Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)
Page 29
She was frighteningly powerful, even despite her recent misfortunes. If she should happen to take her own grisial hud back… if she destroyed his instead…
Running a hand across the stubble of his beard, he studied the crystals attached to each reliquary and chain.
Something in his gut told him that those crystals were profoundly important. Without them, the compartments they were attached to would be nothing but empty metal. They needed each other, and they needed to remain whole. The way he’d laid them across the floor… one good strike would destroy them both… and then come what may.
Lifting up the sword, he fell to his knees, praying for the second time in as many days.
Making the sign of the cross, he kissed his thumb, then raised the sword aloft, taking it firmly with both hands as he continued to pray—not for his own soul, though he knew it to be in peril, but for Rhiannon and her sisters.
He prayed for England.
He prayed for forgiveness.
Most of all, he prayed for good aim.
And then he lowered the sword with a thunderous crack that resounded throughout the castle, smashing both crystals into smidirín.
36
The battle commenced without pomp or ceremony, signaling itself with a new influx of birds. More, and more, and more arrived, till the entire field before Amdel Castle appeared black with their numbers. Squawking noisily, crows and ravens quarreled amidst themselves, pecking and diving at one another as though vying for territory. And even as their numbers grew, so too did the cacophony, until the sound was maddening and the air held a note of menace.
Down in the yard, the wolfhound began to howl.
Presently, dark clouds rolled in, bearing with them the silent menace of lightning. Heavy with mist, the air held a wintry chill uncommon for the kalends of August.
Trying not to think about Cael, or his forced confession, Rhiannon shivered over the sight that greeted her as she arrived on the ramparts with her sisters. After the first inrush of birds, Warkworth’s seneschal had come to retrieve them from the solar. At once, they’d equipped themselves for war and reconvened on the parapet, dressed in mail.
Morwen would strike at the most opportune time. For a dewine, this would be the Golden Hour—those delicate moments during which the Veil between worlds was at its thinnest and the hud was at its strongest. These twilight moments came twice every day with the gloaming. Some folks called the half-light a witchlight, because it was during this time when otherworldly creatures drifted into the Realm of the Living: The faefolk danced through their sacred groves, changelings came to trade for babes, shapeshifters changed their forms, will-o’-the-wisps revealed themselves and banshees howled into the wind.
By now, both the inner and outer baileys had been warded, but it was difficult to say how effective those outer wards would be without walls to protect the circlet and spell.
At the moment, those birds were well outside their periphery, but wards like these were easy to breach, and not even Elspeth knew for certain how to keep Morwen’s ravens outside their proximity without help from the Goddess.
Like a pentagram, a circlet was only intended to harness magik into a specific area. It wasn’t a deterrent to physical forms. In fact, it was quite easy to disarm a warding spell simply by stumbling over its lines.
Mercifully, Morwen herself could not enter the premises unbidden. But, in order to ban a person from entry, one must speak their name, and Morwen’s soldiers were all nameless.
Warkworth’s warriors came prepared; under the seneschal’s direction, archers now formed a defensive line on the ramparts. Another defensive line two-men deep defended the inner bailey. Barrels of pitch were being boiled, poised to defend the gate. The postern door had also been warded and barred, and a handful of soldiers had been assigned to the gate.
However, there were not nearly enough men to defend the outer bailey, and slowly, slowly, slowly… the birds came closer and closer… alighting on the remnants of the burnt outer wall, breaching that barrier to amass in the outer bailey. Although, fortunately, as of yet, they had not come near the wards Elspeth had placed…
Because it was presumed that Morwen would attempt to barter for the things she most valued, Prince Eustace was dragged from the oubliette, hands bound, and brought to the ramparts. At the moment, he looked nothing at all like the arrogant bully who’d enjoyed picking on those less fortunate. Hungry, dirty and tired, he sat where they bade him to sit, and perhaps only bided his time, still hoping that Morwen would free him. With his head in his hands and his winter grey eyes so like his father’s, he sat looking like the broken man he was.
