by Holly Taylor
“You will win it back,” she said calmly.
“You have great faith in my abilities, Achren. But I cannot agree with you.”
“Then you are indeed a fool,” she said comfortably, sitting down beside him.
“Thanks,” he said dryly.
The moon illuminated her dark eyes. Her black hair, loosened from her braids, hung down past her shoulders. Her wide mouth was suspiciously close to a smile.
Taking a deep breath, he said, “Achren, I want you to—”
“Cadell has been Wind-Riding,” she said in a musing tone, as though he had not spoken. “He says that he can see Erfin sitting by his campfire. He says that Erfin looks like he swallowed a handful of nettles. I wish I were a Dewin. I’d love to see that.”
“Achren—”
“Cadell also says that the forces of Penfro should be here in the late morning.”
Rhoram waved his hand irritably. “Two hundred. A drop in the bucket against whatever Erfin’s got left and against the gods know how many Coranians. Achren, I want you to take the others and go.”
“Do you?” she said coolly. “Which others?”
“Geriant, for one.”
She turned to him, her dark eyes pools of shadow. “If you want Geriant out of here, tell him to go. I stay.”
“Gwen is here somewhere.”
“I know,” she said calmly. “I recognized her this afternoon.”
“We have to get her out of here!”
“Fine. If you can find her, you can take her out.”
Rhoram jumped up. “How am I supposed to find her?” he demanded. “She could be in any of the caves. And how could I possibly leave?”
Achren, too, leapt to her feet. “How could I?” she demanded in her turn.
“Listen to me! It’s up to you to take care of my children.”
“Why don’t you do it?” she snapped. “They’re your children.”
“Dead men are limited in that respect.”
She snorted. “You’re not going to die, Rhoram. Gwydion did not say so.”
“He didn’t have to. You heard Rhiannon. She asked Geriant to look after Gwen. Why didn’t she ask me?”
“Maybe she thought you’d be too busy,” she said mildly.
“Maybe she thought I’d be dead!” He turned from Achren, gazing out to sea, his shoulders slumped. Almost absently, he murmured, “And why not? Why shouldn’t I die? How could I bear to live knowing that I have lost Prydyn? I have failed my people. What remains for me to stay alive for?”
She reached out and turned his face toward hers. She studied him for a moment, the palms of her callused hands resting against his checks, as though trying to measure his belief in his own words. Then her mouth hardened into an implacable line. “Coward,” she said clearly, her voice bitter, her dark eyes flashing in the moonlight.
She turned away from him, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back to him. “Coward? You dare to call me that?” he said, his voice deathly quiet.
“What else should I call you? You, who can’t bear to even think of anyone but yourself. Don’t you understand how much your people will need you in defeat? Of course, you do. But death is less demanding, isn’t it? Always the easy way out for you!”
“You—” he said through gritted teeth. “You dare—” He pushed her from him. She almost stumbled, then caught herself against the rocks.
“When you feel up to acting like a man, the others are waiting for you,” she spat. Then she was gone.
COWARD, SHE HAD said. She had called him a coward. Somewhere deep inside, coming from a place he had thought emptied by despair, a red rage began to grow.
Red-hot, the rage washed through him. Rage against Erfin, his worthless brother-in-law, who had dared to take up arms against him. Against Efa, his own wife, who had failed him for so many years. Against Ellywen, his Druid, who had chosen loyalty to Cathbad over loyalty to her King. Against himself for so many things.
And lastly, a rage against the Coranians, who would dare to invade his country, who would dare to come against him and his.
And as the rage grew inside him, he straightened his shoulders. He raised his head. He clenched his hands into fists and smote the rock before him. He lifted his face to the sky and hurled his war cry to the stars. All across the cliffs, warriors popped their heads from their caves at his cry. As one, they echoed him, shouting their challenge to the night.
As he strode up the path, his despair forgotten, the cries of defiance still ringing in his ears, the thought came to him that Achren had known exactly what she was doing when she dared to speak to him that way.
