by Holly Taylor
Owein found himself on his feet, his spear in his hand. He looked around frantically, trying to pinpoint the source of the horse’s hooves that were coming so swiftly. But it was useless. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere.
All around him, his warriors waited, gripping their weapons tensely, peering into the dark night. Suddenly a pale horse came rushing down to them from the night sky like a falling star. The figure of a man stood up in the stirrups, raising a shining spear.
“Warriors of Rheged,” it said with a huge and terrible voice. “The enemy comes! To arms, warriors. Now is the time to fight!” Then the horse sped off into the night.
“Oh, gods, she tricked us!” Owein said.
“Who tricked us?” Trystan asked, puzzled.
“Mam,” he said grimly. “She sent us away, just at the right time!”
“Our mission to supervise the defense preparations for the south coast—”
“Was a blind! It will take us at least ten days to get back to Llwynarth to help them. We’ll never make it in time. Never.”
“But we can try,” Trystan said grimly, calling the warriors to horse.
Arberth, Prydyn
LATE AS IT was, Rhoram was not asleep. He sat alone at the table in his hall, sipping wine by the light of one, thin candle. A few weeks ago they had sent the noncombatants away to the hidden caves up north. Sanon and Gwen had gone reluctantly. Efa had gone willingly—the difficulty had been in making her wait for the others. But of course, he had never expected courage from her. It wasn’t what he married her for, after all. Now, if he could only remember just exactly what he had married her for …
He must be drunker than he thought. He was hearing things now. Probably just the beginning of a hangover. It sounded like—
With a particularly vile oath, he shot from the table and ran out of the hall and into the courtyard. Achren was already there, fully dressed, her weapons at the ready. Good gods, she must sleep in them or something. Of course, that was something he had never tried to find out. He didn’t fancy being disemboweled. Idly he wondered if that was how he was going to die. That was an unpleasant thought.
Achren saw him and swiftly crossed the yard to his side, followed by Geriant, who was still wearing his nightshirt, his blue eyes fuzzy from sleep. The pounding came closer.
“Open the gates,” Rhoram shouted. Men and women rushed to do his bidding, and the gates swung open. The streets of the city were filled with confusion, as his people streamed forth from their houses.
A glint of golden hair crowning a slight, familiar form caught his eye. But when he looked again, it was gone. He rubbed his eyes. It couldn’t have been—
A woman screamed, and pointed west to the top of the city wall. He wheeled around, and his breath caught in his throat. A pale, flickering form had materialized there. It looked like a man. But he knew that it wasn’t. Not anymore.
The thing with fiery red eyes stood tall in the stirrups on his pale horse. He raised a silver spear over his head and shouted, “People of Arberth! The enemy comes! Prepare to fight for Kymru! Prepare to die!” The horse wheeled away, leaping into the darkness.
Gorwys could have put it just a trifle more diplomatically, Rhoram thought.
Someone was pushing their way through the crowd gathered around him. He blinked. It was Aidan, Achren’s lieutenant. What was he doing here? Rhoram had sent him out scouting just earlier this evening. Why should he be back already?
Aidan tried to catch his breath. He looked at Rhoram and tried to speak.
“Easy, lad,” Rhoram said gently. “Take your time.”
“No time,” Aidan gasped. “Erfin. The Queen’s brother. He comes.”
“Anyone’s help will do, even Erfin’s,” he said with a grin, but with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“He comes a thousand strong. Against you.”
“Well,” Achren said briskly. “This changes the plan, doesn’t it?”
But Rhoram did not answer. He was busy trying to convince himself that the glimpse of golden hair he had seen in the streets of what was now a doomed city hadn’t belonged to his daughter, Gwenhwyfar.
Tegeingl, Gwynedd
UTHYR SAT STIFFLY in a chair by his bed watching his wife sleep. Ygraine’s rich, auburn hair spread over the pillow. Her creamy skin glowed in the firelight. For the last few weeks he had done this—sat up and watched her sleep for as long as he could, memorizing every strand of hair, every breath she took, storing away in his heart every movement she made. He knew it was foolish, but he did it anyway. Because he was going to die soon. And he loved her. And he would miss her terribly.
What a fool he was.
