Crimson Fire (32 page)

“As you say, Archbyshop. But, women and children . . .” “You must stay with me tomorrow, during the hunt,” he

went on kindly. “I am too old to take part. We will read the Book of Lytir together and be comforted.”

She smiled again, in true gratitude this time. Then In- gilda shook herself, and once again became the proper hostess. “Well now,” she said brightly, “with such an important day ahead of you all tomorrow, you will wish to retire. Havgan, if you would have your minstrels play me one last song, I should be most grateful.”

“It shall be as you wish, my lady.” Havgan signaled to Rhian- non and Gwydion, and they came to stand before the high table.

“The Lady Ingilda requests one last song.”

“Yes,” Ingilda said. “I wish you to play ‘The Lament.’”

Havgan nodded at Gwydion and Rhiannon, and they be- gan to play. The melody was simple but haunting, and they sang together, a mournful harmony, singing of the past glory of Elmete.

“Well-wrought these walls Yet the stronghold burst

Rooftrees snapped and towers fell On the day of the Coranian hordes. The work of stonesmiths moulders.

“Walls stood, then the King fell, The high arch crashed

Hacked by bright weapons

On the day of the Coranian hordes. Halls now sunk in loam-crust.

“Oh, Elmete!

Bright were the buildings

High, horn-gabled, much throng-noise With bright cheerfulness

Many mead halls filled.

“Oh, Elmete!

Here once many a man, mood-glad, goldbright, of gleams garnished,

flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear, gazed on bright gemstones, on gold, on silver,

On wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amber, On the bright city of broad dominion.

“Came the day of fate, On all sides men fell dead

Death fetched off the flower of the people On the day of the Coranian hordes.

Broken blocks, rime on mortar.

“Oh, Elmete!

We remember you.

Bright city of our father’s fathers. We remember you.”

The hall was hushed as they sang. Ingilda’s eyes were wet, her hands clasped tightly together, and Talorcan’s head was bowed.

Rhiannon’s own eyes
fi
lled with tears. Never in all of her life

did she wish to hear a song like this about her own beloved Kym- ru. She would do anything to prevent that. Anything at all.

Tiwdaeg, Sol 38—late morning

T
HE DAY WAS
bright and clear, unfortunately. Rhiannon had hoped for rain,
fl
oods, maybe a tornado or two—anything to prevent this awful hunt from taking place. But summer days in Dere were habitually
fi
ne, and today was no exception.

She stood now next to Gwydion, outside the city gates. To the north a small forest stood some distance away. Before it was a large
fi
eld dotted with long grasses and wild
fl
owers. Birds were singing gently.

Her heart beat fast, and her mouth was dry. Her hands were clammy. If fate had been cruel enough to make her a woman of the Coranian Empire, she might very well be one of

the hunted today.

Not that the crowd of
fi
fty shivering, frightened people who stood before her now, ringed by mounted warriors, were all Wiccans. Most of them, no doubt, had no powers at all. They were just plain folk who cleaved to the religion of their ances- tors. Yet some of the Heiden were gifted. The Godias, the priestesses, always were. And there was always a sprinkling of those with true powers in any coven.

A hand, as clammy as hers, slipped into her own and held it tightly. Gwydion. She squeezed his hand, holding on to it for dear life. And as she did, a little strength seemed to creep back into her spirit.

She glanced at him. He was pale, as pale as she must be herself, but his face was set in stern lines. The agony that she knew he felt did not show, unless one looked closely at his gray, stormy eyes; eyes that looked at this scene and would not forget; eyes that promised retribution, one day, to those who took part in it.

At least, thank the gods, they were merely servants here in this land, and as such, were not expected to take part in the slaughter. To her right, just beyond the doomed crowd, Talor- can, Sigerric, and Penda huddled together, a tight knot of dis- taste. But they would take part in the hunt, like it or not. They had no choice.

Havgan, eagerly looking forward to the kill, sat tall and proud on his horse. He was dressed in red and gold, and rubies
fl
ashed off the shaft of his spear and the gauntlets covering his strong hands. The sun turned his tawny hair to gold.

Behold, Rhiannon thought bitterly, the Golden Man. She felt a
fi
erce contempt for him, anticipating the day when Havgan

would meet them again in Kymru, realizing that he had been betrayed.

