by Holly Taylor
“Enough.” Ellirri’s cold voice stopped Esyllt in mid-rant. The Bard opened her mouth to protest further, but the Queen’s glance stopped her. Esyllt abruptly sat down, her head bowed. “Urien, may I speak to you for a moment?” Ellirri asked.
Urien nodded. The two walked out of their chamber and down the hallway. “What’s Esyllt’s problem?” he asked curiously.
“Lower your voice, cariad,” Ellirri begged.
“Sorry.”
“Esyllt is jealous of Sabrina. I told you that once. Remember?”
Oh, yes, he remembered now. Both women were after Trystan, or something like that. It was most confusing. One of those female things he could never understand.
“Well, I don’t care about all that,” he said dismissively. “I need to decide who’s to go. I think myself, Teleri, and Sabrina can handle it.”
“I agree. With one change. You stay here. Someone else can go in your place.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why not me?”
“I think someone quieter would be better.”
“Why, I can be quiet. Are you suggesting—” Quite suddenly, Ellirri’s blue eyes filled with tears. Shocked, Urien pulled her to him, cradling her in his strong arms. “Cariad, cariad, what have I said? Why are you crying?”
For a moment, her shoulders shook, then she took a deep breath and raised her head, looking up into his eyes. “Urien,” she whispered. “Don’t go. I want to face death by your side. If you go without me, you may not come back. Please, cariad. Please. Stay here. Do this for me.”
“Of course, Ellirri. I will send Elphin in my place. All right?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes. He kissed her, then drew her back down the hallway and into their chamber, his arm around her slender shoulders.
“We have decided,” he announced. “Teleri, Sabrina, and Elphin. You three will go. At midnight. Be ready.”
Elphin leapt up, his brown eyes shining. “I will. Thank you, Da!”
Sabrina bowed, her face tight and pale. “Thank you. I will not fail you.”
Abruptly, Esyllt stood and left the chamber, followed by her husband. Sabrina and Ellirri exchanged a look. Urien sighed. One of those female things. He’d never understand.
URIEN AND ELLIRRI watched Morcant’s camp from the battlements. It was almost midnight. The campfires had died down, glowing wanly in the still night. Suddenly, fire blossomed and flared in the middle of the camp.
“Sabrina’s quite good,” Urien said proudly.
They watched for a few moments longer. Warriors poured out of their tents, scurrying like ants as they searched for the source of the attack. Some arrows were shot into the night, and there was a great deal of shouting and screaming.
Suddenly, Ellirri shivered, clutching at her heart. Blindly, she turned to Urien. But before she could speak, he cried, “Come, cariad, they’ll be returning soon. Let’s meet them.” He leapt down the stairs, Ellirri following much more slowly. A great weight had fallen on her heart, though it was obvious that the foray had been successful.
As she came to the gate, she saw Sabrina and Teleri standing awkwardly, tears streaming down their faces, the blood of her eldest boy staining their hands. Urien sat on the ground, cradling his son’s dying body in his arms.
Elphin’s breathing was ragged. A spreading pool of blood spilled through the fingers clutched around his belly. “We did it, Da,” Elphin whispered, looking up at his father and trying to smile. “Killed all Morcant’s Druids.”
Urien tried to smile back. “Of course, you did it, my son. I knew you would.”
As if in a dream, Ellirri went to them, kneeling by her son, laying her cool hand against the cheek of her dying boy. “Do not go far, little one, without us,” she whispered gently. “Your father and I will soon follow.” She kissed his forehead tenderly and smiled a last smile for him as he looked up at her. And even as she gazed down on him, the darkness gathered up the light in his eyes and took him far, far away.
Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning
THE NEXT MORNING they laid Elphin to rest in the barrow of Crug Mawr. In the early morning hours, Urien and Ellirri had prepared the body of their son for burial, washing the blood away, dressing him in his finest clothes, combing out his tangled, brown hair. Then, when all was done that could be done, they had sat next to his body, each holding one of his cold hands, looking down upon their son and remembering.