He had sent his daughter, Morrigan, to the hiding place in the mountains, accompanied by Neuad, his young Dewin. Susanna, his Bard, and Griffi, his Druid, had flatly refused to leave. Their son, Gwrhyr, was at Neuadd Gorsedd, and when Uthyr had pointed that out, Susanna had said that she trusted her son to the Master Bard, declaring that Uthyr needed them there more than they needed to be with their son.
And Ygraine, his lovely Ygraine, had also refused to leave. He had been surprised at that. For the past year, he had felt her slipping away from him, a retreat that had begun when she miscarried. He had been sure that she would go with Morrigan, but she had refused. Unequivocally. He smiled sadly. Life with her had never been easy. But he wouldn’t have traded her for the most biddable woman in the world.
He had, however, extracted a promise from his Captain, Cai, to see to it that Ygraine survived. Cai had promised, albeit reluctantly. But he would keep his word.
When he first understood what he was hearing, he realized he had been hearing it for some time. The pounding of hooves. A horse and rider were fast approaching the sleeping city. And Uthyr knew why.
Ygraine moaned in her sleep. He reached out and touched her hair. The pounding grew louder. His wife woke, her dark eyes snapping open.
“Come, cariad,” he said gently. “We must see him.”
She leapt from the bed and swiftly donned a dressing gown. Then she came to him and took his hand. “I’m ready,” she said steadily.
Not hurrying, they went down the stairs and outside into the courtyard. Cai was already there, along with Susanna and Griffi. The pounding came closer. Uthyr went to the gates, Ygraine calmly walking by his side. They lifted the heavy bar, and the gates swung open. The people of the city were gathering there, anxious to see him, hoping he would allay their fears. But he could not.
Suddenly, it was there, on the top of the city wall. It glowed with a pale, white light. The horse and rider both had eyes of blood red. The rider stood in his stirrups, lifting a glowing spear. “People of Tegeingl,” he bellowed. “The enemy comes! Prepare to fight. Prepare to die!” The horse danced on the top of the wall, then leapt away, leaving darkness in its place.
Behind him, Cai said quietly, “We are ready, my King.”
“Very well. Ygraine, the enemy will be here in eight days. Proceed with the evacuation of the city, as agreed.”
“I will, my lord,” she said quietly.
“Cai, you and I march with the teulu at dawn, gathering the other levies on the way. We should confront them in Uwch Dulas as they come downriver. Remember your promise. Whatever happens, you return to the city to care for the Queen. Remember.”
Uthyr opened his mouth to continue, but a gasp from Susanna stopped him. Griffi put his arm around her shoulders, supporting her.
Susanna shook her head, as if to clear it, then looked over at Uthyr, panic just behind her blue eyes. “My King, the Bard of Is Dulas says that your brother, Madoc, attacked the Gwarda there yesterday and wiped out his force. The Bard escaped and says Madoc will be here the day after tomorrow, bringing thousands of men with him.”
“But what—”
“He flies his banner. And with it, the banner of the golden boar.”
Ah, the banner of Corania. Gwydion had never liked Madoc. For years he had tried to persuade Uthyr t
o view their half-brother with suspicion. But Uthyr had always scoffed. He should have listened to Gwydion, after all.
Dinas Emrys, Gwynedd
MYRRDIN WAS TOSSING restlessly in his sleep. Suddenly, he jerked awake, uncertain of what had disturbed him. He was coated with a thin sheen of sweat. He looked over at Arthur. The boy was moaning. “No. Please. I can’t. I can’t.”
Myrrdin rose and shook Arthur awake. “What?” Arthur blinked in confusion. “What’s happening?”
They both heard it at the same time. A horse was coming, coming more swiftly than seemed possible. The hollow pounding of hooves grew louder and louder. Myrrdin jerked open the cottage door. The villagers were roused, stumbling from their houses in fear.
Arthur brushed past him, leaping out into the night. The boy peered down the mountain road, but could see nothing in the pitch black. “Where?” he cried. “Where is it coming from?”
But Myrrdin knew better than to look at the road. Instead, he scanned the dark outlines of the surrounding peaks. “There,” he said, pointing upward.
