Dreamer's Cycle Series

by Holly Taylor

  He was too far away from the Y Dawnus clustered behind the High King to know if they were still safe, but he thought his heart would know if Sabrina had fallen. He wished he could have fought near her, but his duty, as captain of Rheged, was clear.

  He kept Owein in his sight even as the battle raged all around him. He would never allow himself to get too far from his king. Owein’s golden horse gleamed under the brightened sky, and the opals on his golden helmet flashed as he lifted his spear time and again and spitted warrior after warrior. Owein’s young wife, Sanon, fought tirelessly beside her husband, though her shining blond hair was muted now with beads of enemy blood.

  The two of them were a formidable couple indeed, Trystan thought. And winced as he was reminded of another formidable couple he had known—King Urien and his wife, Queen Ellirri. These two had fought together in the last battle of Llwynarth, and had died beneath the axes of the Coranians. He put that thought from his mind as swiftly as he could and killed yet another warrior.

  “Trystan!”

  He turned his horse, for he knew that voice as he knew the beat of his own heart. Esyllt, Owein’s Bard, stared up at him, her beautiful face pale with fear.

  “What?” he asked impatiently, when she did not immediately speak.

  “Arthur says to have the eastern flank fall back. He wants to open a gap between Owein’s and Elen’s forces. Then have the two armies close the gap and kill those caught inside. He says there will be wolves and wild horses to help.”

  Trystan nodded and motioned for his lieutenant, Teleri, and her husband, Gwarae. He directed them to carry out Arthur’s orders and they spurred their horses east. Esyllt grabbed Trystan’s stirrup before he could turn his horse away.

  “Oh, Trystan, I’m afraid,” she said.

  Trystan rolled his eyes. Had he really ever thought her charming? “You can’t possibly be serious.”

  “I—”

  “Does this look like the time or place for that?” he shouted. “Does it?”

  And it was in that moment that he heard the deadly whistle of an axe behind him. It was in that moment that he knew his life was over.

  But the blow never came. Instead, even as he turned to face his death, he heard the clang of a sword grinding against the axe. And was astonished to see that the hand holding that sword belonged to March, Esyllt’s husband.

  Trystan stabbed the axe-wielder in the neck, and the man went down. Then he looked back at March. “You saved my life.”

  “As you once saved mine,” March answered.

  “I saved your life before because I had wronged you. Wronged you for years. You had no reason to save mine.”

  “Ah, what does that matter any more?” March asked. “Besides, today is Calan Llachar, and I am finally free. My marriage is officially dissolved today.”

  “So it is,” Trystan brightened. “I had forgotten today was the day.”

  “Well,” March said judiciously, “we’ve had a few other things on our minds.”

  A howl of grief from the west made Trystan and March whirl around. Trystan saw that the banner of Hetwin Silver-Brow, the Lord of Gwinionydd, had fallen. Briefly he closed his eyes in anguish. Hetwin had been a good man, and a good friend to the royal house of Rheged. It was Hetwin who had taken Owein in after the last battle of Llwynarth. Hetwin who had been one of the strongest of the Cerddorian, loyal and steadfast. Hetwin was the father of Neuad, Queen Morrigan’s Dewin, and Cynedyr the Wild, one of Trystan’s dearest friends.

  The cry had come from Cynedyr, who had been chosen to guard the Y Dawnus from attack. Cynedyr had seen the banner fall, and he sat on his horse near High King Arthur, his arms outstretched to the place where the banner was now trampled to the ground, grief etched on his face.

  Trystan and March spurred their horses to the place they saw Hetwin’s banner fall. Hetwin was lying on the ground, a Coranian axe in his belly. The old warrior’s dark eyes were open as he gazed up at the Hunt-filled sky. His breathing was shallow and his face lined with pain. Trystan and March flung themselves on the ground next to the dying man. Trystan took one of Hetwin’s huge, battle-scarred hands in his own.

  “Trystan, boyo,” Hetwin gasped. “You should not be here.”

  “Where then?” Trystan asked steadily.

  “Fighting. You waste your time here.”

  “My time is mine to waste.”

  “No. It is Arthur’s.” Hetwin closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, trying to focus on Trystan.