In those hours, once and once only had Ellirri spoken. She had said in a distant, puzzled tone: “All those months he grew in my body. All those hours I labored to bring him into the world. It is strange.”
“How is it strange?” he had asked.
“That it took so long to give him life, but it took only a moment for him to die.”
When dawn at last broke over the stricken city, Urien, his huntsman, March, his doorkeeper, Cynlas, and Dynfwael, his chief counselor, picked up the pallet on which Elphin lay and bore him out of Caer Erias to the barrow. Ellirri, Sabrina, Teleri, and Esyllt followed behind, each carrying a flaming torch. Urien’s warriors, mounted on rock-steady horses, lined the street leading to the barrow, their swords drawn, their faces like stone, meditating upon their revenge for the death of their Prince.
The stone was rolled back from the doorway, and they carried Elphin into the cool depths of the resting-place of the dead. Gently, they laid the pallet within one of the niches carved into the stone wall. The men stood back as Ellirri stepped forward and placed Elphin’s quiver and arrows at his feet. “Use these with honor, in the world to which you have gone,” she said, her voice clear and firm.
Urien stepped forward and laid Elphin’s spear and shield on the brier. “Use these with honor, in the world to which you have gone.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Goodbye, my son.”
Ellirri then laid her hands on either side of Elphin’s still, white face. She kissed his forehead and whispered, “Sleep well, cariad.”
One by one, the others left the barrow, until only Ellirri and Urien were left. They gazed down at the body for a moment. The torches burned in the wall sockets, illuminating the still, white features of their boy. Then Urien placed his arm around Ellirri’s shoulders and gently began to pull her from the barrow.
They reached the doorway, then looked back at their son one last time.
“I’m glad he knew that we loved him,” Ellirri said quietly.
Slowly, the stone was rolled back into place. The finality of that sound tore into Urien’s heart. Inside him, a rage began. He was tired of skulking behind these city walls. He longed to see blood shed today, in payment for the life of his son, his bright, beautiful, beloved son, cut down before he had even truly begun to live.
It was not to be borne. Not to be borne without a fight.
Urien turned to his warriors. A scant two hundred left, but they were the best. They gazed back at him, their faces stern, their eyes eager, their spears ready.
“We hide no more behind city walls!” Urien suddenly bellowed. “Today we march from the city and cut them down!”
As one, his warriors raised a cry, “Urien! Urien! Urien!”
Dynfwal was suddenly by his side, holding Urien’s spear and shield ready. Reins were thrust into his hands. He mounted his horse and took up his weapons. Beside him, he saw Ellirri do the same, taking her weapons from Sabrina’s hands. Side by side, they rode to the city gates, their warriors following.
Just before the gates were opened, Urien turned to his wife. Her face was calm, her hands steady, her heart was in her beautiful, blue eyes. “Ready, cariad?” he asked.
“Always,” she said.
His warriors poured from the gate, aimed at Morcant’s still scattered forces like a gleaming arrow. With a resounding crash, the two armies came to grips with each other. Blood began to soak the plain, pouring from the bodies of the dead and dying.
But though Urien’s fighters were brave and steadfast, they were outnumbered two to one, and slowly, slowly, they were pushed back,
giving ground inexorably as they fell.
Urien, leading charge after charge, saw Morcant in the distance, hiding behind his warriors like the coward he was, always too far away to be reached. Urien was losing this battle, and he knew it. It would all be for nothing if he could not face Morcant himself.
And he could not. The odds were too great. They would have to pull back. In shame and anger, he raised the horn to his lips to sound the retreat.
But just before his horn could sound, he heard other horns. Horns, blowing the charge as six hundred Kymric warriors of Amgoed poured down onto the plain.
It was over. Surely these forces had come to Morcant’s aid, not to his.
So it was with unparalleled astonishment that he saw this new force plunge straight into the heart of Morcant’s army and begin to kill.
Gwyntdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning
URIEN SAT UPON his horse patiently at the open east gate, waiting for the enemy to come within sight. Not long to wait now.