A glowing white light shot across the mountains. The villagers shrieked. But the white light came on, and they could see that it was a horse and rider, with glowing eyes of ruby red. The rider carried a shining spear.
“People of Dinas Emrys,” the phantom cried, then stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence, Myrrdin saw the rider staring down at young Arthur.
Arthur stared up at the rider, mesmerized. The villagers had fallen silent. Somewhere, far, far away, a hunting horn began to blow.
The phantom dismounted his ghost horse, its red eyes never wavering from the boy. And then he knelt before Arthur and bowed his glowing head. “My Lord,” the phantom rasped, “My Lord, forgive me.”
Arthur, his dark eyes less startled by this display than Myrrdin would have thought, slowly stretched out his hand and gently laid it on top of the phantom’s bowed head. Arthur’s hand took on a faint, silvery sheen as he touched the phantom. “You are forgiven, Gorwys. Fulfill your task, then go in peace.”
The phantom stood. “Our enemies have come, my Lord.”
Arthur straightened. “So we shall fight.”
“But you shall not, for your fight is yet to come. When Cadair Idris opens to you, remember me. And pity me for a fool.”
Caer Dathyl, Gwynedd
DINASWYN WAS DREAMING. She knew she was, because Awst, her sister’s husband, was alive again. The sunlight shone in his glorious eyes, into eyes that were, at long last, looking at her. She smiled at him, finally showing all that was in her heart, the heart that others thought cold and dead. He was alive again, and so was she.
He reached out his hand to her. She reached out to take it, but before she could, his smile faltered. In horror, she saw a hand, a woman’s hand, grasp his hair from behind and pull his head back, exposing his throat. She tried to move, tried to help him, but she could not. The knife gleamed. Sharp and deadly, it whipped across his throat, and the blood splattered onto her face, her hair, her clothes. She moaned in despair as he sank to the ground at her feet.
She woke up to the sound of her own moans. She was bathed in sweat, trembling from every limb. The fire on the hearth had died down, and the room was chilly. She got up and dressed quickly, the horror of her dream draining away from her conscious mind and back into her heart, where it always lived.
Something was coming.
Fully dressed, she ran down the hall, past the guestrooms and into Arianrod’s chambers. To her surprise, Arianrod was also up and dressed for riding.
“You’re awake,” Dinaswyn said in surprise.
“Clever of you to notice.”
Arianrod crossed to the window and opened the shutters. The night was still. Stars glittered overhead. Dinaswyn went to the window to stand next to Arianrod.
They were the only ones left in the fortress now. Two weeks ago Gwydion and Rhiannon had left on their journey to Coed Aderyn, to the old cave where Rhiannon had lived for so many years. Last week she had sent the servants to Uthyr’s hiding place in the mountains for safety. Their horses had been loaded down—mostly with things Arianrod had declared she could not live without.
Dinaswyn herself had had little to add to the party’s burden. Everything here in Caer Dathyl would remain unharmed. With her Shape-Moving power she had brought down the shields over the doors and windows. She and Arianrod would leave using the hidden underground exit. Then Dinaswyn would trigger a cave-in, blocking even this secret way in, leaving Caer Dathyl deserted—but impregnable. Ready for Gwydion when—and if—he returned. Dinaswyn knew, somehow, that she would not.
“Do you hear it?” she asked curiously.
Arianrod leaned out the window to scan the sky. “There.”
The white light was coming at a terrific speed. Closer and closer it came, and the pounding of hooves became louder and louder. Finally, the light resolved itself into a pale horse and a rider with a silver spear.
“Women of Caer Dathyl! The time is upon us to fight and die for Kymru! The enemy comes!” The horse wheeled away, and the light shot back into the sky.
“Yes,” Arianrod said dreamily. “They are coming. I can feel it. Someone’s coming for me at last.”
Llyn Mwyngil, Gwytheryn
RHUFON WAS AWAKE, staring into the fire, when he heard the sound of hooves.
His son, Tybion, stumbled into the room, his face heavy with sleep. “Da?” he asked. “Now?”
“Now,” Rhufon said, his silver hair shining in the light of the dying fire.
Young Lucan rushed down the stairs then stopped at the bottom, too proud to fling himself into his father’s arms, his thirteen-year-old face struggling for composure.