Rhiannon didn’t want to feel pity for him, and yet, she did.
She knew what it felt like to be discarded, and she knew what it felt like not to be valued. Only she would never have taken her fury out on others, as he had.
Sweet fates. What must it be like to feel so little compassion for human suffering, or the lives of others, that one would put an entire castle to the torch?
It was no wonder they kept Wilhelm from the King’s son, because if that were Rhiannon’s family murdered by his hand, she might, indeed, have killed him herself, pity bedamned.
Now, she watched from the ramparts, along with her sisters and Marcella as Morwen’s birds transformed themselves into soldiers in the blink of an eye. It happened so swiftly, there wasn’t a change to note. They were simply birds one instant, the next, black-clad soldiers, armed with glittering swords, exactly like those soldiers her sisters had encountered at the Widow’s Tower. “She’s here,” announced Seren, rubbing her arms.
“Someone fetch Giles.”
“I’ll go,” offered Edmund.
At the moment, Giles and Wilhelm were both in the courtyard preparing their best line of defense, and if there was a bright side to be found, it was this: They wouldn’t have to worry about any siege. But, alas, neither did they have the resources to win hand-to-hand. As it was, they hadn’t even the numbers to hold the castle for long, nor enough missiles to keep Morwen’s army at bay. Rhiannon begged the Goddess for mercy.
“I hope she’s listening,” said Rosalynde.
“What of Cael?” asked Elspeth. “Has he emerged yet?”
Rhiannon shook her head, even now dreading the sight of her husband as much as she dreaded the coming battle. Their time was up.
What would he say?
What could she say?
For all Rhiannon knew, he had already slipped away, and even now he was out there… with Morwen—his benefactress and mistress.
“Nay,” said Seren, reading Rhiannon’s mind, and Rhiannon frowned.
She had always been better at mindspeaking than any of her sisters. And, in fact, until now, she had been better at everything than everybody, except Morwen. It was wholly unnerving to discover that Seren was suddenly the better, stronger, wiser dewine—and neither was she accustomed to her sister’s altered appearance, although for Wilhelm’s part, he seemed unfazed by the changes in his wife, and if anything, he seemed relieved—as they should all be.
As the dark clouds grew darker, Rosalynde waved a hand, speaking softly to entreat the Goddess…
Goddess of light, protect us this night.
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
By all on high and law of three,
This is my will, so mote it be.
“Alas,” said Marcella. “I fear it will not constrain her.”
“It’s something,” said Ellie.
And then they waited. All together. All five dewines stood watching as the Golden Hour arrived, and the fields continued to pepper with soldiers, until every puddle bore boots.
An even colder mist crept out from the woodlands, crawling slowly toward the castle, frosting the air so that it was possible to spy one’s breath. Rhiannon rubbed her arms vigorously, fear rising up her spine like an icy tide.
When finally Morwen arrived, she came with reinforcem
ents—Welsh standards raised high against the setting sun. However, they did not rush the castle. Instead, they moved closer, and closer until the foreground was a crush of black and metal.
And then, suddenly, a sea of men parted before the Witch Queen, as they had during the battle of the Tower, her soldiers standing quietly, allowing her to pass.
In she rode, astride some enormous black horse, her black hair plaited for war and her armor shining dully. And yet, though she was unmistakable, there was a horse and rider trailing behind her who wasn’t immediately recognizable—not until she came closer.
Rhiannon gasped.
Marcella snarled.
“Christ!” said Giles.
Rhiannon’s heart kicked violently against her ribs, as Giles immediately moved to restrain Marcella, who started screaming.
“Do not harm him, Morwen! Kill him and I will slay you myself!”
It was Jack.
Hands bound at his back, with a bloodied cloth shoved ruthlessly into his mouth, he was stripped of his armor, including his clothing. Naked as the day he was begot, he sat astride his courser, his wide blue eyes peering up into the ramparts, speaking words his mouth could not…
Do not treat with her, he said.
Rhiannon’s heart gripped with fear.