She felt someone watching her closely. Startled, she looked around and met the eyes of a woman in the crowd of Heiden. The women’s gray eyes pierced through Rhiannon, and she knew that her thoughts had been read. The woman smiled, unpleasantly, as though she, too, was looking forward to the day when Havgan would suffer. The woman looked away before anyone else could notice her stare.

“Gwydion,” she whispered.

“I saw. It’s the Godia, I think.”

“Gwydion,” she said again, urgently. “I think she knows . . .” “I think so, too. But we can’t help that. We’ll just have to wait and hope she says nothing.” He squeezed her hand again

and she fell silent.

Hensa, mounted on a jet-black horse, his golden amulet of Lytir sparkling in the sun, gestured to one of the huntsmen, who sounded the horn. Then Hensa rose in his stirrups. “Know all that you folk of the Heiden are condemned to die this day for your crimes.”

Men put their arms about their wives and children. Wom- en lifted their little ones and held them, crooning softly. Then the crowd hushed.

“I call for the Godia!” Hensa cried.

The woman with the gray eyes turned to the man beside her and gently kissed him. As she drew away, he grasped her hand to stop her. She shook her head, and he let her go, agony in every line of his taut body. As she made her way through the crowd, she stopped occasionally to speak an encouraging word, to dry the tears of a crying child, to gently touch the arm of a

shaking man or woman.

Then she stood before Hensa, contempt in her eyes. A slight breeze gusted her gray homespun gown and kicked up dirt be- fore Hensa’s horse. The horse tossed his head, and Hensa had to pause to settle him down. The Godia’s smile mocked him.

Havgan’s amber hawk’s eyes fastened on her, and he ges- tured her over. She raised her brows, then moved over to stand un
fl
inchingly before him.

He folded his arms across the bow of his saddle and leaned forward to look closely down at her. He said nothing, nor did she speak. But something passed between them at that mo- ment. At last Havgan asked, “You are a Wiccan?”

She grimaced. “They say that I am.” “And so do I. Do you think I cannot tell?”

“Oh, I think you see very well, my lord. Very well, indeed,” she sneered. He
fl
inched ever so slightly.

“What is your name?” he asked. “I am called Lingyth.”

“We will not hunt you today, Lingyth. We have a task for you.” “No!” she cried, as Havgan gestured for two warriors to take

her back to the city. “No! Let me die now, with him. Egild, Egild!” She tried to reach her husband, but the guards held her fast. He tried to run to her, but a warrior knocked him over the head, and he fell, senseless, to the ground.

“Egild, my love! Egild!” she screamed. Suddenly a wind swept the
fi
eld,
fl
attening the grasses. Wild patterns appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again as the wild wind blew. Dust choked the air.

“Gwydion,” Rhiannon said urgently. “Can’t we help her? Can’t you do something? You are a Shape-Mover, as she is.

Can’t you—”

Gwydion turned to her, anguish in every movement. “I can’t. Havgan will know. I can’t.” He turned from her, his shoulders slumped in misery and shame.

She reached for him, placing one hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know we can’t. I just . . . I’m sorry.”

He turned back to her urgently, grasping both her hands like a drowning man who clutches at something that will save him.

Suddenly the wind stopped, as abruptly as it had begun. Lingyth stared at Havgan in shock. But Havgan returned her stare with disdain.

“Take her away,” Havgan said
fi
rmly. “Now.” The two

warriors guarding her swallowed hard, their faces tight with fear. “Now!” Havgan commanded. “She will do you no harm. I have asked the One God to protect us from her tricks. Have no fear.”

The two warriors dragged the sobbing Lingyth away, back through the city gates. Friends helped Egild up from the ground as he recovered consciousness. Blood streamed down his face, and Rhiannon had to turn away from the look in his eyes when he saw his wife dragged away.

“Truly, great lord,” Hensa said, his manner servile, “you are blessed by Lytir.”

“Yes, Arch-wyrce-jaga, I am,” Havgan agreed. “He has given me a mighty task. And I shall not fail him. Enough of this. Now we hunt!”

