Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  AS THE CORANIAN contingent came over the hill, Penda stopped in astonishment. In the middle of the plain, two men were fighting. To the east, warriors, struggling out of a shallow valley, sat down to watch the contest.

  Penda squinted, then recognized the man with the red hair. It was their erstwhile ally, Erfin. Penda knew him by description. The other man, with golden hair, had also been carefully described. It could be no other than King Rhoram himself.

  He supposed he should interfere in the fight, save Erfin’s life, and kill King Rhoram, but, in truth, he was not much inclined to do so. Rhoram deserved his chance to kill the man who had betrayed him. Yet he had his orders, orders that had already made him do so many things he did not wish to do. This would be just one more of those things.

  From the north, a woman came riding out of the vineyards, galloping straight toward the fighting pair. She reined in her horse between the fighters and Penda’s forces, sitting defiantly in the saddle.

  This was too much. Did she think to prevent them from stopping that fight? One lone woman against five hundred warriors? He had been told that the Kymri were crazy, but he had never really appreciated that fact before this. He sighed, then led the charge.

  A hail of arrows from the vineyards to the north broke into his ranks before he had even gone a few feet. Penda gave some hasty orders and sent his troops streaming toward the vineyards. But he himself did not go. They could handle this without him. He wanted to see more of this fight.

  Penda neared the two men. The woman on the horse urged her mount closer to him, barring his way. “You are forbidden to interfere, Coranian,” the woman spat.

  “I am Penda, son of Peada, the Eorl of Lindisfarne, from the country of Mierce, in the Coranian Empire. I greet you in the name of our Bana, Havgan, son of Hengist, who has come to take this land for his own.”

  “I am Achren ur Canhustyr, the PenCollen of Prydyn, Captain to King Rhoram. I greet you in his name and bid you to leave this land.”

  “Ah. I regret that I am unable to comply with the wishes of so fair a lady.”

  “Your men fight our warriors. Shouldn’t you join them?”

  “I think not. Erfin is a friend of ours, and it looks like he could use some help. If you will not stand aside, then I must kill you.”

  Achren laughed and dismounted. “Come then, son of Peada. Try.”

  OUT OF THE corner of his eye, Rhoram saw Achren begin to battle the Coranian leader. Good gods, that woman would never do as she was told. But then, what woman did? Rhoram quickly wiped away the sweat that was running into his eyes, took a fresh hold of his dagger, and leapt at Erfin.

  His dagger sliced across Erfin’s cheek, laying open the man’s face. Erfin screamed. He would, Rhoram thought contemptuously. Erfin fell to his knees, one hand covering his face, blood seeping through his fingers.

  But as Rhoram stepped forward, his dagger held high to administer the final blow, Erfin, moving swiftly as a snake, grabbed a second dagger from his boot and sprang up. His dagger slid smoothly into Rhoram’s ribs.

  As Rhoram sank to the ground, he could only think that he had been taken in by one of the oldest tricks in the world. Achren would be furious.

  Then the hungry darkness washed over him, and he knewnothing more. As ACHREN SAW Rhoram go down, she screamed in rage. All thoughts of Penda deserted her. Turning away from his ax, she leapt toward Erfin, who was raising his dagger for another blow.

  She knocked Erfin to the ground and wrestled the knife from his hand. She drew it back for a killing blow, but her hand was caught in a vise grip, and she dropped the knife. She whirled around, whipping her arm from Penda’s grasp.

  Slowly, almost hesitantly, Penda raised his ax. She faced him unflinchingly, her dark eyes unafraid. But before the ax had begun to swing down, the sound of horns rang out from the north. Penda lowered his ax. Enough of this fight. From the sound of the horns, he had a bigger battle on his hands. He was needed elsewhere. He would let her live, for now. Her courage deserved some sort of reward.

  Grinning, he saluted Achren, then left them to it.

  ERFIN’S SURVIVING WARRIORS, who had been watching the fight, surrounded Erfin, Achren, and Rhoram’s still body. Two men lifted Erfin and helped him back into the valley. Achren, kneeling down by Rhoram’s body, looked up at the circle of hard, set faces.