AS HE ENTERED the cave, they all looked up at him. Something in his face made them rise instantly to their feet. Achren was there, of course, and Geriant. Aidan, his lieutenant, stood next to his brother, Idwal, the Gwarda of Emlyn, whose forces had saved the day today. Cadell, his Dewin, and Cian, his Bard, stood with the Dewin and Bard the Gwarda had brought with him. Tegid was not there. He had died today.
For a moment, they stared at Rhoram. Then Geriant, his blue eyes wide, came to him. “Da?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
“Cadell,” Rhoram said crisply, ignoring his son for the moment, “I want you to tell me Erfin’s exact location. I want to know the number of warriors he has left, the layout of his camp, how many horses he has, everything. Most particularly I want to know where the horses are being kept. And what tent the Druids are in.” Cadell and the other Dewin nodded. Without a word, they both sat down crosslegged on the floor of the cave, their eyes taking on an abstracted look.
“Achren,” he went on, his voice cool. “How many warriors are left?”
“Three hundred and fifty,” Achren replied, her tone like ice. “And one hundred people from the city who refuse to leave the area.”
“I want the city people left here in the cliffs, armed with bows, rags, and pitch. I wish to arrange a proper greeting for the Coranians.”
“As you command, my King,” Achren replied, her mouth twitching.
“So I am,” he agreed gravely. “Aidan, you will be in charge of the initial defense against the Coranians. Catapults and one hundred bowmen are all I can offer you. Do the best you can with what you have.”
The two Dewin stirred. Cadell raised his head. “It is done.”
Rhoram handed him a piece of parchment and charcoal. “Show me,” he said.
A FEW HOURS later, Rhoram rose. He stretched, trying to work the stiffness out of his legs. Sitting crosslegged on the floor of a cave was a job for a younger man. “That’s it, then. Ready, Achren?”
“Ready when you are,” she replied crisply.
“The rest of you have a few hours before you begin. Sleep if you can. Give me a few moments, Achren. Geriant, come with me.” Rhoram led the way out of the cave. He put an arm around his son’s shoulders, and the two walked together down the path.
“Da,” Geriant began. “Why can’t I go with you and Achren? I—”
“Because I have something else for you to do.” Rhoram gestured toward a rock jutting out from the cliff face. “Sit with me here, and I’ll explain.”
Geriant sat crosslegged on the rock, and Rhoram took a place beside him. Without further preamble, Rhoram said, “Gwenhwyfar’s here. I saw her in the battle this afternoon. She saved my life by killing one of the Druids.”
“I can’t believe it! She’s supposed to be with Sanon and the others at the caves—leagues and leagues away from here!”
“Believe it,” Rhoram said grimly. “That’s why I can’t take you to Erfin’s camp tonight. You have another task. Find her, see to it that she comes to no harm. You promised Rhiannon that you would. Tomorrow, when we are overrun by the Coranians—and we will be overrun—you are to take her and go north to the caves.”
“But, Da—”
“This is a direct order from your King, not your father. Your life is not your own to throw away. You must live, and you must see to it that Gwen lives also.”
Miserably, Geriant nodded, then looked away.
Rhoram’s gaze softened. “I have not forbidden you to fight tomorrow. I forbid you only to fight to the death. You may be part of our battle with Erfin. But when the Coranians land, you must go. And you have yet another task to fulfill.” Slowly, Rhoram twisted the emerald ring from his finger. “Your task is to guard this ring.”
“The ring? I don’t understand.”
“This ring was given to us many, many years ago by Bran the Dreamer. It has been passed on from ruler to ruler, generation by generation. It is never to fall into the hands of anyone outside our house. One day, this ring will be asked for. Listen carefully to Bran’s exact words. ‘The ring is to be given up only to one of the House of PenBlaid who asks for it using these words: “In the name of the High King to come, surrender your ring to me.”‘ These words exactly will be used, and no others.”
“But, Da, why give it to me now? You are still King. Gwydion did not say you would die. He—”
“Ah, Geriant. Geriant. Never mind that now. Take the ring.”
