Crimson Fire (47 page)

The faroff sound of hooves made him start. Now. Now it was coming. At last, his long nightmare of death was coming to life.

Rhiannon stirred, moaning softly. Swiftly he went to her and shook her awake. She reached out and clung to him, trem- bling. He held her shaking body, reveling in the feel of her, reveling in the knowledge that he was not alone, that she was by his side.

His heartbeat quickened as he looked down at her in his arms. At the same moment, she looked up. Their eyes met— glittering silver to smoldering emerald. His lips parted, to speak, or to kiss, he was not sure which he had intended, when, of their own volition it seemed, his arms dropped away from her

and he stood up.

The feelings were strong. Too strong. And he was afraid. He was the Dreamer. And he must press on, unfaltering, un- encumbered, to complete the tasks that the Shining Ones had given. He must not fail. And if he were bound in any way, per- haps he would. He cleared his throat. “It’s starting,” he said.

Rhiannon looked away, unable—or unwilling—to meet his eyes. Yet so closely was he watching her, he could see a frantic pulse beat at her slender throat. But when she spoke, her voice was cool, making him think that the uncertain light was the cause of what he had seen. “Thank the gods,” she said. “The waiting was driving me mad.”

She stood up, and they left the cave, passing under the wa- terfall and out into the dark night. Through the trees a white light was coming fast.

The horse and rider shot from the forest, coming to a stop just before them. The rider’s dead eyes shone like rubies. He held a spear above his head. “Dreamer! The enemy has come! Now comes the
fi
ght for Kymru!”

“The
fi
ght began long ago, Gorwys of Penllyn,” Gwydion called. “But I thank you for your warning.”

The horse reared as the phantom sawed at the reins. Gw- ydion felt Rhiannon’s hand slip into his, and he covered her hand with his own. The night fell silent. Gwydion and Rhian- non stood quietly, unmoving. The phantom sat upon his horse, so still that he seemed carved of stone. No rise and fall of his dead chest marred the stillness. This rider had breathed his last long ago.

“Gorwys of Penllyn is dead,” the phantom said coldly.

“So he is,” Gwydion replied. “His body is dead. His soul

has lived on to warn us. And so we thank you.”

“How long—” the phantom stopped, cutting off his words in mid-sentence.

“Over two hundred and
fi
fty years,” Rhiannon said, com-

passion in her voice.

“Has it truly been so long?”

“Ask Bloudewedd, if you don’t believe us,” Gwydion said.

At the sound of that name, the phantom seemed to glow brighter. “Bloudewedd?” he said hoarsely. “She is alive?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Gwydion began. “She is Drwys Idris,” Rhiannon
fi
nished.

“They put her in the Doors? O gods, they did that to her?” the phantom cried, his voice
fi
led with horror. “Bloudewedd!” he cried out, lifting his dead face to the sky, calling to his lost love. “Bloudewedd, I am coming to you!”

And then, he was gone, shooting up into the night sky like an arrow of cold, silvery
fl
ame.

Cadair Idris, Gwytheryn

D
RWYS
I
DRIS WAS
glowing. The Doors to the deserted moun- tain gleamed in the dark night, bathed in light and color. Opals caught
fi
re. Luminous pearls glimmered softly. Emeralds cast a verdant glow. Sapphires glistened with an azure light. Ru- bies shone like blood. Diamonds glistened. Garnets darkened almost to black. Topaz and amethysts burst into life. Onyx and bloodstone gleamed sharply.

The gods and goddesses of Kymru had clothed her in their light. It was kind of them to take the trouble, particularly for one such as her. Would he come to take farewell of his Bloudewedd, sometime High Queen of Kymru, before his soul departed?

Then she saw him. He had come back to her.

She watched him approach, a
fi
ery white light shooting swiftly across the plain. He drew his horse to a halt at the foot of the crumbling stone steps. He gazed up at the dead moun- tain for a moment, remembering, perhaps, the time when it was alive with light, with laughter, with love, the way it was before they had killed it. Slowly he dismounted and ascended the bro- ken steps.

He was not, of course, the man she remembered. The phantom before her glowed, and his red eyes shone like drops of blood. No, he was not the man he used to be. He was not a man at all.

And she? She was no longer a woman. He was gazing at the Doors that glimmered so splendidly, as though he could catch a glimpse of who she had once been within the jeweled patterns. But there was nothing for him to see of the woman he had loved. All gone, long ago.

“Bloudewedd?” he whispered, uncertainly. “Yes, Gorwys. It is me.”

“Are you—are you well?”

“I am well. And you?” she inquired politely.

He gave a sound that might have been a laugh and gestured at himself—at his deadly glow, at his blood-red eyes, at the glowing spear in his dead hands. Answer enough, she thought.

