Crimson Fire (15 page)

Then he
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ew to Gwytheryn, the jewel in the center of the island, the land that housed the Druids, the Bards, and the Dewin of Kymru. The vast meadows were dotted with wild-
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owers. The cool sapphire-blue of light and airy delphiniums and corn
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owers, the glistening pearl-white of alyssum and dai- sies, the red ruby of twining rockrose and
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ery yellow globe
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owers, the emerald green of the rich meadow grass, hurled a riot of colors up to his wondering gaze.

The dusky walls of Caer Duir, where the Druids lived, the white gleam of Y Ty Dewin, and the cool blue of Neuadd Gorsedd, where the Bards spun their melodies, all glowed richly in the golden light of day. He rode the wind to Cadair Idris, the mountain fortress of the High King, standing alone and deserted on the plains. The closed, bejeweled doors
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ashed a medley of colors in the bright morning.

He laughed soundlessly, joyously with the freedom of
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ight, with the timeless beauty of his home.

And then he saw it.

There, to the east in Ederynion was a dark stain, spread- ing over the shores just outside of the Queen’s city of Dinmael. Swifter than the wind, faster than thought, he
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ew closer. The stain was a herd of hideous boars. Their wicked tusks gleamed, and their pig-like eyes shone blood red. There were thousands of them, and they swarmed up the cliffs and in through the city gates, making for Caer Dwfr, the shining crystal palace in the heart of Dinmael. Gwydion cried his raven’s cry, but there was no answer from the silent city.

Then, suddenly, a
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ight of white swans descended, arrow- ing down from the clear sky, viciously attacking the boars. But they were too few. Valiantly hurling themselves to their deaths, the swans were impaled on cruel tusks, their broken bodies trampled into the dirt, and the streets of Dinmael began to
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ll with a river of blood.

But the largest, the proudest, the most beautiful swan, gleaming in the morning light like the full, silver moon,
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ew low over the herd, hissing, darting in and out, wounding boar after boar until her head and long, slender neck was covered with dark boar’s blood. And with the sudden, earth-shattering terror of a dream, two arms covered with boars’ bristles shot out of the herd, up into the air, plucking the swan from the sky and dragging her down to be trampled in the maelstrom of blood and death. A triumphant squeal from the hideous herd informed Gwydion that the swan was no more.

In loathing, Gwydion tore himself from the scene of battle and raced south to Rheged. Perhaps there was time to rouse help for beleaguered Ederynion. But as he neared the King’s city of Llwynarth, he saw he was already too late. The cancer- ous stain of boars had already blotted out the shining wheat
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elds, the stalks trampled and broken.

Then, streaming out from the city, he saw
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ame-colored

horses, challenging the boars to what Gwydion knew was a hopeless
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ght. Boars rushed to the proud, desperate animals, knocking them to the ground, tearing them apart, until so much blood
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owed it seemed to Gwydion that the land was weeping red
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re.

The lead stallion neighed
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ercely, rearing up onto his hind legs and plunging into the midst of the enemy, followed closely

by a
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ery mare. Out of the boar’s herd, ropes
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ew, catching the two horses around their necks and legs until they were bound tightly. Still they continued to struggle de
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antly, screaming challenges even as the boars ripped out their throats with their razor-sharp tusks. And with the death of the stallion and the mare, the broken
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elds burst into
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ame. Mercifully, the smoke covered the land from Gwydion’s horri
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ed gaze.

He turned west to Prydyn, already knowing what he would see. As he came to the capital city of Arberth, he saw more of the
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lthy beasts crawling over the cliffs and into the beleaguered city. And there the wolves that streamed out from the King’s fortress of Caer Tir met the boars with a titanic crash.

Slathering and snarling, the huge gray animals with emer- ald eyes fell on the boars, almost, for one instant, driving them back. But slowly, as more and more boars crawled up from the shore, the wolves began to fall back. Hemmed in tighter and tighter, they were slaughtered by the hundreds. And then the mightiest wolf, its muzzle covered with blood, threw back his head and gave a howl that shook Arberth to its foundations, then it leapt into the fray with its last strength. When the wolf went down under the boar’s hooves, Gwydion could bear to watch no longer.