Very, very slowly, Geriant reached out to take the ring. He set it on his finger, his face bowed. Gently, Rhoram touched his son’s golden hair. Geriant’s face came up, streaked with tears. Rhoram reached out and held his son close to his chest, letting Geriant’s scalding tears spill over his heart.
TO SAY THAT Erfin was surprised when his guards were murdered, his horses were stolen in the middle of the night, and two of his Druids (who had emerged from their tent to see what was happening) were shot full of arrows, would have been a serious understatement.
Rhoram, who was able to catch sight of Erfin in the confusion as his brother-in-law stamped and swore at the sight of his horses disappearing beyond the hill, was highly gratified. Which was another understatement.
His only regret was that Ellywen had not died. She had been too canny to come out of her tent. Rhoram shrugged. He’d have another chance a few hours from now, when he brought his army back with him to finish the job.
Rhoram nodded to Achren, and the two faded silently away from Erfin’s camp into the night, their work done. For now.
Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning
A PALE PINK blush was just staining the sky when Rhoram and Achren returned to spy on Erfin’s camp. Er fin had chosen to camp in a slight valley, fringed with low, grassy hills. Incredibly, he had not replaced the watch that Rhoram and Achren had murdered just a few hours ago. Even more amazing, Erfin’s troops were not yet ready for battle. Morning campfires still blazed, and warriors were just emerging from their tents and bedrolls. He was counting, apparently, on the scheduled arrival of the Coranians to deter Rhoram from making another attack.
“By the gods,” Rhoram murmured in Achren’s ear. “That’s insulting.”
“You will teach him today to take you more seriously,” Achren replied. “Let us hope he won’t live long enough to profit from the lesson.”
“He won’t,” Rhoram said shortly.
Achren lightly touched Rhoram’s arm and jerked her head. She was right. Time to go back to the horses and begin the attack.
They crept away from the crown of the hill, then separated, she to lead her quarter of their remaining army, he to lead his. On the other side of the hills that ringed the camp, Geriant held their forces in readiness.
On the ride from the cliffs, Rhoram had noticed a tiny warrior riding behind Geriant’s horse, the warrior’s hooded cloak pulled up securely. Rhoram had caught Geriant’s eye and the boy had nodded slightly. Silently Rhoram had petitioned the gods to allow his children to live through this day. Then he had put the thought of their danger from him, locking his fears securely in his heart. He could do nothing more.
Reaching the base of the hill, Rhoram mounted his horse. Stretching in a solid ring around the hills, his army waited for his signal. He lifted his arm, made a fist, then pumped it twice. His warriors urged their horses up the hill, silent as ghosts.
To Er fin’s forces in the valley, Rhoram’s army seemed to rise straight up from the ground. One man, standing by his campfire, chanced to look up, and shouted.
Rhoram’s army poured down the slope, straight into the confused camp, and the slaughter began.
CADELL TURNED TO Aidan, the warrior in command of the defense against the Coranians. Cadell’s eyes were still slightly glazed from Wind-Riding, but his voice was firm as he said, “They’re coming.”
Aidan nodded and signaled the men and women at the catapults to begin loading. In shallow caves across the cliffs, both men and women readied their bows. They wrapped their arrows in rags soaked in pitch, torches at the ready.
Aidan stared out to sea, waiting calmly for the sight of the enemy ships to stain the horizon.
RHORAM GRIMLY FOUGHT one warrior after another, killing with calm efficiency. His one goal, his only conscious thought, was to cut his way through the press to Erfin—wherever he was. He would not be satisfied until the blood of his treacherous brother-in-law stained his blade.
“My King!” a voice shouted from behind him. Turning swiftly, Rhoram confronted Cian, his Bard.
“The Bard from Emlyn has just relayed to me that the Coranians are landing,” Cian panted. “The catapults and arrows have managed to destroy five ships. But over two thousand men are now on shore. Cadell says that a contingent of Coranians are coming this way to rescue Erfin!”
“How many?”
“Five hundred.”
“Is that all?” Rhoram grinned. “Another insult.”
“Half of them are occupying the city. The others are flushing us out of the cliffs. Cadell and Aidan are retreating with the people they have left.”
