by Holly Taylor
“So we shall, my Prince,” Talhearn said, rising to his feet, “if you command it. But first there is a task I must perform.”
“What is that?”
“I promised to sing Queen Olwen’s death song.” He gestured toward the city. “And they bring her now.”
Coranian warriors were carrying the body of Queen Olwen from the bloody field. Her white tunic and trousers were stained red with blood. On top of her body they laid her shield and spear. At the gates Elen’s slender form stood straight and tall, Olwen’s silvery helmet clutched to her side with her good arm. Iago stood off to one side with his head still bowed. Regan, now loosed from her bonds, stood next to Elen, her head lifted proudly in honor of the dead Queen.
As the procession brought the body through the gates, Elen, Regan, and the commander followed, Iago trailing behind. Then the gates closed behind them, and they were lost to sight.
Lludd’s face was streaked with tears. Angharad was surprised to discover that she, too, was weeping. From behind them, Talhearn’s voice sang softly.
“Was she not pre-eminent in the field of blood?
Was she not the Queen in darkness?
Oh, white swan, shining like the moon
You slowly turnedredin the darkening sky.
“Is it not she who destroyed hundreds of the foe?
Is it not she who slew the raveners?
Is it not she who raised her swordwith her dying strength?
My tongue will recite her death song
My eyes will burn with tears,
For our great Queen,
Has died on the field
Has died this bloody day.”
Talhearn bowed his head as his tears began to fall. Angharad looked out to the sea, unable to bear the sight of her beloved city in enemy hands.
But Lludd stood stiffly, not taking his eyes from the city where he was born, from the city where his mother was being laid to rest, from the city where his sister was a prisoner. He stood there for a long time, his hands clenched on the rocks before him. At last, without a word, he turned and started down the path that led to the other side of the cliffs, to meet Emrys’s men.
Talhearn, after exchanging a glance with Angharad, followed him. Angharad nerved herself to look down at the once-shining city. “Good-bye, my Queen,” she whispered. Then she, too, made her way down the cliff path.
And so they began their task. “A thorn in the side of the enemy,” Gwydion had written. Yes, Angharad liked the sound of that, too.
Chapter 17
Arberth
Kingdom of Prydyn, Kymru
Gwernan Mis, 497
Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—early morning
King Rhoram mounted the battlements of his city. His soon-to-be-lost city, he reminded himself. He was under no illusions about that.
Achren followed behind him, close as his shadow. She carried her bow, the arrows in a quiver on her shoulder. Her black hair was bound tightly beneath her helmet. Behind Achren came Rhoram’s son, Geriant; his Bard, Cian; and his Dewin, Cadell. He looked around quickly for Ellywen, his Druid, but she was not in sight. No time to wonder about her absence now.
Rapidly, he reviewed his plans—such as they were. He had a total of four hundred warriors and a city full of people that must be evacuated. And only one day to do it for once the Coranians landed tomorrow, it would be too late.
Two hundred of his warriors were mounted and ready at the southern gate, two hundred at the east gate. And the people of the city were gathered at the north gate, ready to slip out if Rhoram could draw the enemy forces south. It was the best he could do on such short notice. For his original plans had not included the presence of the warriors now encamped outside the walls.
As he mounted the last steps, he once again tried to convince himself that he hadn’t really seen his daughter among the people of the city last night. Gwenhwyfar had gone with his counselor, Dafydd Penfro, and the rest of them to Ogaf Greu, the caves far to the north, and that was that. He had been under a strain last night, what with phantoms and traitors and all manner of things demanding his immediate attention. His eyes had been playing tricks on him. He was—almost—sure of it.
He reached the top of the wall and gazed out to the eastern plain in front of the city. It was covered with over nine hundred Kymric warriors. Too bad they weren’t on his side. They might have been helpful tomorrow, when the Coranians swooped down on them.
He stood there, shoulders back, head high. He wore a black leather tunic and trousers, and a cloak of forest green. His helmet was gold, with the figure of a snarling wolf’s head with emerald eyes fashioned on the top of it. Around his neck he wore the emerald and gold torque of Prydyn.