He raced north to Gwynedd, his heart like lead in his breast, racing to the land he called his home, to the land where his brother was King. And there, he saw the hawks of Gwynedd, arrayed in the crystal-clear sky, screaming de
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ance as the dark stain of boars spread over the land, crawling around the broken walls of Tegeingl. As the hawks plunged through the sky at the enemy, Gwydion saw their leader fold his wings as he swooped down for the kill. And, tears in his raven eyes, he watched as

spears shot from the mass of boars into the sky, catching the leader in the heart and felling the hawks by the hundreds. As the birds plummeted to the earth, dropping like stones from the sky, Gwydion’s eyes followed the lead hawk, watching as its body slammed into the earth and the blood burst forth, piercing his heart like shards of glass.

Streaking through the air, he made for Gwytheryn, the center, the heart of Kymru. Surely the boars would not dare to go there. But they had. Already he saw that they had overrun Neuadd Gorsedd, the once-fair home of the Bards. Slender, jeweled harps with gold and silver strings were trampled under the boars’ hooves, and the broken bodies of nightingales littered the ground. And then he saw the hideous arms again dart out from the black mass as they grabbed a soaring nightingale with feathers of the darkest blue, the largest and
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nest bird Gwydion had ever seen. Even as the bird was pulled from the sky, it was singing. Even when the bristled arms pulled off the bird’s wings, and the blood streamed from its mangled body, the nightingale still sang, until death silenced its beautiful song.

Gwydion
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ew over Y Ty Dewin and saw silver dragons im-

paled on spears. Some were trying to
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y, but they were caught and pinned to the blood-soaked ground with gleaming spikes of dark iron. The largest, most beautiful of the proud dragons struggled on the broken steps, his wings outspread, screaming de-
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ance as he was pulled down to the bloody earth and butchered. He saw the leader of the doomed bulls from Caer Duir, the home of the Druids, trot out to meet the invaders, the herd fol- lowing behind. A few bulls charged the boars, heads lowered, their deadly horns gleaming like ivory, but they were trampled

and gored to death for their pains.

Then, with a suddenness that made him dizzy, the scene changed. He found himself hurling across the sky to Cadair Id- ris, the deserted mountain palace of the High King. It was the one place he knew the boars could not de
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le, for the Guardian of the Doors was not human and could not be destroyed. Only for the High King would the doors to the mountain open.

As Gwydion neared Cadair Idris, he saw row after row of boars gathered in front of the doors. And as he
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ew through their ranks, a silver dragon materialized by his side, its wings beating in time to his own.

They
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ew over the boars’ heads and dropped down in front of the massive doors, confronting the enemy. Yes, Drwys Idris still stood, barring entry into the High King’s mountain. The Doors gleamed in the sun with the rich jewel-studded patterns of the gods and goddesses of Kymru. The verdant emeralds of Modron the Mother; the luminous pearls of Nantsovelta of the Moon; the
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ery opals of Mabon of the Sun; the cobalt sapphires of Taran, Lord of the Air, all blazed with an inner
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re. The onyx of Annwyn, Lord of Chaos, gleamed darkly, and the red rubies of Y Rhelfywr, the Warrior Twins, glistened like blood. The
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ecked bloodstone of Aertan, Weaver of Fate; the diamonds of Sirona’s Net; the dark garnet of Grannos, the Northern Star, all caught the sun and glittered, throwing splinters of light into the red eyes of the herd.

But most of all, the amethyst of Cerridwen, the White Lady, and the topaz of Cerrunnos, the Horned One, blazed with unmatched triumph and grace. The signs of the Protec- tors glittered, as high in the sky, an eagle screamed de
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ance. At the sight of the eagle, the boars shrank back, afraid to ven- ture farther.

