by Holly Taylor
And they would. That much was certain. The only question was, how heavy could she and her warriors make their price? She was not so foolish as to hope for a victory. Not with only six hundred trained warriors at her disposal. The most she hoped for was a glorious death song. Her Bard, Talhearn, had promised her that.
Once again, she reviewed the defenses. Fifty men, under her son, Lludd, and her lieutenant, Emrys, were hidden with the catapults in the cliffs that overlooked the beach. Talhearn was with them to facilitate communication.
Tiny boats, only ten in all, floated just offshore to the north and south. In these boats, fifty of her best archers were stationed, with pots of burning pitch. They were to slip behind the fleet and set as many ships on fire as they could. These men and women would be lucky to get as many as three or four ships burned before they were killed.
She had left fifty more warriors on the city walls. The gates of the city behind her were firmly shut. The townsfolk who had refused to leave in the general exodus were preparing burning pitch to greet the enemy at the inevitable moment when Olwen’s warriors would be forced to retreat behind the city walls.
The rest of her forces, over four hundred and fifty trained warriors, stretched to either side of her now, gathered behind the dunes, which hid them from the sight of the coming ships. To her left, her daughter, Elen, commanded one hundred and fifty. To Olwen’s right, her Captain, Angharad, commanded another one hundred and fifty. Here, in the center, Olwen herself commanded another one hundred and fifty warriors.
Iago, her Druid, stood next to her right stirrup, ready to carry out her commands, watching the horizon with narrowed eyes. It would be his task, when the ships were close enough, to set as many of them on fire as he could. Iago had warned that he might have the strength to burn only one or two, but it was better than nothing. Oh, for more Druids!
She had done the best she could with the forces at her command. Six hundred against three thousand. Quite a joke, that. If only she had a sense of humor, she would have laughed. But she did not, and never had. Her dead husband, Kilwch, had considered it one of her failings. But he had been too kind to say so.
Olwen frowned. Llwyd Cilcoed, her lover, had disappeared two days ago, when the warning had come. Olwen wasn’t surprised. Elen had spoken darkly of traitors, but Olwen knew better. Llwyd Cilcoed wasn’t a traitor. He was merely a coward.
The sun glowed, warming the gleaming sands. Behind the dunes, hidden from the Coranians’ sight, the four hundred and fifty mounted Kymric warriors sat calmly on their rock-steady horses, waiting for Olwen’s signal. The sun gleamed off their bows and arrows, off their metal helmets, off their short spears, their daggers, and their round shields with the emblem of a white swan on a sea-green field. Their tunics of stiffened leather were dyed sea green, and their breeches were white. Stiff leather armor, also dyed white, covered the chests and flanks of their proud horses.
Olwen sat upon her horse like a statue. She was dressed all in white, from her leather tunic to her trousers tucked into white leather boots. Her auburn hair was braided tightly to her head and covered with a silvery metal helmet, crowned on either side with metal wings fashioned like those of a swan. The silver and pearls of the royal torque of Ederynion glistened around her slender throat.
They waited, their faces to the sea, their backs to their proud and lovely city.
The Bard of Caereinon, standing by her left stirrup, stirred. “My Queen, Talhearn says the fleet has been sighted.”
“Tell them to wait.”
The Bard nodded, and his eyes took on a faraway look, as he Wind-Spoke to Talhearn on the heights.
The silence was palpable, expectant, patient. Her forces held steadily to their places. At last, the Bard said, “Talhearn says they are one league from shore.”
“Release the boats.”
A mirror flashed silver from the heights. Far to the north and south, out of eyeshot, the tiny boats would now be drifting behind the fleet.
“Iago,” Olwen said coolly. “Mark the lead ship.”
Cautiously, Iago peered over the dune. “Marked, my Queen.”
She turned to the Bard. “Have Lludd begin shooting the catapults at my word. Iago, when the first ship touches shore, Fire-Weave it.”
“Yes, my Queen. Almost to shore,” Iago said tightly. “Almost there …” The sound of an explosion shook the beach. A huge spout of flame shot into the sky, and bits of wood hurled through the air, scattering burning planks onto the sand.