Morwen halted outside missile range, tugging at Jack’s lead rope, pulling his horse up beside her. “I’ve brought you a gift,” she said sweetly, her voice echoing unnaturally across the misty, puddled field.
Poor, poor Jack!
Rhiannon attempted to connect with him, and found his heart flame beating savagely.
Jack, she said. Oh, my dear, sweet Jack.
I am sorry, he said stoically.
We will trade for you! she said. We have Eustace!
Nay, my lady, do not. Do not treat with her, he said bravely, and even from this distance, Rhiannon could see that his shoulders lifted and his chin hitched defiantly.
Raucous laughter reached the ramparts. Clearly, having heard their mindspoken words, the Witch Goddess was heartily amused. And yet, Jack never once said from whence he’d come, Rhiannon realized. Had he somehow managed to keep that from Morwen?
Even now, could Drakewich’s soldiers be en route?
Rhiannon prayed it was true.
“Let us treat!” demanded Morwen. “You have something that belongs to me. I wouldst have it returned. Moreover, as a sign of your enduring good will, I will require the traitors Cael d’Lucy and Marcella le Fae. Send both to me now, and I shall free this man-child and leave you in peace.”
Behind her, her entire black-clad army shifted in preparation. At the flick of her fingers, all the Welsh bowmen in her company moved forward.
Do not treat with her, begged Jack desperately, shaking his head, and Morwen laughed. “Fool,” she said, glancing at her defiant prisoner. “Do you not realize I can hear you?”
Go to hell, you spawn of the devil!
“Quite to the contrary,” she said mirthfully, and tears pricked at Rhiannon’s eyes because she understood what Jack was saying, and it was true. Whatever transpired, they should not barter with Morwen. And, to that end, he’d already decided he would die for this cause. And die he would, Rhiannon knew, and she swallowed the tears that rose to choke her. Her gaze sought Marcella, but Marcella’s eyes were only for Jack.
Eyes burning, Rhiannon’s gaze returned to Jack. Sadly, he would die without ever having told Marcella his true heart, and he would die before earning his sword.
Behind her, Giles seized the brat Prince by his hair and dragged him over onto the edge of the parapet. “You want the King’s son, Morwen? Give us Jack and we’ll give him to you,” he offered. “If, indeed, you wish to rule, you will not do so without him.”
“Rule?” said Morwen, laughing. “Rule!” She laughed to her leisure, then stopped, and then, again, when they believed she would speak, she laughed a moment longer, and finally declared, “What need have I for a poppet when I am already a queen?”
She waved a hand. “Do you not see who follows me, Prince of Paladins? Here, I have brought you Wales!” she exclaimed. “I am the Chosen One. I am the key to Heaven on Earth. What have you but a snotty little boy—the weakling son of a usurper, who, even now, slumps in his throne, heavy with defeat!”
A frisson of fear rushed down Rhiannon’s spine as Giles held the King’s son closer to the edge of the parapet, his temper rising. “P-Please d-don’t!” whined the Prince. “P-Please! My father will treat with you. He’ll give you aught you ask for. I will give you gold!”
Giles ignored him. “Neither have we any need for a sniveling fool, who cares more for his own turds than he does for his people!”
“Of that we are in accord,” said Morwen evenly. She lifted a hand. “Therefore, let us be rid of the wretch!” she declared, and waved a hand, commanding her bowmen.
A host of arrows flew at the Prince’s breast, every one finding its mark, narrowly missing Giles. Alas, their own bowmen could not answer in kind. The Welsh were famed for their precision; their arrows more deadly and their projection farther than England’s. The impact gave the Prince’s body a succession of violent twitches. Looking like a pinpush, he crumpled to his knees. Startled, Giles de Vere released him, and Eustace fell forward, tumbling lifelessly into the motte.
So swiftly the King’s heir was gone.
So swiftly a father’s legacy was done.
If, indeed, he’d meant to reconsider a treaty with Duke Henry, this would be the death of his waffling. And yet, Morwen was only toying with them as yet, perhaps realizing they hadn’t proper numbers to fight her. First, she would have her fun, and then she would have her vengeance. Still, Giles insisted. “We’ll not treat with you! Free the boy!”