  “Cynedyr will be here in a moment, Hetwin,” Trystan said.

  “He had best not,” Hetwin whispered, “or I will tan his hide.”

  “Hetwin—”

  “I am done for. Cynedyr must stay with the Y Dawnus. He must. If the Coranians break through that line we are lost.”

  “They won’t,” Trystan said steadily.

  But Trystan was wrong, and he knew it. It was true that Cynedyr would not abandon his post, for he was honor bound to guard the Y Dawnus. But all was indeed lost. For it was then that the Coranians broke through Cynedyr’s men.

  While above them, the Wild Hunt hovered silently in the sky.

  ANGHARAD BATTLED STEADILY, ferociously, savoring the death of every Coranian that crossed her relentless path. With every sword-stroke, with every spear-cast, her rage grew; it did not lessen.

  Emrys, she thought, would have pulled her back if he had been alive. Emrys would have recognized the battle rage and would have spoken to her, would have calmed her. For in her rage she was vulnerable to mistakes, and she knew it. Emrys would have seen it and would have done something about it.

  But Emrys, her lieutenant, was dead. The Coranians had killed him the day the Kymri had retaken Dinmael. Emrys had loved her for all those years, never speaking of it, for he had known it was hopeless. Dear, faithful, patient, Emrys. Gone.

  And though she had not loved him his death had shattered her. For it was almost as though Amatheon was dying again. She had loved Amatheon, Gywdion’s younger brother, and if he had lived she would have been happy with him. Though it had been almost six years since Amatheon’s death on Afalon, for her it was as though it had happened yesterday. She would grieve for him, she thought, forever and ever.

  “Angharad!”

  She whirled to face Talhearn, Queen Elen’s Bard. “What?” she demanded fiercely.

  “The Coranians have broken through to the Y Dawnus! Arthur says to take a contingent and move northwest. Cai will lead a contingent northeast and meet you. You must strengthen Cynedyr’s line. It is falling!”

  At that moment Queen Elen rode up. Her silvery helmet was streaked with Coranian blood, but she herself was unharmed. Prince Rhiwallon was at her side, his young face grim.

  “Elen—” Angharad began.

  “It’s all right, Angharad,” Elen said, her voice cool. “Go.”

  “But—”

  “When I fall, I will not fall alone,” Elen went on. “Rhiwallon is with me.”

  “And I,” Prince Lludd said as he rode up, “am with her also. Go, Angharad. Elen will not fall alone.”

  There was no more to be said, and Angharad knew it. For though Elen’s words were cold Angharad saw the grief in the young queen’s eyes. Grief that Angharad knew could be seen in her own eyes. For it was ending. It was all ending and Kymru was lost.

  But not, Angharad promised herself, without costing the Coranians dearly.

  So she saluted Elen and turned to go. And that was when she saw an enemy warrior she recognized. He wore a helmet of silver, shaped like a boar’s head with garnet eyes and silver tusks. She had seen him standing with Havgan before the battle. And she knew who he was by reputation. With a cry she launched herself from her horse and raced to confront him. The warrior turned to face her, his axe raised.

  They should have fought, then. They should have fought to the death.

  But they did not.

  Instead they faced each other, unmoving. Penda’s dark blond hair was soaked with sweat. H
is brown eyes were fierce, yet she saw something in them that stayed her hand. She wasn’t certain what. Some knowledge, perhaps, written on her soul long ago, whispered to her. He could have killed her then, for she found herself unable to raise her sword.

  But he did not. For he, too, seemed rooted to the spot. He looked into her green eyes and saw something there. But what it was, she did not know. She did not think he knew either. Perhaps Penda’s soul whispered something to him, too.

  It would be many years before she fully understood why she at last turned away. And why he did the same.

  While above them, the Wild Hunt hovered silently in the sky.

  GWYDION STOOD IN front of Arthur, a spear in his hands, warily watching the Coranians move closer. Rhiannon stood next to Gwydion, holding her bow, an arrow ready to fly into the Coranian army that slowly closed in on them. Between them Cabal, Arthur’s hound, bristled and growled as the army moved closer.

