May Earth Rise

by Holly Taylor

  Sigald looked closely at Talorcan, his blue eyes narrowed. “You will tell me right now or I will—” he broke off, staring at Talorcan. “General!”

  “Yes, General Talorcan,” he said dryly. “Traitor to Havgan. Or so the story goes.”

  “You mean—” Sigald asked, comprehension dawning on his face.

  “Yes, I mean just that,” Talorcan said. “I mean that this is a little something that Havgan and I cooked up between us. The only way to get them.”

  “The Kymric witches, you fooled them!”

  “I did. And many years I worked at it, too. A plan long in the making. But come to fruition at last.” He gestured to Rhiannon, who was now pale and silent. “I bring you the first of many. Next to come will be Arthur himself. And saving the best for last—the Dreamer. Before tomorrow is out Havgan will behold the Dreamer in the dungeons of Eiodel.”

  “Then by all means, General Talorcan,” Sigald said, “welcome to our island. It isn’t much, but we call it hell. For the Y Dawnus, at any rate.”

  He turned, gesturing for Talorcan to follow him. Rhiannon followed, dragged forward by her two guards. As they walked off the dock and onto the shore of Afalon, Talorcan sensed something that made his heart quake. As his feet touched the isle he felt something, something powerful and angry; something that was done waiting. Something, he did not know exactly what, that almost frightened him with its intensity.

  He could not, he would not, let these men know what he felt. He had struggled far too long against this thing that was inside him to let it betray him now.

  A large, roughly timbered hall loomed on their left as they entered the open gate of the compound. To his right three whipping posts were set up. The posts were covered with blood. Two blackrobed wyrce-jaga were removing a man from one of the posts.

  “Dead?” the first one asked.

  “Not yet,” the second one said. “We’ll give him a few days to heal up and then be at him again.”

  “Well, he’ll never call us names again after this,” the first one said with a grin.

  “Don’t count on it. This one’s been trouble ever since he got here. He was the very first of the witches to be collared, and yet he’s still alive.”

  Talorcan guessed that this must be Cian, one-time Bard to King Rhoram. Cian, along with his testing device, had been captured by Rhoram’s Druid, Ellywen, and taken to Eiodel. He had been the last Kymri to see Anieron Master Bard alive. And he had been among the first to be brought to Afalon.

  Talorcan glanced over at Rhiannon, for he knew that Cian was an old friend of hers. She took in Cian’s scarred body, his bloody back, his skeletal frame, and her eyes hardened to emerald. But Talorcan saw the flicker of fear cross her face.

  Cian opened his eyes. His gaze traveled slowly over them until he saw Rhiannon. They looked at each other steadily. At the last Cian was the one to turn away, unable to bear the sight of Rhiannon with a collar around her neck.

  A long, low hut in the center of the compound drew his eye away from the half-dead Bard. The stench from the hut was almost unbelievable. Through the barred windows he saw pale, skeletal limbs and lusterless eyes gazing out. Each of the people penned there wore a collar of dull, gray lead. Hopelessness and despair emanated from the hut. Some of the people were children, their dull eyes huge in their ashen faces.

  To the right was another hut, this one apparently for housing wyrce-jaga, for they spilled from the hut as he came near. They bowed briefly as the recognized him, but did not speak. Their eyes gleamed as they saw Rhiannon.

  A pack of dogs came rushing up, barking and growling at the sight of Rhiannon. Sigald roared for the dogs to heel and they did, abruptly. Sigald, his face red with temper, cuffed the lead dog. The animal yelped but did not give ground. He growled and, for a moment, Talorcan wondered if the dog might not leap for Sigald’s throat. But, for now, at least, the dog backed away slowly, acknowledging Sigald as his master.

  A kennel for the dogs, a well, and the guard’s quarters completed the compound. In the center, just outside the wyrce-jaga’s quarters, a large bonfire roared.

  “Welcome to Afalon,” Sigald grinned. “Who exactly is your prisoner?”

  “Gentlemen,” Talorcan said to the guards and to the wyrce-jaga. “I give you Rhiannon ur Heyvedd. The woman who journeyed to Corania and, under false pretences, entered our Warleader’s house. She ate his bread, she slept beneath his roof, and then she betrayed him.”