  “He’s dead,” Achren said to them bitterly. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  A warrior bent over Rhoram’s still body, placing a hand against the King’s throat. Two more warriors grasped Achren’s arms and lifted her to her feet.

  “I ask that you kill me now. I have no wish to be taken to Erfin.”

  No one answered her, and after a few more silent moments, the man bending over Rhoram straightened.

  “Achren ur Canhustyr,” the warrior said quietly, “King Rhoram is dying. But not yet dead.” The man hesitated, scanning the faces around him. Four warriors came forward, gently lifting Rhoram. Another came up, leading Achren’s horse.

  “Take him,” he said. “Take him and go. If you hurry, he may live.”

  Stunned, Achren mounted her horse. They lifted Rhoram gently, then placed him across the saddle in front of her. “I will not forget this,” Achren said. “The King will not forget this, if he lives.”

  The warrior smiled ruefully. “Erfin will not forget, either.”

  “Come with me. All of you,” she urged.

  “No. If we see you again, we will kill you. You understand.”

  Achren nodded. She did understand.

  “Go,” they said.

  ACHREN RODE AWAY swiftly, knowing that time was of the essence. They were right—Rhoram was still alive. But for how long?

  She reached the dubious cover of the vineyard. She could see fighting not far to the west. As she rode carefully through the trailing vines, Geriant came riding up. His face was pale. Carefully, they helped Rhoram down from the horse. A tiny warrior ran up and knelt by Rhoram’s body.

  “Gwen,” Achren said sternly. “Fetch some water. And leave your cloak here. I need cloth for bandages.”

  Gwen shed her voluminous cloak and took off her helmet. At a dead run, she made for a nearby stream and filled her helmet with water. When she returned, her face was wet with tears. But she knelt down quietly by her father’s body. Geriant had removed Rhoram’s leather tunic, laying bare the bloody, gaping wound.

  “Find Cadell,” Achren said, tearing the cloak into strips. “Rhoram needs a doctor.”

  “I’ll get him,” Geriant leapt onto his horse, riding back toward the fray.

  “He’s dying,” Gwen said, her voice muffled with tears.

  “Yes, he is,” Achren answered shortly, pressing a pad of cloth to the wound. The green cloth, instantly soaked in Rhoram’s blood, turned black.

  Geriant returned with Cadell following. The men dismounted, Cadell grabbing his saddlebags. Swiftly Cadell laid his hands on Rhoram’s wound, his eyes closed in concentration as he Life-Read. Abruptly he opened his eyes and looked over at Achren.

  “Well?” she asked with her heart in her throat.

  “There is life in him yet, if we work quickly,” Cadell replied. From a large pouch, he took some crushed leaves and packed the wound, then wrapped it tightly. “That’s all I can do here,” he said. “We’ve got to get him to a quiet place where I can stitch him up. We need a litter of some kind. And we can’t go far.”

  “Do you think we can get him as far as the next hill? There’s an underground cave that might do for a day or so,” Achren suggested.

  “Good. We need a few more horses.”

  Cian and Aidan came riding up. Cian flung himself from his horse. “The forces of Penfro are drawing them off, farther west.”

  Achren looked up. “Aidan, keep them busy until nightfall. Then pull out with anyone who is left. Make for the caves up north. The rest of us will join you there later with Rhoram.”

  “If he lives,” Aidan said, swallowing hard.

  �
�He’ll live,” Achren said grimly.

  Between Cian, Cadell, Geriant, Gwen, and Achren, they got Rhoram to the underground cave still alive. As they laid him down, his eyes opened. He took them in one by one, his eyes resting longest on Gwen’s tear-stained face. He tried to speak.

  “Shh,” Cadell said gently. “Drink this.” He held a cup to Rhoram’s lips, but Rhoram feebly batted it away.

  “Let him speak,” Achren said quietly.

  Rhoram’s tortured whisper resounded in the cave. “Go,” he rasped. “Leave me.”

  “Fool,” Achren snorted. “Drink and pass out if that’s all you have to say.”

  “Don’t … want … to live … defeated. Leave me.”

  Slowly, Cian withdrew a piece of parchment from his tunic. The Bard hesitantly cleared his throat. “I have a letter here. From Gwydion ap Awst. He left it in my care when he came here last. He said that I would know the time to give it to you all.”