  Ygraine stood behind Gwydion, next to Arthur. The former Queen of Gwynedd held a sword in her hands, her dark eyes fierce. Gwen stood on Arthur’s other side, a spear clutched in her hands. Her young face was hard and her jaw clenched. Though both women held their ground bravely, Gwydion could see the knowledge in their eyes as the enemy army began to break through the lines.

  Arthur himself stood unmoving, his eyes open but not blinking. He held the hilt of Caladfwlch before him, his hands resting on the pommel, the tip of the sword resting on the breast of Kymru. The folds of his silvery cloak barely moved as he breathed, for he was in a trance, drawing on the power of the Y Dawnus: seeing the battle from hundreds of Dewin eyes; speaking to the commanders through their Bards; enabling the Druids to fling boulders and fire into the enemy ranks; persuading the wolves, the ravens, even wild horses to battle the enemy.

  Cariadas stood behind Arthur, her cloak of raven feathers clinging to her like a shadow. Her eyes were closed as she desperately tried to make contact with the Wild Hunt, trying to get them to answer her, trying to understand why they did not join in the battle. Trying to determine what—or who—they were waiting for.

  Rhufon and his son, Tybion, stood on either side of Cariadas, swords in their hands, calmly watching the enemy near. They would stand, Gwydion knew, until they were killed. They would never run.

  None of them would run. But that would probably not matter.

  He turned to Rhiannon, for he wanted to see her before the end. She turned to him at the same moment and smiled.

  He smiled back, for the love in her emerald eyes, for the heart’s-home he saw in them. To find love at last, after all this time, was surely the greatest gift he had ever been given. He remembered the dream—oh, so many years ago—when Cerridwen had told him that someday he would find someone to whom he could open his heart. She had told him that he would win by losing. And he had. He had lost his detachment, lost his barriers, lost his heart to her. And in so doing had won indeed.

  Only to lose it all now.

  Gwydion heard the snarling of wolves, the fierce screams of wild horses, and the cries of the ravens as these animals did Arthur’s bidding and attacked the oncoming horde. But it was not enough. The lines were breaking.

  While above them, the Wild Hunt hovered silently in the sky.

  ELSTAR ARDEWIN WAS surprised to feel a burning in her side. She looked down, astonished to see a spear jutting out from her stomach. How ridiculous she thought, even as she fell, even as the blood spilled down her silver robe. She had a confused thought that she hoped her blood would not stain her swan feather cloak. The cloak would belong to Llywelyn next and she didn’t want to see it damaged.

  She was Dewin, and so automatically did a Life-Reading on herself. The spear had pierced her stomach, its point thrusting all the way through to her spine. It was hopeless.

  She had never thought she would die now. And she couldn’t. She really couldn’t. For Llywelyn simply was not ready to lead the Dewin. He was far too young, only nineteen. And her youngest, Cynfar, still needed her for all that he thought he was a man at seventeen.

  Her husband, now—well, she knew that he didn’t really need her. All these years with Elidyr had been happy enough as long as she pretended not to know that he had been in love with Rhiannon ur Heyvedd all his life.

  But she did know. She had always known. And was surprised that even now, even at the last, the knowledge still had the power to hurt her.

  While far above her dying body the Wild Hunt hovered silently in the sky.

  GWEN HEARD A hoarse cry and whirled to find the source. Elidyr Master Bard was running toward Elstar’s dying body, his face stricken, his eyes full of anguish and the first, hot rush of grief.

  She saw that he was aware of nothing else as he flung himself on the ground and took his dying wife in his arms. Fool, she thought to herself, even as tears gathered in her throat, he’ll get himself killed. And though she had vowed to stay with Arthur, she knew that Elidyr’s need was greater.

  And so when the Coranian warrior broke through Cynedyr’s lines and raised his axe to plunge it into Elidyr’s back, Gwen was there. Using her hard-won druidic skills, she paralyzed the man’s muscles just long enough to bury her dagger into the warrior’s throat.

  She grabbed Elidyr’s arm, shaking him. “Get up!” she screamed. “Unless you want to die!”

  Elidyr lifted his tear-stained face. “It was too late,” he whispered. “She couldn’t hear me.”