“Tell the Bard to have them swing around and come in from the north. Has Cadell seen anything of the forces from Penfro?”
“They are on their way. They’ll be here within the half hour.”
“All right. We pull out from here and make for the north. We’ll use the cover from the vineyards. We’ll harass that Coranian contingent, but we won’t meet them head on. There aren’t enough of us for that.” He raised his fist in the gesture for withdrawal.
Rhoram’s army fought their way out of the camp and up to the crown of the hill. What was left of Erfin’s army preferred to nurse their wounds, and did not pursue.
Rhoram reached the top of the hill, and, turning west, saw the sun glinting off the armor of the approaching Coranian contingent. To his vast relief, he saw Geriant, bloodied but apparently unhurt, with a small warrior riding closely behind him.
Achren rode up beside Rhoram. She, too, was bloodstained, but unhurt. “All out. Time to go,” she said, nodding toward the sight of the advancing army.
Rhoram surveyed the men and women who were left. There were only one hundred and fifty of them, but they were not done yet. He could see it in their fiery, determined eyes, all fixed on him.
“Well, my friends, shall we show a proper Prydyn welcome to these Coranians?”
“Rhoram! Rhoram!” they shouted, their voices clear and determined.
“Come, my children of the sword,” he called. “Let’s teach them the way we do things in Prydyn!”
They followed him, galloping north away from the plain and into the cover of the vineyards. He stopped, turning back to the south, surveying the plain before the valley. Quickly, his warriors dismounted, taking cover at the edge of the vineyards, readying their bows and arrows.
A warrior hailed him as they waited. “My King! Aidan and his folk are here!”
“I have lost the cliffs,” Aidan said as he arrived, his blood-and soot-streaked face drawn.
“I never thought you could hold them. You know that.” He clapped Aidan on the back. “Come, man. It’s what we expected after all. Done in yet?”
“Never,” Aidan said fiercely.
“Good. There’s work left to do.”
He glanced again out at the plain, judging the approach of the contingent to the valley. Something caught his eye as the sun glin
ted off the fiery red hair of a man running across the plain, heading straight toward the advancing army. All else was forgotten in that sight. “Achren, take command,” he ordered, as he leapt onto his horse.
“What are you doing?” Achren called after him. “You can’t—”
“Oh, yes, I can!”
“ERFIN!” RHORAM CALLED out fiercely. Erfin turned his head to see Rhoram’s horse bearing down on him. He tried to run faster, but Rhoram thundered down, grasping Erfin by the back of his tunic and dragging him along. Then he let go, reined in his horse, and vaulted from the saddle. As Erfin tried to rise, Rhoram sailed into him, knocking him flat.
“You!” Rhoram panted, getting to his feet and allowing Erfin to rise. “You lily-livered dog! I’ll see you dead today!”
Swiftly, Erfin reached into his boot and drew his dagger. He crouched. “I’ll see you dead,” he raged.
“You’ll try,” Rhoram said contemptuously. “Where were you when your warriors were fighting? Hiding? Afraid to face me?”
“I’ll face you now,” Erfin growled. The two men circled each other. Rhoram feinted to the right, and as Erfin jumped left, Rhoram’s dagger sliced against his arm.
“You’ll never make it out of here alive, Rhoram,” Erfin panted. “My friends are on the way.”
“I don’t mean to make it out of here alive,” Rhoram answered, crouched and ready. “I never did. But I won’t die at your hands, traitor.”
ACHREN WATCHED RHORAM ride off. “Stupid, stupid man,” she raged. Geriant leapt to his horse and started after his father. With a mighty leap, Achren grasped the horse’s bridle, dug in her heels, and pulled. The horse reared, and Geriant came tumbling down to the ground. As he lay there, trying to get his breath back, Achren came up to stand over him. “Not you, idiot. You’ve got other things to do.”
She mounted her horse. Her dark eyes pinned Aidan to the spot. “Distract the Coranians. Keep them away from Rhoram and Erfin until it’s settled.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’m going to make sure no one interrupts that fight.”