For a moment, all was still, as though Kymru herself held her breath. Then the ranks of the boars parted, and a pure golden boar with amber eyes, razor-sharp tusks, and hooves polished to a deadly sheen made its way to the shining doors. The eagle plummeted down in front of the doors, landing be- tween the black raven and the silver dragon. For a moment the golden boar and the eagle stood face to face. The boar lowered his massive head to charge. The eagle gave a mighty scream, but Gwydion knew that it could not hope to withstand the force of the boar’s charge. But the amethyst of Cerridwen and the topaz of Cerrunnos glowed brighter still as the eagle launched itself over the head of the golden boar and into the herd, pluck- ing out the eye of a huge, black boar. The eye clutched in its sharp talons, the eagle screamed in triumph and took to the air, circling the mountain. As it circled, Gwydion saw that it wore the torque of the High King around its slender neck. The necklace
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ashed emerald, pearl, opal, and sapphire, and then the young bird was gone, a mere speck in the sky.

The golden boar, cheated of its prey, threw back its hideous head and screamed.

G
WYDION AWOKE WITH
the sound of his own screams echoing in his ears.

Dinaswyn was bending over him, shaking him awake, her silvery hair streaming down her nightrobe of dark red. When she saw that he was awake, she sat back on her heels, waiting for him to regain control.

He sat up, his body bathed in sweat, his dark hair tangling in his short silver-tinged black beard. Overhead the crescent moon rode the sky, and moonlight streamed through the roof

and pooled on the
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oor next to his pallet.

Silently Dinaswyn handed him a cup of wine and he drank, taking deep breaths, trying to get his shudders under control. At last he looked up.

“It was bad,” she said quietly. “Very.”

She crossed the room and sat before the low writing desk. She opened the Book of Dreams that lay on the table, picked up a quill, and, dipping it into the inkwell, signaled that she was ready.

And so Gwydion told it. He told it, suppressing any hint of emotion—even at the part where the hawk that led the armies of Gwynedd met its death. At last he told it all and fell silent.

“Interpretation?” she asked crisply, her pen poised.

He turned to look at her, to scream at her for her business- like tone in the face of this horror, to make her understand what he had seen. But he saw the shock, the terror in her eyes, and knew she understood only too well.

“The boar is the symbol for the Warleader of the Coranian Empire,” he began, his voice steady. “They will be coming for us someday. Someday soon. And they will defeat us.”

“Yes,” Dinaswyn said, writing slowly. “They will. Now, the swans.”

“The swans are the armies of Ederynion. Their leader was Queen Olwen. She is killed, and her country is taken.” He said it softly, with regret, for, though Olwen was no longer his friend, she had once been his lover, and he had never wished her ill.

“Go on,” Dinaswyn said, jarring him from his private thoughts.

“The horses are the armies of Rheged. The stallion and the

mare are King Urien and Queen Ellirri. They, too, are killed.” He forced the words out, for he felt as though his throat was lined with ashes. He and Ellirri had played together as chil- dren. And she had always made him feel welcome in Rheged. Some of his happiest times were times spent there with her hus- band and children.

Before Dinaswyn could prompt him again, he went on, swallowing past the tears locked in his throat. “The wolves are the armies of Prydyn, led by King Rhoram. He went down beneath their hooves, but I did not see him die.”

“The hawks,” Dinaswyn said implacably. “Don’t you know?” he asked bitterly.

“The hawks,” she repeated, her voice cool and her face ex- pressionless. But her eyes told him again that she knew.

“The hawks are the armies of Gwynedd, led by Uthyr. He

. . . dies.” This last was a mere whisper as Gwydion spoke the name of his beloved half-brother. “I saw him fall to the earth.” Gwydion dropped his face into his hands in despair. The only brother he had left was to be taken from him. Must he lose everything? And for what purpose? For the amusement of the Shining Ones?

“Now for Gwytheryn,” Dinaswyn went on relentlessly.

Gwydion lifted his head, blinking back tears, and forced himself to go on. “The nightingales—the Bards—are overrun. And they killed the Master Bard. They tore off his wings, and they enjoyed doing it. It almost sounded as if they were laugh- ing.” Though Gwydion did not completely trust the Master Bard, he was aware of a pang at the thought of Anieron’s death in such a manner.

He went on. “The silver dragons are the Dewin. Many are

killed. The largest one, the Ardewin, is murdered.” He halted, for the Ardewin, his uncle, Cynan, had always been kind to him.

“The bulls,” Dinaswyn prompted, her pen racing across the page.

“I could not see all of it,” Gwydion said tightly. “They were just starting to be slaughtered when the scene changed.”