  “Gwydion?” Rhoram whispered. “Read … it.”

  Cian broke the seal and read aloud, his words echoing strangely in the cave.

  To: Rhoram ap Rhydderch, Achren ur Canhastyr, Geriant ap Rhoram, Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram:

  By now the battle is lost, the city overrun, and Rhoram is gravely wounded. Yet know that I believe he will not die, if he does not choose to. You must not give up. A great task awaits all of you. Gather the survivors, and make for the caves. By stealth and by cunning you must gather a teulu that will become a thorn in the side of the enemy. From this seed will come a mighty army. For one day soon the High King will come again. And when he does, he will lead us to take back our own. I command, in the name of the High King soon to be, that you take on this task. Though you may wish to die, you are commanded to live. This is your duty to Kymru.

  Gwydion ap Awst var Celemoon

  Dreamer of Kymru

  RHORAM’S TORTURED BLUE eyes began to soften.

  “Well, Rhoram ap Rhydderch?” Achren said sharply. “Will you deign to live?”

  “A … thorn … in their side,” he whispered. “I like the sound of that.” He drank the drugged wine and fell back into unconsciousness, a smile on his ashen lips.

  A thorn in their side, Achren thought. She liked the sound of that, too.

  Chapter 18

  Llwynarth

  Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru

  Gwernan Mis, 497

  Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—early morning

  Urien ap Ethyllt, King of Rheged, took another hearty swallow of ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and belched hugely.

  “Excuse me, cariad,” he said apologetically, though absently.

  “Of course,” Ellirri replied cordially. After over twenty years of marriage, she was used to Urien’s table manners. And she had many more important things to worry about. At this moment Morcant Whledig, Lord of Penrhyn, was camped to the plain just south of the city with seven hundred warriors at his back, his purpose to be the new King of Rheged.

  Even worse, the Coranians had now landed and were marching toward Llwynarth. Urien said they had five days until the Coranians came over the horizon to finish the job that Morcant would begin today.

  Urien was counting heavily on the forces of Amgoed, and the teulu of Hetwin Silver-Brow, Lord of Gwinionydd, to come to their aid within the next few days, as had been agreed upon months ago. But Ellirri was not so sure. It was obvious that Morcant had laid his plans with the Coranians long ago. Surely he would have taken the possibility of aid to the city into account and come up with a plan to prevent it.

  She thought of her children, as she often did these days. Elphin was with them here in the city, waiting in the courtyard now for his orders. She hoped with all her heart that he would survive, but she didn’t expect it. She had sent her two youngest children, Rhiwallon and Enid, to the forest of Coed Addien, under the protection of her steward. It was true that Isgowen was Morcant’s sister, but Ellirri did not fear for the safety of her two youngest. Isgowen would be shamed when she found out what Morcant had done.

  Her thoughts turned to Owein, her troubled, troublesome son. She had sent him south weeks ago, in the company of Trystan, Captain of Urien’s teulu. By now he would be on his way back to Llwynarth, having guessed that she had sent him on his errand to keep him away. They could not possibly arrive before it was all over—for good or for ill. She expected that things would be very ill, indeed. But at least Owein would still be alive.

  She had not even attempted to fool herself. The knowledge that they would die in the invasion had been in Gwydion’s eyes the night he had come to them. Since that night, neither she nor Urien had spoken of it, for there was nothing that could be said. What would be, would be. They would face death together, as they had faced life.

  Her eyes roved around the huge, comfortable room. Here, on the thick carpet just before the hearth, all her children had taken their first, tiny steps. Across the room, in the huge canopied bed, she had slept night after night in Urien’s strong arms, reveled in the feel of his hands on her body, wept on his strong shoulder, lay dreaming, safely cradled in his unchanging love.

  Urien took another swallow of ale and belched again. He looked curiously at the mug. “You know,” he said, “I truly believe this to be a very poor grade. I understand Morcant sent this batch to us a few months ago. He must have kept the best for himself. But that’s Morcant all over, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, cariad,” she replied absently, still checking the arrows in her quiver, one by one. “Perhaps we should speak to him about that before we kill him.”