A horse and rider were making their way through the crowd of warriors gathered outside the city. The sun beat down on the rider’s fiery red hair. As Rhoram had good cause to know, the rider’s shifty, beady, traitorous eyes were dark brown. And, no doubt, shining with glee right about now.
The rider halted before the east gate and looked up, but before he could begin his speech, Rhoram leaned over the parapet, abandoning his stern pose and waving cheerily.
“Erfin! You old dog! How wonderful to see you. I was just saying to Efa the other day—you remember Efa? My wife? Your sister? As I was saying to Efa, it’s been so long since I saw poor, pock-marked, shifty-eyed Erfin. Well, she wanted to dispute the pock-marked, shifty-eyed part, but her innate honesty compelled her to admit—”
“King Rhoram!” Erfin shouted up, his face flushed as the laughter of even his own warriors sounded in his ears. “I demand that you surrender your city to me!”
“If it’s all the same to you, I believe I’ll keep it for a while longer,” Rhoram called out. “Why don’t you just trot on down the coast and hold off the Coranians who will be landing here tomorrow? That will give you something useful to do. As I was saying to Achren just the other day, it’s important even for toads to feel useful. And she said—”
“Enough!” Erfin roared. “King Rhoram, you have no choice but to surrender. If you do surrender, you and your people will be spared.”
Before the words were even out of Erfin’s mouth, Achren had pulled an arrow from her quiver, notched it onto the bow, and let it fly. The arrow sped down to plunge into the earth between the front hooves of Erfin’s horse. The horse reared, startled by the missile. Unfortunately Erfin did not fall off. He twisted at the reins, and finally succeeded in quieting the animal.
“Is that enough of an answer for you, Erfin, or do I need to make it more clear? As I have good cause to know, your grasp of subtleties is limited,” Rhoram called down.
Erfin looked up at him in fury. But before his brother-in-law could formulate an answer, Rhoram mounted the wall and stood straight and proud before the traitorous Kymric warriors, his earlier, frivolous pose abandoned. He gazed down now at the over nine hundred men and women gathered to fight him. There were three hundred of Erfin’s own teulu, and two hundred each belonging to the Erfin’s three Gwardas. Angawdd ap Dirmyg and Eilonwy ur Gwyn looked up at Rhoram coldly. Tegid ap Trephin refused to look at him at all.
“Warriors of Prydyn!” Rhoram boomed out in a commanding tone. “Listen to me! Tomorrow morning the forces of Corania will sweep our shores. If unchecked, they will take our country. Our country! The land of Prydyn! Will you let them do this? Will you let them make slaves of the Kymri?”
There was a stirring in the ranks. Quickly, Erfin called out, “I have been promised protection for all my people! Neither they nor their families will be harmed.”
“And you believe these promises?” Rhoram asked incredulously. “You are fools to do so. I call now on all who are true men and women of Prydyn to lay down your arms, taken up against your rightful King!”
Rhoram turned aside and said in a low tone, “Achren, send Geriant to head the two hundred warriors to the southern gate. I will join them there. Have my horse ready. You go with Aidan out the east gate.”
“
Our plans were to—”
“Look at Tegid down there, to the south. Look how he shifts on his horse.”
Achren swiftly looked down at Tegid’s pale face, raised her brows, then departed, taking Geriant and Aidan with her. Rhoram turned back to the traitorous warriors. “Well, men and women of Prydyn? What is your answer? Will you obey your King, or will you follow the traitor, the man who deals in secret with your worst enemy?”
“Rhoram ap Rhydderch!” Erfin shouted. “Do not think to delay the battle. It will avail you nothing. Yesterday we fell upon the Gwarda of Camian, who was preparing to march to your side! He will not come to your aid today, or any day. And I have with me Druids—one of them your own!”
From within the ranks, six Druids, dressed in the customary hooded brown robes, stepped out to stand behind Erfin. One by one, they removed their hoods. The last one was his missing Druid, Ellywen. Her cold, gray eyes gazed up at him unflinchingly.
“You cannot stand against us all, Rhoram,” Erfin continued.
