Myrthin’s departure, Emrys ordered all of his men to gather. He had decided on his next move, and was ready to rally his troops to the cause.
Uthyr felt a rush of pride and excitement fill his chest as he looked out over the sea of men standing before them, their eyes eager for his brother’s words. We cannot fail them. We cannot fail Father.
He noticed Emrys take a deep breath and say a prayer before beginning his speech. When he was ready, he cried out, “Vortigern has built himself a fortress far to the north in the mountains of Gwyneth. There, he has sought refuge from the Saxons he has so foolishly indulged, and there is where he will draw his last breath upon this earth!”
The troops erupted into cries of revenge, encouraging him.
“Men of Brython, we march tomorrow. May your souls and swords be ready!”
***
It’s about time, Aelhaearn thought, gripping his spear. He was eager for battle. It was a hunger that had grown steadily over the past six moons. At first, he had not wanted to join Emrys’ army. He had planned to live out his days in Armorica at the forge. Thankfully, Camulos had talked him into it. For the first time in nearly twenty years, Aelhaearn felt as if he belonged to a clan again. No one among them knew of his betrayals or losses. No one cared where he had come from or what he had done. To these men, he was simply a blacksmith and a warrior, and highly respected as both. He had not realized how desperately he had longed to be respected again. It also felt good to be back in the land of his birth. For all his terrible memories, Gwynedd was home, and always would be.
***
Emrys led the march north to lay siege to Vortigern’s fortress, but Vortigern had been warned of their coming. They found his mountain perch fortified with military defenses and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of men.
Vortigern had chosen his fortress location well. It stood upon a steep mountain, difficult to access, making it impossible to get ladders against its high protective walls or battering rams against its doors. The hundreds of archers along its walls easily picked off their assailants as if they were no more than sheep grazing in the fields below.
“We’ll be dead in three days at this rate,” Camulos said to Aelhaearn. “Find a way to get inside and do what you do best—the commander doesn’t know it, but you’re our best hope.”
Aelhaearn nodded, surmising Camulos’ suggestion. If he could find a way in, he could set the entire fortress aflame within minutes. Vortigern and his people would be forced to flee, and they would gain the advantage.
“The question is, how.” Camulos stared up at the daunting edifice, ominously backlit against the growing twilight.
Aelhaearn nodded and began pondering that dilemma. He patted Camulos on the back, collected his things, and set off.
Aelhaearn had grown so accustomed to silence over the years, he felt as if he had become silence itself. Dressed in dark wool, no one saw nor heard him as he made his way up the steep backside of the mountain. His movements were slow and smooth, like a cat stalking prey. After examining the fortress from all angles, he determined how he would accomplish his task. There was no way over the walls and no way through them, so that left tunneling under them. The cauldron-born had taught him that lesson well.
He crept along the base of the wall, feeling along the ground, until he found a hidden spot to work. No one heard him as he dug, burrowing his way down into the earth while the moon climbed into the sky.
He soon discovered the walls were not as well-built as they appeared. The work had been hasty. Its craftsmen had taken what would now prove to be deadly shortcuts in its construction.
The steepness of the mountain also served him in his endeavor. In a well-built fortress on flat ground, he would have to have lifted the soil out, a shovelful at a time, and moved it away. Here, the rocks and earth, once dislodged, obliged him by tumbling down the mountainside. By the time the sun began to rise, he had nearly completed his task.
He slept until night fell again, and then returned to his labor. Victory came in the middle of the second night. He emerged beneath a large wagon filled with hay not far from the stables. He scanned the courtyard and smiled at the number of torches employed to light it. Vortigern did not know it, but every one of those torches was about to betray him. Aelhaearn caused the flames of the torches to stretch and lick the wagon of hay above him with their greedy tongues. He let out a satisfied sigh of victory as fire at last engulfed the wagon above him, unleashing cries of alarm throughout the courtyard. Men came to throw buckets of water upon the wagon, but it was too late. Aelhaearn caused the now raging fire to reach for the nearby barrels of pitch and oil until they succumbed to the inferno and exploded.
He emerged under cover of the chaos he had unleashed. The courtyard
, but moments ago as silent as the night above it, now resembled an ant hill torn apart by a malicious child’s stick. Soldier and stableboy alike crisscrossed one another’s paths, desperately trying to quench the flames into submission.
Unnoticed, he strode into the castle like the sun, scorching everything in his path. Flames soon billowed out of every window, hungry for the cool morning air. They drank it in and grew to the size of fiery titans, blackening the sky and signaling Camulos to make his move.
There was but one thing left to do. Aelhaearn ran through the burning castle, searching for his prey. It did not take him long to track him down.
Vortigern whirled around upon hearing him enter the hall. “Who are you?” He unsheathed his sword.
Aelhaearn answered by setting all of the tapestries in the hall aflame at once.
Vortigern’s eyes flew open, his expression twisted with horror. “Are you mad? You’ll kill us all!”
Aelhaearn ignored his cries and continued to close in. Vortigern, like an animal addled by fear, fled up the nearest tower.
Fool. Aelhaearn pursued him, sending flames chasing up the tower after him. He did not stop until Vortigern’s cries of agony ceased echoing down the narrow twisted stairway.
Aelhaearn then climbed the stairs to the top of the tower. Vortigern crouched limply against a stone wall, badly burned and quivering. The defeated king held up a shaking hand and attempted to speak, but could manage nothing more than a terrified whisper.
Aelhaearn raised his spear and pierced him through the heart with a swift, precise stab. No need for the man to suffer any longer. He wished he had been granted such a merciful fate, instead of the life he had been cursed to endure. He dragged Vortigern’s body down the tower stairway, lest anyone doubt whether the deed had been accomplished. He went out on the archers’ wall with his quarry in tow and watched the fortress burn. The fire surged and roiled in the strong wind, its flames dancing like crazed natives possessed by a wild, tribal rhythm. Beautiful. He caught glimpses of the battle below through the occasional gap in the relentless black smoke. Emrys’ soldiers forged their way up the mountainside, moving toward the summit like a noose of death. They slayed all in their path as they cinched that noose, tighter and tighter, around the fortress.