“Now,” she said to the Bard. Almost instantly, the catapults on the cliffs began to fire. And from the tiny boats behind the fleet, flaming arrows tore through the air to catch on the sails of the ships.
Still she waited. “How many ships on fire, Iago?”
Iago craned his neck over the dune. “Four ships on fire. The men are leaping into the sea. Most of them are drowning.”
Olwen’s brows shot up.
“Mail shirts,” Iago explained.
“Foolish.”
“Catapults have taken two ships,” Iago reported.
“How many men on shore?”
“Looks to be about five hundred.”
Olwen turned to the Bard. “Tell Lludd to begin firing the arrows.”
From the cliffs, arrows streamed into the enemy host gathering on the beach. The Coranians, armed with battle-axes, roared defiance and started north, toward the cliffs.
“Now,” Olwen said, satisfied. She raised the horn to her lips and blew a long, clear note. And led the rush to death.
THAT NIGHT OLWEN stood alone on the battlements of what was still her city. She was tired, so tired that she was capable only of a weary astonishment that she still lived.
The day had been bloody—almost half of her forces had been killed. After a few hours of fighting on the beach, they had been driven back to retreat inside the city, as she had expected. During the long afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, the Coranian host had battered at the gates and walls. But the city held fast. Wave after wave of arrows had hailed down on the enemy, and burning pitch poured from the walls had helped to slake their desire to batter the walls down. For today, anyway.
She gazed eastward toward the sea, her pointed chin cupped in her hands, her elbows resting casually on the top of the wall. The torque around her neck seemed heavy, heavier than it had ever been. The full moon had risen, proudly riding the night sky, as though in honor of what Olwen’s people had done that day. A beam of silver stretched across the water, shimmering and glistening distantly, like a promise made long ago.
She tore her eyes from the sea and gazed at the beach in front of the city. The sand was dotted with hundreds of small campfires of the Coranian host. A rough count of the fires had shown there were over seventeen hundred left of the enemy.
She was disappointed that, as they had fought on the beach, she had not been able to come to grips with the enemy commander. She had spotted him early on in the battle. He wore a helmet of silver, topped with the figure of a boar. He was a thin man, with dark blond hair. The shouts in battle had revealed his name. Talorcan.
To the south, two large bonfires still burned. One was fueled by the bodies of the Coranian dead, while the other burned the Kymric dead. She had watched from the walls as Talorcan had ordered that her dead warriors were to be treated as honorable enemies. This had surprised her—she had thought all Coranians were barbarians. Even more surprising, Talorcan had seen her on the walls as he gave the orders. And he had bowed to her, with the respect of one commander for another.
She stared out at the fires from her place on the walls, trying not to think of anything for the moment. Every once in a while, a catapult shot heavy rocks from the heights, straight into the Coranian camp, causing considerable confusion and an occasional casualty. Her son was working late into the night.
A weariness, a strange, fateful lassitude, overtook her as she stared at the enemy fires dotting the beach. On the brink of losing everything—including her life—she cou
ld only think of how her husband would have stood here with her. But then, in her pride, she probably would have sent him away. If only she had known then that she loved him, when he was still alive. If only she had told him so, even once. Such thoughts, buried deep within her for years, came crowding to the surface, shooting up through her weariness, to stab sharp daggers of regret and sorrow through her tired mind.
Sighing again, she got to her feet and made her way down from the battlements. Almost instantly, Angharad was by her side, materializing at the edge of the shadows.
“Where’s Elen?” Olwen asked wearily.
“In Caer Dwfr, with Regan and the wounded,” Angharad answered.
Olwen turned up the main street, to trudge back to the fortress, Angharad falling in beside her. The streets themselves were deserted. All the folk still left in the city were either guarding the walls or at the fortress tending the wounded. The two women passed Ty Meirw, the burial place of the rulers of Ederynion. Olwen halted for a moment, laying her hand on one of the standing stones.
“I hope,” she said quietly, “they bring me back to rest here. But I doubt it.”