  “Betrayed him!” Rhiannon exclaimed with contempt. “How could I betray an enemy?”

  “He thought you a loyal servant,” Talorcan replied. “But you were little better than a snake in the grass, waiting for your chance to harm him. I can only marvel that you never killed him. For you surely would have if you could have.”

  “You are right there, traitor,” she spat. “If I could have I would have. And if I had known what you had in mind, I would have killed you.”

  “But you did not,” Talorcan said smoothly. “And so you and the others, you welcomed me into your halls. As we had done to you.”

  One of the wyrce-jaga stepped forward then, his dark eyes fastened on Rhiannon. “I know who you are, witch. Lord Sledda wanted you brought before him. He wanted that more than anything.”

  “Too bad he is dead,” Rhiannon sneered. “Dead at the hands of High King Arthur, the one whom I serve.”

  The wyrce-jaga slapped her across the face so hard that she spun and fell to the ground. Instantly she was on her feet, spinning back to face him, her face defiant, blood trickling from her lip.

  “Now, now, wyrce-jaga,” Talorcan chided. “Havgan will be displeased if you do too much damage before he has his chance.”

  The wyrce-jaga paled and stepped back.

  “A pity,” Sigald said. “We could use her here. We take the witch-women, but it isn’t the same. They have no spirit. The new ones are good for a while, but then the collars take their energy—they don’t even scream after the first few times.”

  “It is indeed a pity,” Talorcan went on. “This one is particularly interesting. I used to watch her do the Dance to Freya in Corania and I still dream about it.”

  At that Sigald tore his gaze from Rhiannon and looked at Talorcan, a light in his bloodshot eyes. “Freya’s Dance?”

  “Oh, yes,” Talorcan said absently.

  “Really?”

  “Like you’ve never seen.”

  “That so?” another guard asked.

  “Turn your bones to water.”

  Sigald turned back to look Rhiannon up and down. “Take her cloak off,” he ordered. Rhiannon’s two guards tore her cloak from her. She was wearing a cream-colored shift under a gown of dark green.

  “Take the gown off,” Sigald ordered.

  “I can do it myself,” Rhiannon said, between gritted teeth.

  At Sigald’s gesture the two guards stepped back. Rhiannon took off her outer gown and threw it on the ground. Her shift reached to mid-calf and she bent down to take off her shoes. She straightened up and looked at Sigald, Talorcan, all of the men gathered there with contempt in her eyes.

  “Shall I dance for you?” she asked, her tone cold and even. “Is that what you want?”

  Sigald glanced at Talorcan. Talorcan shrugged.

  “We’ll have to take the collar off,” Sigald ventured.

  “What could she do with all of us here?” Talorcan asked.

  Sigald grinned. “Boys,” he said to his men, “looks like we’ll have a little fun tonight.”

  They gathered in a semi-circle around the bonfire, the soldiers and the wyrce-jaga. Talorcan and Sigald had places of honor in the front. At Sigald’s nod, one of the guards took Rhiannon’s collar off. As he did so she sighed and closed her eyes briefly, bowing her head for a moment. At last she raised her head and came to stand between the men and the fire.

  The fire played greedily over her shift, over her skin, over her pale and set face, outlining the contours of her lovely body for all the men to see. The
firelight shifted, illuminating the lust-filled faces of the men gathered there.

  The captive Y Dawnus who had been gazing out from their filthy hut at the scene turned away as the drumbeat began, knowing where this would lead, unwilling to look at the humiliation of one of their own.

  Rhiannon raised her hands above her head, her face lifted to the starry sky. Behind her the fire blazed up, roaring for a moment as though in anger. A wind whipped through the compound, stirring up the hard-packed sand, making the flames dance this way and that. The men, women, and children in the hut stirred at that, sensing, perhaps, something, even though the collars had deadened their psychic senses. Some of them raised their heads and looked at each other, a slight, fragile hope stealing into their dull and lifeless eyes. Beneath their feet the earth trembled slightly, shifting for a moment like the movements of a restless sleeper on the edge of waking.

  Rhiannon stood quite still for a moment, firelight and starlight playing around her body. And then she began to dance. She twisted her body slowly, her arms spread wide, swaying toward the men as though she longed for them. Slowly, to the beat of the drum, she drew back, then again leaned forward, her arms extended. The gaze of every last man there was fastened hungrily on her.