Morwen shrugged. “I see no boy,” she said. “I see a man, fledgling though he might be. A grown man with choices, and he made one. So mote it be.” Without warning, she unsheathed her sword and turned to run it through Jack’s heart.
Fight and prevail, said Jack, even as the blood gurgled into his throat, the fresh tide turning the cloth in his mouth even more crimson yet. He slumped forward in the saddle, and Morwen shoved his lifeless body off the horse, into the muck.
Seeing this, Marcella’s scream rent the air; it was the beginning of chaos.
A bolt of lightning struck the keep behind them, the sound like a god’s fury.
Morwen’s soldiers silently marched forward, closing in on the castle, like mindless lemmings. The first line of defense fell into the motte, then turned upon their brethren, and seeing this unexpected sorcery, Morwen raged anew. Her scream sent forth a host of locusts swarming toward the castle, only to meet the sisters’ wards and be thwarted.
Down in the field, the battle was fully engaged. Beguiled and confused, some of Morwen’s soldiers fought each other, hand to hand. Up on the ramparts, Warkworth’s archers waited for the seneschal’s command. Knowing their missiles were scarce, he waited until the second line of Morwen’s army was close enough, then shouted, “Loose!”
A flight of arrows whizzed through the air, and Seren waved a hand and said:
Fire in the air, fire on the ground!
The arrows erupted with witchfire, leaving smoke in their wake as they descended. Every mark they met igniting with searing blue flames. Men screamed, but those horrifying sounds that came from their mouths were akin to squawks.
Thunder cracked, the skies emptied. Lightning brightened the fields as a swarm of creatures launched into the air, bodies morphing from man to bird. Some flew away, some tested the wards, breaching their defense with little effort, only to dive upon their prey.
Elspeth hadn’t the same level of skills as her sisters. She focused on the horses of those Welsh soldiers, commanding them all to unseat their riders. In answer, a wave of soldiers flew from their mounts, rolling into the muck, and she did it again, and again, until all of Morwen’s reinforcements were forced to fight afoot, slogging through boggy fields in the downpour.
Only now that her soldiers were grounded, Rosalynde focused on the fields, and all those remaining puddles, turning each one into quagmires, so that they sucked at the boots of passing soldiers, pulling them down into quicksand.
More screams and squawks rent the air. Swords clashed, metal rang. Somewhere down in the fray, Jack’s body lay trampled.
The thought made Rhiannon’s heart ache, but clearly not more than Marcella’s. At one point during the melee, whilst everyone was otherwise engaged, Marcella flew down the stairs. Shouting vengefully, she cast open the gates. Sword in hand, the witch-paladin marched out from the inner bailey, straight toward her once beloved, intent upon doing what she knew best—wresting the head from Morwen’s body. She might not have the same affinities as the Pendragon sisters, but she knew how to use a blade, and with deadly precision. As though called upon by her wrath, more soldiers arrived on the battlefield and Rhiannon feared the battle was done.
“D’Lucy!” shouted Wilhelm. “D’Lucy!”
Rhiannon’s heart quivered, thinking that Cael had finally arrived to join them on the ramparts. But nay… nay… those were Drakewich’s standards marching toward them—hundreds of men, all sporting a similar dragon banner as Cael’s. And then, from the woodlands came yet another wave of reinforcements, all bearing Scotia’s standard, with Malcom Scott at the helm.
Flanked between them, Morwen’s soldiers crushed themselves together, pushing the first line into the motte as Marcella fought her way across the bridge, here and there shoving Morwen’s soldiers into the motte. They emerged time and again, only to fall behind her, and by the time she’d made her way into the crush, their numbers had grown.
But it was not enough.
Like Jack, she would die if she dared to face Morwen alone, and foremost in Rhiannon’s mind was the fear that now that the gates were open wide, their wards would all be breached. Once those circles were broken, the magik used to protect them would be useless.