In truth, patience was not his strong suit. But each moment when he could turn to his wife, as he did now, and see the sun flashing off her red-gold hair, as he did now, and see the love and trust in her eyes, as he did now—well, those were moments not to be tossed away lightly.
She smiled at him and, as she had done often in the past hour, laid her slender hand on his arm, as though to assure herself that he was still real, that he was not yet dead.
Ah, well, he and Ellirri had lived a good life together. And eventually they all had to move on to the next world, to wait in Gwlad Yr Haf, the Summer Land, for their turn to be born again.
He was sure that whoever he came back as, wherever he came back, Ellirri would be near him. He was equally sure he would recognize her, as he had, no doubt, for countless lifetimes. His life with her would not end. No matter what happened today.
He let his thoughts drift back to the battle yesterday and grinned with pleasure. How Morcant’s forces had run! Morcant had run faster than any. And so he still lived today. Morcant had last been seen going east. Urien knew he was meeting his Coranian allies and would return today, bringing their deaths with him.
Thank the gods his Gwardas of Amgoed had finally come yesterday. Urien had given them up for good, thinking them traitors. But that was not so. After the battle, they had met with him, telling him that their Dewin had received Wind-Ridden messages from Bledri, Urien’s Dewin, stating that the plans had changed and commanding them to stay put and defend their own lands.
It was not until refugees from Llwynarth reached west Amgoed that the Gwardas had begun to think that they had been tricked and banded together to ride to Urien’s aid.
If he could only get his hands on Bledri, but his Dewin was long gone, no doubt joining his true masters by now.
If only Hetwin Silver-Brow would come from the south! But that seemed unlikely. It was obvious that Hetwin, too, had received similar messages. And, since Esyllt’s Wind-Speech had raised no answer, he would still not know of the need.
Nonetheless, he had sent Esyllt south yesterday, to bring word to Hetwin of their peril. He had given his opal ring to her, along with the words that Bran the Dreamer had spoken so long ago. Esyllt would see to it that Owein received the ring.
Urien had thought to send Sabrina away, too, but she had refused, saying that she had not yet paid for her shame and thus could not retreat. Teleri, too, had refused to leave. Her place, she had said firmly, was leading his teulu. Well, he couldn’t argue with that. But he was able to extract a promise from her—and hard work that had been, too. She had finally agreed that, should she find herself alive after today’s battle, she would find Owein. He had given her the torque of Rheged to clasp around Owein’s neck. He also charged her with delivering the helm of Rheged to his son. Though Urien wore the helm now, he knew Teleri would be able to retrieve it before they laid him in his grave. A clever, reliable woman, Teleri. She would survive. He felt sure of it.
Unlike himself. And his wife.
Once again, he turned to Ellirri, drinking in the sight of her. And once again, she lightly touched his arm, smiling that special smile that she reserved only for him.
Ah, he was a lucky, lucky man.
There it was, movement to the east. A cloud of dust had risen. The earth rumbled slightly. Urien glanced behind him to see the set, grim faces of the men and women who would fight—and likely die—today. Proud he was to lead them in this final, hopeless stand. The Bards would sing of this battle. Of that he was sure.
One last look at Ellirri before the end. Gently, she reached out and touched his cheeks, framing his face with her hands. He laid his palms over her slender fingers, then kissed her passionately. Their last kiss for this lifetime.
And it was sweet. So sweet.
Then Urien gave the order. And he led the charge to death.
And, in a way, that was sweet, too.
ELLIRRI RODE FEARLESSLY by Urien’s side through the press, her blue eyes focused on the distant figure of Morcant, who was standing at the top of the hill next to a Coranian warrior. The warrior was wearing a silver helmet, shaped in the fashion of a boar. Surely this was the leader of the Coranian army. Mechanically she cut down the Coranian warriors in her way. She had spent her arrows long ago and now worked with spear, shield, and daggers.
As they neared the crest of the hill where Morcant stood, Urien began to shout. “Morcant!” he bellowed. “Come and fight, coward! Come and fight!”