Angharad, too loyal to pretend, merely said, “That Talorcan sounds like he might get them to do that.”
“Yes.”
“We gave a good account of ourselves today,” Angharad said, conversationally, as they began walking again. “Four ships burned by flaming arrows, three sunk by catapult, and two burned with Druid’s fire.”
“A pity there hadn’t been more Druids on hand today,” Olwen answered.
“The forces of commote Glndyfrdwy should be here tomorrow, according to Regan. She Wind-Rode east just a while ago, and saw them.”
“Another two hundred. It’s not enough. I want you to leave here tonight, with Elen, join Lludd on the heights. When I am killed, take both of them to safety.”
Angharad opened her mouth to argue, then apparently thought better of it. “If Elen goes, I’ll go with her, at your command,” she said mildly.
Yes. Angharad would let Elen do the arguing for her. She knew as well as Olwen that Elen would not leave. Olwen glanced up at the moon. Great Nantsovelta, Goddess of the Moon, Lady of the Waters, spare my children, she begged silently. Spare them from what my pride has done.
THE WOUNDED WERE laid out on the floor of the great hall. Regan passed among them, giving orders to the able-bodied to do what they could for the dying. It was little enough—change their bloody bandages, give them drugged wine to ease them out of this life, close their dead eyes. Torches flickered from the wall brackets. The banner of the swan, worked in pearls and silver on white cloth, dominated the room. The swan’s proud, outstretched wings seemed to be the only thing in the city that was not bloodstained.
Olwen spied Elen, her auburn hair blood-splattered, her young face smudged with soot and blood, kneeling down beside a warrior, supporting his grizzled head as he feebly drank a cup of drugged wine. Elen looked up and saw her mother. Gently, Elen set the cup on the floor and laid the man’s head back down on the pallet. She began to walk away, then returned to his side, looking closely. She knelt down again and covered the man’s now-dead face with a blanket.
Elen stood up again and made her way to her mother’s side. Olwen put her arm around Elen’s shoulders. At her touch, Elen gave a choked sob and began to weep. Olwen led her out of the hall, Angharad following closely behind. Slowly they crossed the courtyard and entered the Queen’s ystafell. Olwen sat Elen down in the canopied chair. Angharad lit some of the candles. The shadows danced across the room as Olwen poured a goblet of wine and forced Elen to drink it until her sobs tapered off.
“Better?” Olwen asked quietly.
Elen nodded and clumsily tried to wipe the tears from her face with her sleeve. Olwen took a seat on the footstool in front of the Queen’s chair and grasped her daughter’s hands tightly in her own.
Elen, startled to see her mother on a mere footstool, tried to rise from the canopied chair. “Mam, this is your place.”
“No, it’s yours. Or will be, soon.”
“Mam,” Elen whispered.
“Listen to me. Tomorrow I will die.”
“No!”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “This was something that Gwydion ap Awst told me when he was here. He saw that I died fighting. One other thing he told me. That we would lose these battles. But that the war would go on. He said that, one day, we will have a chance to win back what we have lost.”
“And you believe him?” Elen asked incredulously.
“Why not?” Olwen said simply. “He’s the Dreamer. He would know.”
“But you hate him!”
“True. But that doesn’t mean I think he’s lying—in this particular instance, anyway. Tomorrow you will be the Queen of Ederynion. And it will be your responsibility to lead our people in the battles to come, when we take back our own. For that, you must live. And to do that, you must leave. Tonight.”
Elen shook her head firmly. “No.”
“Think carefully, Elen,” Olwen said, her voice cold. “You tell me by your too-swift response that you have not done so.”
Elen was silent for a few moments. “No,” she said again.
Olwen nodded. “Angharad,” she said over her shoulder.
“My Queen?”
“Tomorrow, your task will be to keep my daughter alive. Understood?”
“Understood,” Angharad answered briefly.
Olwen turned back to Elen. Gazing into her daughter’s blue eyes, she slowly twisted the pearl ring off the fourth finger of her own right hand. She held the ring in her palm, staring down at it. Then she looked back at Elen. “The ring of Ederynion must be protected at all costs. Never, never should it fall into enemy hands.”