  Which was why, when the fog settled thickly around the island, cutting off their view of the lake, they didn’t even notice.

  SIXTEEN BOATS MADE their way silently across the fog-enshrouded lake. Each boat was piloted by one of Arthur’s companions, and they followed each other closely. Arthur, piloting the lead boat, Wind-Spoke to Gwydion, whose boat was just behind.

  Looks like it’s going according to plan.

  Yes, Gwydion replied sourly. If your plan is to have a pack of slavering, disgusting, Coranian dogs staring at Rhiannon with lust and bestiality in their piglike eyes.

  It is.

  Stupid plan.

  Arthur almost smiled.

  But Gwydion went on. You should have brought warriors with you.

  I have told you more than once, Arthur said with a hint of impatience in his Mind-Voice, why I did not. Y Dawnus take care of their own.

  Foolish, Gwydion snorted.

  Wind-Ride with me, uncle, Arthur said suddenly, even as the boats were nearing the dock. I have a feeling that I don’t like.

  Without another word Gwydion’s and Arthur’s awareness flew ahead, focusing on the scene by the bonfire. What they saw there made the body Gwydion left in the boat cry out in anguish.

  Oh, Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, Arthur breathed. Oh, Aertan, Weaver of Fate. Spare them. Spare Rhiannon, and by doing so spare Gwydion. Spare these two who have done so much for me.

  GWYDION, ALERTED BY Arthur’s tone, Wind-Rode swiftly to see Rhiannon dancing by the bonfire. He was in time to see the captain lurch forward and grab Rhiannon, throwing her to the ground and pulling up her shift. He was in time to see Talorcan leap to his feet and throw himself at the captain and see the two men rolling on the ground, each trying to get the upper hand. He was in time to see a wyrce-jaga leap forward toward the two men with murder in his eyes and a dagger in his hand.

  But he was not in time to stop it when the knife flew toward Talorcan’s unprotected back. Nor was he there to stop it when Rhiannon threw herself in front of Talorcan. He was not there to stop the knife from sinking into her chest, just below her heart. He was not there to stop the blood from spurting forth beneath her fingers as she laid her hand against the wound and sank to the ground.

  The best he was able to do was the call the dogs from their kennel. But it was, of course, far too late.

  ARTHUR, SEEING WHAT was happening through horrified psychic eyes called for his companions to hurry. They brought their boats to shore and leapt from them onto the sand, running for the compound. Arthur was in the lead but Gwydion was right behind him.

  As he ran Arthur gathered to him the powers of his Bards—Dudod, Elidyr, and Cynfar—and flung his call to the north, where he knew the ravens were waiting, for he had sensed them earlier that day. And they came, instantly. In an unexpected boon, Ardeyrdd himself led the flock. The huge eagle cried out fiercely as it led the ravens straight into the compound. The birds cried out in reply, then dove, covering the guards and the wyrce-jaga, beginning their dreadful feeding.

  The Coranians screamed and tried to beat off the birds, but there were far too many. The dogs, called by Gwydion, were already a part of the fray. They growled and barked, going for the throats of the guards and wyrce-jaga, hamstringing them from behind, fighting in tandem with the ravens to kill the Coranians.

  The only two bodies by the bonfire not covered with birds or bloodied by dogs were Talorcan’s and Rhiannon’s. Talorcan held Rhiannon in his arms, blood flowing through the hand that he pressed on her wound, his face tight and pale.

  Arthur barked a silent order to the animals and they backed away from the Coranian bodies. He reached out for the power of the Druids. And the power was there. He took in the flames, the fire from Aergol, Menw, Sinend and Aldur. With terrible concentration he focused the heat on the Coranians. He lifted his hands to the sky and called out. “Annwyn! Aertan! Aid me!”

  The bodies burst into blue and orange flames. Some of the men that were still alive screamed, and tried to roll on the ground to put the fire out. But the blue-tinged Druid’s Fire burned on and on.

  Beside him Gwydion and Cariadas added their Dreamer’s powers and they, too, called on the flames, burning the wyrce-jaga and remaining guards to nothing more than smoldering bones and ash.