The Coranian commander said something to Morcant. Then the commander barked orders in a language Ellirri did not understand, and suddenly their way was clear, the warriors pulling back to give them a straight path toward their goal. Urien leapt from his horse and rushed up the hill toward Morcant, a gleaming dagger in each hand.
At the sight of Urien coming for him, Morcant tried to turn and run, but the Coranian commander grasped Morcant’s shoulder, forcing him to stand. With a roar of rage, Urien confronted Morcant. And now the traitor, unable to run, drew his own daggers and faced the King he had betrayed.
Ellirri jumped from her horse and ran up the hill, closing in on the commander, who was watching the contest with a sneer. After a few moments, it was obvious that Morcant would sooner or later die at Urien’s hands. The commander, deciding to interfere, drew his ax and started toward the two men.
Ellirri hoped that the man understood at least a little Kymri. “Coranian dog!” she shouted. The commander stopped and turned to her, his ax at the ready.
Insolently, he looked her up and down. He was stocky with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. “And who might you be?” he asked, in perfect Kymri.
“I am Queen Ellirri PenMarch,” she said clearly.
“I am Baldred, son of Baldaeg, the Eorl of Tarbin, of the country of Dere, in the Coranian Empire. My Bana has come to take this land. There is no escape from him.”
“We do not seek to escape,” Ellirri said contemptuously. “Tell me, Baldred, son of Baldaeg, do you know how to fight? Or do you only know how to talk?” Morcant was still desperately trying to defend himself against Urien’s furious blows. She wanted Baldred to be distracted from that fight. This was her job.
So she raised her daggers and waded in.
URIEN RAINED BLOW after blow upon Morcant with the flat of his blades. A quick death was too good for the bastard who had killed his son, who had consorted with Kymru’s bitterest enemy, who thought he should be King of Rheged. King! Ha!
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife engaging the enemy commander. Perhaps it would be best if he made a quicker end to Morcant, for the commander fought well with his ax, and Ellirri was tired.
He had raised his daggers for the killing blow when the low groan of his wife distracted him. His eyes flickered toward her, and he saw with horror that her daggers had gone spinning out of her hands as she fell to the ground from the force of the commander’s blow. The commander raised his ax high. The sun flashed off the killing blade as it began its deadly descent toward
his wife’s beloved face.
With a shout, he leapt toward the commander in a desperate attempt to knock the ax from the man’s hands. But just at that moment, he felt a huge burning, a rending, a tearing in his heart. He looked down in astonishment at the sight of Morcant’s dagger protruding from his chest. Blood spurted from him in a wave, and all his strength drained from him. Slowly, as though in a dream, he fell, and watched helplessly as the Coranian commander ruthlessly buried the ax into Ellirri’s breast.
With his last strength, he reached out for his wife. The darkness was coming for him, but he would not yield to it. Not until he felt her touch for one last time.
ELLIRRI KNEW THAT she was dying. The sounds of battle faded away. The colors of the morning had gone dim. A mist had fallen over her eyes.
She was puzzled that she was not yet dead. Why? What was keeping her here? There was something she had to do, but she was too tired to remember what it was.
And then it came to her. Her husband needed her. He was by her side, wounded to the death, his hand reaching for her own.
She tried to stretch out her hand. But she was weak, so weak. And tired. So very tired. Yet her Urien needed her. From somewhere deep within, from a place no death-blow could ever touch, she found the strength she needed, and stretched out her hand for that final measure.
Their hands clasped tightly for a moment. Then slowly, ever so slowly, their grip slackened. And they were gone. Together.
Meriwdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon
OWEIN AP URIEN var Ellirri urged his horse on to greater speed. Weary, but eager to please him, his horse galloped faster through the hilly, woody country of Gwinionydd. The late afternoon sun warmed the green land, and the springtime air was light and crisp. But Owein did not, could not, feel the beauty of the day. All his awareness was focused on the still faroff city of Llwynarth, the place where he longed with all his soul to be. Two more days still before they knew if the city still stood. Two more days before he knew if his mother and father yet lived.