“The ring? Why the ring?” Elen asked in surprise. “Why isn’t the torque—”
“The torque is not important. The ring is. It was given to us over two hundred years ago, soon after the High King was murdered. It was brought here by Bran the Dreamer. His words were to guard the ring carefully, relinquishing it only to the Dewin who comes to claim it with these words, ‘The High King commands you to surrender Bran’s gift.’ Have you got that?”
Elen nodded. “But there is no High King!”
“One day there will be again. Now, take the ring.”
“Mam, I—”
“Take it,” Olwen ordered sternly. Elen reached out a trem-bling hand, plucking the ring from Olwen’s palm. She slipped it onto the fourth finger of her right hand.
Slowly, Olwen reached up and unclasped the royal torque from around her neck. She gestured for Elen to stand. “I do not give you this torque now. It is not fitting to do so while I still live. So I will leave it here, on the Queen’s chair. Guard your life carefully, Elen. And one day, gods willing, the torque may be yours.”
Olwen gently laid the torque in the now-empty chair. The room was silent as the three women looked down at the shining collar.
“Come, Elen,” Olwen said, holding her cold hand out to her daughter. “Come, Angharad,” she continued. “Tomorrow is my last sunrise until I am born again. I wish to spend this night under the moon with two whom I love.”
Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—early morning
OLWEN MOUNTED HER horse in the early morning light. Angharad, her green eyes underlined with the shadows of a sleepless night, yet her voice cool and calm, gave the order for the three hundred remaining teulu to mount up. Elen, her face drawn and pale, edged her horse next to Olwen’s.
About twenty wounded warriors dragged themselves out of the great hall and were helped onto their horses. The rest of the wounded from yesterday were dead. Those who had not died from their wounds by this morning but were too ill to sit a horse, had chosen another way out.
Regan’s light brown eyes held the sheen of tears as she emerged from the hall. Her hands and dress were bloodstained—some of the dying had needed help to hold their daggers. But they had all refused the drugged wine, saying that such an
ending was not fit for warriors of Ederynion. Wearily, Regan made her way through the courtyard and came to Olwen, laying her hand on the horse’s neck. She looked up at Olwen and swallowed her tears. “My Queen, Teithi ap Gwynnan brings the forces of Glndyfrdwy. They will arrive at the west gate within a few moments.”
The Bard from Caereinon said, “I have Wind-Spoken with their Bard. They bring two hundred men and one Dewin.”
“No Druid?” Olwen asked quickly.
“Their Druid cannot be found. None of them can.”
“I see.”
Suddenly Iago was at her side, his face pale, anguish in his black eyes. “My Queen, what can this mean? I don’t—”
“Your Archdruid has made a deal with the enemy. Fortunately, for your sake, he did not share the details with you. You don’t have to convince me of your loyalty.”
“I am shamed. Shamed before you all,” he whispered. His eyes flickered to Elen, then looked away.
“Never mind, Iago,” Elen said gently. “It’s not your fault.” She reached out and patted his shoulder, as she would pat a favorite elderly horse or dog. Iago flushed.
Only the young, Olwen thought pityingly, can be that blind. She turned to the Bard. “Are they ready on the heights?”
“Talhearn says they are.”
“Good. Contact Teithi’s Bard. Tell them to gather on the far side of the cliffs. The plan is simple. When I sound the horn, they come in from the north. Lludd is ready with the catapults on the cliffs. We do the best we can before we are killed.” She looked down at Regan. “Go to the cliffs,” she said quietly. “Prepare places for the wounded there. We lose the city today.”
Without waiting for Regan’s reply, she turned her horse and rode down the streets of her city one last time. Behind her, three hundred warriors followed. Angharad and Elen rode to her right and left. They reached the south gate. The warrior on duty there climbed down from the wall. “The way is clear,” he said quietly. “Their commander has not yet given the final battle orders.”
Angharad said, “Not a trap, in my opinion. My guess is he’s giving us a chance to run.”