Hensa nodded, his thin face shining. “Now we hunt! Peo- ple of the Heiden,” he shouted, “All-mighty Lytir is merciful, even to those who hate him. You have a chance for life. Those who make it as far as the trees will live. Run! Run!”

For a moment the crowd remained frozen. Then one man grabbed his wife’s hand and scooped up a toddler with the other. The family ran into the
fi
eld, making for the distant trees. Men and women picked up the littlest children and ran for their lives. Hensa nodded again, and a warrior lifted his horn and sounded the call to hunt. Instantly, Havgan and Hensa were after the running mob, followed closely by Catha, Baldred, and

dozens of other warriors.

Talorcan, Sigerric, and Penda held back their horses for a few moments. “You do not hunt,” Talorcan said to Gwydion, pain in his green eyes.

Gwydion bowed. “We are merely minstrels, lord.”

“Yes,” Talorcan said bitterly. “Would that we were all min- strels,” he went on, gesturing to Sigerric and Penda beside him. “Come, my friends, let us do what we must do. The quicker we start, the quicker it is over.”

Sigerric nodded. “Havgan leads us. And we must follow where he leads. We swore it long ago.”

“Yes we swore,” Penda replied heavily. “Swore by blood.” Talorcan gathered the reins, looking out over the
fi
eld. Al-

ready there were fallen bodies littering it, some of them very, very small. “Would that I had known what I was swearing to that day,” he said. “I would have kept my blood in my veins.” Then they were gone, harrying the Heiden across the
fi
eld.

Rhiannon watched the hunt, though she did not want to. She watched so that she would remember what happened that day. Watched so that, in the years to come, if she grew weary of
fi
ghting the Golden Man, she could close her eyes and summon up what had happened that day. Watched so that she would never forget.

Twisted, bleeding bodies were strewn across the
fi
eld. Sled- da lifted his spear and gutted a running woman and her child. The spear passed right through the woman’s back and into the baby at her breast. “Two in one!” Sledda shouted in delight.

A man ran across the
fi
eld, pushing his wife and daugh-

ter before him. A warrior rode closely behind them, his spear leveled. With a despairing cry, the running man turned and yanked at the spear that was aimed at his wife’s back, tipping the warrior off his horse. Instantly, three spears thudded into the man. He jerked and cried out for his family to run and sank to his knees. The last sight the man had, before he closed his dying eyes, was that of a spear through his daughter’s belly. And the last sound he heard in his dying ears was that of his wife’s screams.

Catha rode down a
fl
eeing man who was clutching a little

girl to his chest. The man stumbled, and the child
fl
ew into the air, to be spitted on Catha’s spear. Catha’s handsome face lit up, thrilled at the accuracy of this aim, and he grinned madly. Rhiannon turned away. She could bear no more. Tears blinded her, scalding her skin as they ran helplessly down her face.
O gods, O gods
, she thought, over and over.
Please, please,

make them stop. Make them stop
.

Then Gwydion was there, holding her tightly in his arms, crooning to her. “Shh, shh. It’s all right. It will be all right. We’ll get them all, one day. You and I. You and I, together. One day.”

R
HIANNON FOLLOWED
G
WYDION
down the dark, slimy steps. The stone walls were unpleasantly greasy to the touch, and she shied away from them. Torchlight glowed
fi
tfully as Hensa led

them down to the dungeons of the wyrce-jaga. At last they stopped in front of a closed door of solid oak. Hensa turned to Havgan, who was just behind him.

“She is in here, lord. I beg you, be careful.”

“The witch cannot harm me, Hensa. I have told you this before.”

“Then let me stay and be sure of it,” Hensa begged.

Havgan shook his head. “No. Sledda will be here with me, and my minstrels. We will come to no harm. Now, open that door.”

Hensa hesitated, then did as he was bid. He unbarred the door and slowly pushed it open. He held the torch up high as they all crowded in after him.

The
fl
oor of the cell was covered with straw, slimy and rank.

Lingyth, huddled on the
fl
oor in a corner, blinked her eyes in the sudden light. Slowly, she stood, staring at Havgan. Her eyes
fl
ickered to Rhiannon, then skittered away.

“Has she eaten?” Rhiannon asked sharply.

Hensa turned to her with a frown. “That is not your busi- ness. Who are you to question—”