“Cadell,” Rhoram muttered to his Dewin, “any sight of the forces of Emlyn yet?”
“Nothing yet. I’ll keep Wind-Riding and tell Cian as soon as I spot them.”
“Cian,” Rhoram said to his Bard, “when Cadell spots them, explain the situation to their Bard. Tell them to attack the north flank.”
Rhoram turned back toward Erfin, waiting down below. “Erfin, I am forced to consider your offer, for the good of my people,” he said heavily. His shoulders slumped. He hoped he wasn’t overdoing it. “I will give you my answer in a few moments.” Swiftly, he descended the stairs and mounted his horse. Achren was there, waiting with Aidan to lead the warriors out the east gate.
“Considering surrender?” she asked, grinning in anticipation. Achren always did love a good fight.
“There’s no need to be insulting.” He grabbed the reins and galloped off through the city to the southern gate. Geriant was at the head of the two hundred warriors gathered there. Rhoram made his way through the ranks, until he and Geriant were side by side in front of the closed gate.
His son sat upon his horse calmly, his blue eyes clear, his face set but unafraid. Rhoram’s throat tightened. He loved the boy so much. The gods grant that Geriant lived through this day. And beyond it. Far, far beyond it. He gripped Geriant’s shoulder for a moment, then ordered, “You and your warriors cut east out of the gate. I’ll make directly for Tegid. I think we have a good chance with him.”
Geriant nodded eagerly, ready for the fight. “Yes, Da. Oh, and good luck.”
The trust in the boy’s eyes cut at Rhoram’s heart. O gods, O gods, he thought frantically, let him live. I don’t care about myself. Just let my son live.
At Rhoram’s nod, the southern gate opened. At the same time, the east gate also swung back, and his warriors poured out onto the plain, four hundred against almost a thousand, in a desperate attempt to allow the people of the city a chance to get to safety.
This, Rhoram thought as he made his way straight toward Tegid, has to be one of my more harebrained ideas.
HE RODE FEARLESSLY through Tegid’s men. Behind him he heard the din of battle as his forces clashed with Erfin’s.
Tegid ap Trephin was a young man, who had succeeded his father as the Gwarda of Mallaen just last year. The young Gwarda sat indecisively on his horse. His men were waiting for orders that Tegid had not yet given.
“Tegid ap Trephin,” Rhoram called out as he reined in his horse beside the Gwarda. “Will you speak to me, man? Or will you kill me?”
Tegid paled. “I—”
“Yes, I know. Erfin is your lord. But I am your King. In the name of your oaths to me, I call on you now to fight with me, not against me. What is your answer?”
Slowly, Tegid drew his short spear and pointed it straight at Rhoram’s chest.
Rhoram leaned forward slightly until the spear just pressed against his heart. “Will you fight beside me this day, Tegid ap Trephin? I can promise you nothing—no protection against the Coranians tomorrow, no assurances that either of us will live out this day. No hope of victory. Kill me or follow me. The choice is yours.”
ACHREN LED HER warriors out the gate and into the fray. Calmly she leveled her spear and began to kill. But inside, she was frantic for Rhoram. If he had been mistaken about Tegid’s true loyalties, he would die before the fight had even begun. She did not dare to even look toward the south where Rhoram had gone. There was no time; they were too hardly pressed. If only Tegid …
Then she heard it. The sound coming from two hundred throats burst into the battle, momentarily drowning out the clash of sword and spear, the groans of the dying.
“Tegid! Tegid for King Rhoram! Rhoram! Rhoram!”
He had done it. For the first time, she thought they might have a chance, after all.
HOURS LATER, RHORAM, for the hundredth time, raised his spear and killed a man he knew. He had recognized many of the men and women whom he had murdered this afternoon. The thought sickened him, but it did not stop him.
But the tide was turning in Erfin’s favor, and it was the Druids who were tipping the scales. Between the six of them, they were throwing fireballs and levitating other missiles at a fairly steady rate. Fortunately, the Druids were forced to be careful not to decimate their own forces, and they had to take aim carefully.