  “Oh, I think we should,” Urien said earnestly. “After all, Rheged has a reputation to maintain.” He tested the edge of his spear with his thumb, nodded, and laid down the whetstone. “Almost ready?” he inquired.

  “Just about.” Carefully, she strung her bow and tested the string. Satisfied, she stood, slinging the quiver over her shoulder.

  Urien rose also, picking up his helmet of gold fashioned like a horse’s head, studded with opals. The badge of the white horse, rearing proudly in defiance, shown white against his red tunic. His cloak was red, worked with gold thread. The gold and opal torque of Rheged hung about his neck like a river of flame.

  “Shouldn’t you leave that here?” she asked, nodding at the torque.

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his shaggy head. “I want Morcant to try and take it.”

  “Ah. Of course.” She, too, wore all red. Her red-gold hair was tightly braided against her scalp. Carefully she settled her own helmet over her head.

  Urien’s brown eyes lit up, and he grinned down at her. “You look very nice.” He held out his arm to escort her from their chambers. Ellirri came to him, taking his arm.

  As they walked from the chamber, she held her head high and did not weep. Everything she had ever wanted out of life, this man had given her. He had given her children, warmth, and a secure place in his unchangeable heart. And she had made a vow that she would keep, no matter what. They would die together.

  And with this, she was content.

  Gwaithdydd, Disglair Wythnos—early evening

  THREE DAYS LATER, Urien stood on the battlements, looking down at Morcant’s camp. Hundreds of tiny campfires dotted the plain. Urien’s decimated forces were still holding the city. They still stood alone, for no help had come from Amgoed, or from Hetwin Silver-Brow. Esyllt’s call had gone unanswered. Urien knew now that they would never arrive.

  Three desperate battles had been fought, and each time Urien’s warriors had beaten Morcant back from the city walls. But Morcant’s forces now numbered four hundred, and Urien had only two hundred warriors left. Even at odds of two to one, he would be inclined to pit his forces directly against the enemy—if it wasn’t for the Druids. Morcant had three Druids in his army, and the havoc they caused was unbelievable. Balls of fire and huge boulders had rained from the sky. His Druid, Sabrina, had done her best against them from the city walls, but it was not enough.

  And he was run
ning out of time. The Coranians should arrive at the city in two more days, and that would be the end of it.

  He gritted his teeth, his hands clenched firmly on the stone wall. What he wouldn’t give to feel Morcant’s scrawny neck beneath his callused palms. With any luck, Morcant would come back to this world as a chicken and have his neck wrung. Better still, Urien would come back as the farmer who would wring it. Now that was a satisfying thought.

  Tired of staring at the enemy fires, he looked up. Absently, his eyes picked out the five bright stars of the constellation of Beli. Beli had been the husband of the Lady Don in the far off days of Lyonesse, before that land had sunk beneath the sea. The Druids had killed Beli, burning him to a crisp, and seized his lands. The Lady Don had fled, and then worked in secret for many years to get her revenge. Poor Beli. Someone should burn the Druids to a crisp. See how they liked it. Someone should …

  And that was when he got an idea.

  “A MIDNIGHT STRIKE,” he said with satisfaction. “Right in the heart of Morcant’s camp. They won’t expect it. We hit the Druids’ tent, and that is that.”

  His son, Elphin, grinned, his brown eyes alight. Teleri, his lieutenant, smiled wickedly. Esyllt, his Bard, frowned, and March, her husband, frowned also. The reaction seemed fairly mixed. Urien turned to Ellirri. Hers would be the deciding vote.

  She smiled. “An excellent idea, cariad,” she said calmly.

  “It will be done, my King,” Teleri said eagerly. “I will do it.”

  “No—let me,” Elphin put in quickly.

  “No! I will do it.” Sabrina, her face pale, her slender figure stiff and unmoving, stood at the chamber door. Her tangled black hair spilled down her back. Her brown Druid’s robe was torn and bloodstained. Her blue eyes were cold. “I will do it,” Sabrina continued, “to make up for my shame.”

  Esyllt jumped to her feet, her face flushed with anger. “How dare you! The King will not consider it!”

  “And why not?” Sabrina snapped.

  “Because you can’t be trusted, why do you think?” raged Esyllt. “You’re a Druid. A traitor. How do we know you won’t betray—”