  When the screams ended Arthur lowered his hands. Cariadas and Gwydion raced forward to where Rhiannon lay. Gwydion pushed Talorcan aside and took Rhiannon in his arms. Arthur walked up more slowly, and he had to turn his gaze away from the look in his uncle’s eyes as he gazed down at Rhiannon’s still, white face.

  Elstar knelt on the ground next to Rhiannon. She laid her hands on Rhiannon’s wound and closed her eyes. They were all silent as they waited for Elstar’s Life-Reading. Cariadas stood behind her father, resting her hands on his shoulders, never taking her eyes from Rhiannon. Talorcan turned away with tears streaming down his thin face, blundering almost blindly into Regan’s waiting arms.

  At Arthur’s nod, the rest of them turned away and went to the hut where the Y Dawnus were kept. One by one they helped the people to stand and exit their prison. Some crawled out on their own, hope sitting oddly on their thin, pinched faces.

  At last, just when Arthur could hardly bear it any longer, Elstar looked up. “She is alive. And will remain so if we can get her back to Cadair Idris quickly.” She reached for her pack and took out some dried herbs, gesturing for Cariadas to fetch some water.

  Gwydion’s silvery eyes filled with tears. At that moment Rhiannon opened her eyes and looked up at him.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwydion said harshly.

  Rhiannon tried to smile, but it faded quickly. “Sweet-talker.”

  Gwydion tried to smile, too, but the pain and fear in his eyes was too great. “You are going to be fine. I won’t let you leave me. Ever.”

  “And I don’t want to go.”

  Elstar, who had been hurriedly binding the wound with the blackberry and chamomile leaves she had taken from her pack, looked over at Gwydion. “No more talking,” she said sternly. “She needs to save her strength.”

  Gwydion nodded, but did not move.

  “Arthur,” Elstar said crisply, “your people need you.”

  Arthur turned and saw his captive Y Dawnus slowly making their way from the hut and out into the open air. He drew Caladfwlch from its scabbard. The blade rang as he did so with a clear, pure note. As he walked by the now-silent dogs the lead dog rose and followed him across the compound, his dark eyes bright.

  The first one Arthur saw was Cian, his skeletal frame supported by Gwen and Menw. Cian’s green eyes glinted at Arthur as he raised his head with a mighty effort.

  “You came,” the Bard whispered.

>   “I did,” Arthur replied. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Soon enough for them,” Cian said, inclining his head a fraction to the rest of the Y Dawnus gathered behind him. “Not for me, I think.”

  “I disagree,” Arthur said, laying his sword against the man’s thin neck. “I think there is still plenty of time for you.” With one swift movement the blade sheared through the enaid-dal and the necklace fell from Cian’s neck onto the ground. Cian looked down at it, shuddering. He raised his head to the sky.

  “I can feel it,” Cian said, wonder in his voice. “Taran has returned to me. His gift lives in me again.”

  “Drink, my friend, of Penduran’s Rose,” Arthur said, gesturing for Gwen to hand him her flask. “Drink, and live again.”

  Cian drank a mouthful of the concoction and smiled. “Yes,” he said his voice stronger. “Yes.”

  One by one Caladfwlch cut off the hateful necklaces. One by one the sick and weary Y Dawnus drank Penduran’s Rose. One by one they were helped up and led to the boats.

  There were a few that Arthur recognized. Most notably, the five Y Dawnus that he had briefly met when on the quest for the Treasures—the five who had been prisoners in Gwynedd, who had recognized him and his companions but who had given nothing away.

  The two Bards, Elivri and Maredudd, as well as three Dewin, Morwen, Trephin, and the young girl whose name he did not know all recognized him.

  “What is your name?” Arthur asked, as he sheared the collar off her neck.

  “Morgan Tud,” she whispered.

  “Morgan Tud, you are free,” he said.

  Morewen and Elivri had smiled weakly as he had sheared off their collars. Trephin had sighed in relief and briefly closed his eyes as he sipped Penduran’s Rose. And Maredudd still had the presence of mind to greet his old friend, Dudod.

  “Took you long enough,” Maredudd snorted as he drank.

  Dudod’s eyes were full of pity that he knew better than to give voice to. “You are right, my friend,” he said quietly. “I took my own sweet time, didn’t I?”

  “Probably warming some widow’s bed,” croaked Trephin.