Rhoram had countered by turning the catapults on the cliffs, set in place to maim Coranian ships, onto the battlefield. Boulders rained from the air to places where Erfin’s forces were gathered thickly, but it was tricky business, trying to kill the right people.
If only they could get rid of at least one or two of those Druids. But they were so heavily guarded that he thought it unlikely. Still, he would do his best. Closing with Erfin himself would have to wait until he had taken care of this problem.
He fought his way closer to the six brown-robed figures. He knew he would never penetrate the circle of warriors guarding them. But he did hope that an arrow or two might do some good, if only he could get close enough.
A fireball, aimed right toward him, caused him to duck abruptly. The fire whizzed over his head and landed on the ground behind him, roasting two of Erfin’s warriors. A bad shot for the Druid. But a good one for him.
One of the Druids—Ellywen, of course—had spotted him. She was shouting, calling out to the others that King Rhoram was within range. The six turned toward him, and he knew that his time had come. It galled him to think he would die at the hands of his own people. He had so hoped to kill some Coranians before he was killed himself.
A short spear whizzed by his shoulder and struck one of the Druids in the chest. Swiftly, Rhoram turned and saw Achren, who was now pulling out her bow to follow up on her initial attack. Quickly he knocked his own bow, but before either of them could shoot, another Druid fell, pierced with an arrow through her throat.
Rhoram’s eye traced back the path of that arrow and saw a young warrior, stringing his bow for another shot. The warrior wore a voluminous cloak that foiled Rhoram’s attempt to identify him. But something about the way he stood seemed familiar. Oh, no. No, absolutely not, Rhoram thought. It couldn’t possibly …
He wrenched his attention away from that thought. No time for it now. He let loose his arrow, and it buzzed past the guarding warriors, taking another Druid in the throat. Three down, three to go. Unfortunately, Ellywen still stood. His former Druid raised her arms and prepared to burn him to a crisp.
But before she could, they both heard the sound. Ellywen and the two remaining Druids started, turning swiftly to the north. Erfin’s warriors, too, halted for a moment, then turned to face the new threat.
Rhoram thought that he had never heard such a beautiful sound. Horns. Horns to the north. Thank the gods, the forces of Emlyn had come.
RHORAM SAT ALONE on the cliff edge, his legs dangling into space. He hunched forward, looking down into the black, swirling water, rushing and hissing onto the shore. Sighing, he sat back. The full moon shone over
head, brilliant and cold. He stared out to sea, drinking in the sight, knowing that this night would be his last. At least he would not have to live long with the shame of losing the country he had been born to rule.
Wearily, he ran his hands through his sweat-stained hair. They had done well today. After the forces of Emlyn had joined the battle, Erfin had been driven east. Rhoram had eventually halted the pursuit, knowing that it was a waste of precious resources. Instead, he had led his remaining army to the cliffs. The cliffs of Dayved were pockmarked with caves, which had been prepared weeks ago. Blankets, foodstuffs, weapons, and other supplies had been stored there. The horses had been picketed at the base of the cliffs, carefully guarded.
Yes, they had won the battle today. That would have been encouraging, except for the fact that it didn’t really matter. Tomorrow would see an end to it all. There was no hope at all that they could hold out against both Erfin and the Coranians. It was foolish to even try, although try they would. They would not give up without a fight.
But his city had been abandoned. His beautiful city.
There had been no reason to return to it. The walls would not have kept the Coranians out for long. And all his people had escaped during the battle today. If he had brought his army back, there they would be trapped, easy prey on the morrow.
His throat tightened as he thought of his doorkeeper, Tallwch. Tallwch had died in the battle that day. Already he missed his friend.
He heard footsteps coming down the cliff path. Though it was too dark to see, he knew who it was. She stood next to him, then put a curiously gentle hand on his shoulder.
“The others await your orders for tomorrow, my King.”
Still facing out to sea, he said bitterly, “You still call me that?”
“What?” she asked in surprise.
“King.”
“Why ever not?”
“I’ve lost the city,” he said, his voice toneless. “And, after tomorrow, Prydyn will be lost, too. I am not a King—I am a fool.”