“My son,” Tybion said solemnly, his face calm, “the rider has come. Help us greet him.” He put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and walked outside of their snug house into the night.
Rhufon followed, feeling the weight of his years. He wondered if he would be alive when the High King returned to Cadair Idris. He would like to see it, but he knew that Tybion and, in the fullness of time, Lucan would take care of everything. Still, he would like to see it if he could.
The rider swooped down from the night sky on a pale horse. He held a shining spear above his head, and his eyes of blood were bright as he surveyed the three who stood there quietly.
“Stewards of Cadair Idris, you of the Cenedl of Caine, the enemy has come!”
“We thank you for your warning, Gorwys,” Rhufon said quietly.
“You have been faithful, you sons of Caine,” Gorwys said just as quietly.
“While you were faithless!” young Lucan said, his blue eyes flashing.
“So I was, young man,” Gorwys said. “And this is my punishment. Long and long I have lain awake beneath the ground, waiting to ride. Think you the punishment was not enough?”
Lucan subsided, his face paling as Gorwys brandished his spear. Gorwys, seeing this, continued softly. “You will suffer no hurt from me. Guard yourselves well, for your services will be needed again. I have seen the High King himself. Be ready.”
“We will,” Rhufon said. “Be sure of that.”
Y Ty Dewin, Gwytheryn
CYNAN AP EINON var Darun, the Eleventh Ardewin of Kymru, had indigestion. That was not, of course, unusual. But it was inconvenient. How he wished he could sleep, if only for a little while.
At least the place was quiet now, in the middle of the night. Things had been so chaotic for the last week. The library had been emptied. The surgery packed up. The herb harvest had been scant, but they had gathered all they could. He had begun, at Anieron’s direction, to send small groups of Dewin to the agreed-upon refuge in southern Ystrad Marchell, on the eastern shores of Rheged. Anieron had started to do the same with his Bards. Presumably, Cathbad would refuge there with the Druids, also. Anieron had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to discuss any of his plans with anyone from Caer Duir. This puzzled him, but he did as Anieron bade him.
&
nbsp; He sighed. He knew that he was no good as Ardewin. He had known that from the beginning. He wished with all his heart that they had left him alone to sing tunes in Tegeingl, deliver babies, set broken bones. Left him alone to do the little things that were so tremendously huge, the things that had made his quiet life satisfying.
He was not made for such momentous times and he knew it, though others did not think he did. There were, really, quite a few things he knew that others would be surprised to discover. For one thing, he knew that Prince Arthur of Gwynedd had been proclaimed High King the day of his birth by the Protectors. He had been there that day, and he had seen, though he had told no one, not even Gwydion, letting the Dreamer think that he lived in blissful ignorance.
Even more importantly, he knew that young Arthur was still alive. He had been Wind-Riding near Tegeingl that day when Gwydion had come to fetch the boy. He had seen. But he had said nothing when the news came that the boy had died of a fever.
He even knew that Myrrdin had disappeared, not to die, but to raise young Arthur.
He knew a great many things that he had never told anyone. He clutched at his stomach, gasping. The secrets he knew were safe and would soon be safer—for a dead man could not talk.
Then he heard it. The sound of pounding hooves. He stood up, moving slowly to the door, the pain eating away at his vitals.
Before he could reach the door, it opened, and Elstar, his heir, rushed in, taking his arm. “Do you hear it?” she gasped.
He nodded, feeling too ill to speak. But she mustn’t know. No one must know. Not yet. He made an effort and responded, “Come, let us meet him.” He hurried down the stairs as best he could and out the great doors of the college. All the Dewin who remained—some twenty or so—stood on the steps, gazing tensely into the night. Llywelyn, Elstar’s oldest son, joined them, putting a comforting hand on his mother’s arm.
A white light rushed across the plain. The light coalesced into the forms of a horse and rider. The rider stood in the stirrups, his silver spear raised. His red eyes glowing, the words of doom came pouring out of his dead mouth. “Dewin of Y Ty Dewin, now is the time to fight! Now is the time to die for our land! The enemy comes to Kymru!” The horse shot off into the dark night.