  “Whatever you wanted to tell her will wait, then!”

  “Too late,” he went on as though she had not spoken, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Too late. I wanted her to know. I wanted her to know that I truly did love her. Only I didn’t know myself. Not until now.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. It seemed to her that people were always doing that—not finding out things like that until too late. Fools.

  And then she saw just how close the Coranians were to winning. And she saw how the Y Dawnus were starting to die. And she saw how near the enemy was to Arthur. And she realized that she, too, had found something out too late. And realized that there was something she should have said to Arthur before this battle began.

  But it was too late now. They were all going to die.

  And still, the Hunt did not move.

  SINEND, HEIR TO the Archdruid of Kymru, shook free of her trance to find that they were surrounded. Cynedyr’s men were fighting fiercely, but they were losing this battle. She saw Angharad descend on the enemy with a contingent of Ederynions. And she saw Cai ride up with a contingent of warriors from Gwynedd. But she knew it was too late. Spears rained down upon the Y Dawnus. They were vulnerable, for they were locked in a trance as Arthur used their powers. Arthur must loosen them, or they would die without even having the chance to defend themselves. She took a few running steps toward Arthur, but stopped in her tracks as she saw an axe fly end over end through the air and bury itself in her father’s chest.

  Aergol sank to his knees, his dark eyes filled with pain. Sinend and her brother, Menw, caught him as he fell.

  “Da,” Sinend murmured. “Oh, Da.”

  Aergol’s dark eyes glistened as he looked up at his children. “My very dears,” he said, as he tried to smile. “Do not grieve for me. The goddess at last calls me home.”

  “Modron did not keep you the first time,” Menw said hopefully. “Maybe she will send you back again.”

  “Not this time, my son,” Aergol said.

  And then his spirit fled his body. And he was gone.

  As the lines broke, Talorcan, by sheer force of will, shook himself free of Arthur’s mind.

  For he was a warrior, first and foremost. True, he was learning the ways of the Dewin and he had come to terms with the truth of who he was. He had accepted that he would never return to Corania, never again see his mother, his father, his brother.

  But he was a warrior, and those instincts did not—could not—die.

  He saw the Coranian that stood before him lift the axe high. But the man hesitated for o
ne brief moment as recognition flickered in his blue eyes. And that was all the time Talorcan needed.

  He slammed into the warrior’s chest and the man dropped his axe as they went down. But Talorcan, knowing that would happen, had already reached out and caught the weapon before it reached the ground. With one fluid moment he brought the axe down, burying it in the man’s chest.

  He rose to his feet and looked around. He saw that Aergol was down with his children around him. He saw Elidyr kneeling beside the body of his dead wife with Gwen standing over him. He saw Cai and his warriors, and Angharad and her warriors fly to the aid of Cynedyr’s men. And he saw that they were surrounded.

  And then he saw an axe fly through the air, end over end, aimed toward the man next to him. Quicker than thought he brought his own axe up and deflected the weapon. He reached down and picked it up, handing it to the man whose life he had saved.

  “Thank you, boyo,” Myrrdin said genially, taking the axe. “But I’m not sure this will do much good. I haven’t had any experience with a weapon like this.”

  “Not to worry, Myrrdin,” Talorcan said. “I have enough experience for the both of us.”

  “Yes, but Regan will have my hide if anything happens to you.”

  “And Neuad mine, if anything happens to you.”

  But Myrrdin’s keen gaze pierced Talorcan as he went on quietly. “Can you kill them? These men?”

  “I have to,” Talorcan said fiercely. “I am Arthur’s man now. Do you doubt it?”

  “Never,” Myrrdin said as Talorcan drove his axe into the chest of another advancing warrior.

  While the Wild Hunt hovered in the sky.

  GWYDION SHOOK ARTHUR’S arm, jolting him awake even as Arthur’s spirit returned to his body. “Arthur, you must release the Y Dawnus! The lines have been breached and they can’t defend themselves.”

  “I know, uncle,” Arthur said. “We are losing.”

  “They are too many! And the Hunt just sits there!”

  “Why?” Arthur called up to them, desperation in his voice. “Why do you not aid us!”