Oh, it was hard, so hard to talk. Hard, so hard to say what she really meant. So hard not to ask the same questions he was trying not to ask. Are you the one I once loved? Have you changed? Do you still love me?

At last she said, “Lleu is back.”

“I know. I saw him, in a tiny village in the mountains, of

all places. I . . . I did not know that they had done this to you. I thought Bran had killed you outright.”

“No. For my crime, my punishment was this.”

“But why? It was I who killed Lleu Lawrient by my own hand.”

She was silent for a moment. The mourning wind whipped across the plain, even now, in the dead of the night, creating swirling patterns in the wild grass. “I was his wife,” she said at last. “He trusted me.”

“Ah,” he said, and bent his glowing head. After a moment he raised his head and spoke, his voice hoarse and shaking. “Bloudewedd, I am so sorry. So very sorry, my love.”

She did not reply, and he rushed on. “Is there. . .is there anything I can do? Is there any way I can ever make up for what I have done to you?”

“What you have done to me? It would be more true to say what we have done to each other.”

“Yet I persuaded you, I think, to do as we did.” “And I was willing to be persuaded.”

He almost smiled. “You have changed.” “Oh, gods. I hope so,” she said fervently. “How much longer for you?” he asked gently.

“If the Dreamer succeeds, it should not be too many more years before I am released.”

“If he succeeds.” “Yes.”

They were silent again. The unspoken words cried out in the dead of their night.

At last, he said, “When you come to Gwlad Yr Haf, I hope I am still there. To see you once more, as you once were.”

And she? What did she truly hope for? She wished she knew. But the years had made her kinder, so she simply said, “I hope so, too, Gorwys.”

“I must go,” he said. “My task is done. Farewell, Bloudewedd.” “Say, rather, farewell to Drwys Idris.”

“No,” he said, his dead mouth twisting. “To me, you will always be Bloudewedd.” He turned and descended the steps. He mounted his horse and looked back at her one last time. He raised the spear, saluted her, then began to chant:

“From under earth I come In Kymru I made my stand,

I ride on the
fi
lly that was never fowled,

And I carry the dead in my hand.”

H
IS FORM GLOWED
,
glimmered,
fl
ickered, vanished. And he was gone, leaving her alone. Again.

Dinmael

Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 497

Q

Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—late morning

ueen Olwen sat quietly in the saddle, waiting for the sight of the Coranian
fl
eet to stain the distant hori- zon. The sun had risen, turning the sandy beach

into a glittering white carpet. The sea was a clear emerald green, and the waves splashed gently onto the shore. It was strange that it should be so peaceful. All too soon, the sandy shore would be drenched with blood. Some of it, she assumed, would be hers.

Her Dewin, Regan, had gone Wind-Riding this morn- ing, reporting that the
fl
eet would be sighted within this hour. Regan had also reported that the
fl
eet speeding toward them consisted of thirty ships, one hundred men to a ship. Three thousand Coranian warriors were skimming across the sea to try to wrest Olwen’s city from her grasp.

And they would. That much was certain. The only ques- tion was, how heavy could she and her warriors make their

price? She was not so foolish as to hope for a victory. Not with only six hundred trained warriors at her disposal. The most she hoped for was a glorious death song. Her Bard, Talhearn, had promised her that.

Once again, she reviewed the defenses. Fifty men, under her son, Lludd, and her lieutenant, Emrys, were hidden with the catapults in the cliffs that overlooked the beach. Talhearn was with them to facilitate communication.

Tiny boats, only ten in all,
fl
oated just offshore to the north

and south. In these boats,
fi
fty of her best archers were sta- tioned, with pots of burning pitch. They were to slip behind the
fl
eet and set as many ships on
fi
re as they could. These men and women would be lucky to get as many as three or four ships burned before they were killed.

She had left
fi
fty more warriors on the city walls. The gates of the city behind her were
fi
rmly shut. The townsfolk who had refused to leave in the general exodus were preparing burning pitch to greet the enemy at the inevitable moment when Olwen’s warriors would be forced to retreat behind the city walls.

The rest of her forces, over four hundred and
fi
fty trained warriors, stretched to either side of her now, gathered behind the dunes, which hid them from the sight of the coming ships. To her left, her daughter, Elen, commanded one hundred and
fi
fty. To Olwen’s right, her Captain, Angharad, commanded another one hundred and
fi
fty. Here, in the center, Olwen her- self commanded another one hundred and
fi
fty warriors.

Iago, her Druid, stood next to her right stirrup, ready to carry out her commands, watching the horizon with narrowed eyes. It would be his task, when the ships were close enough, to set as many of them on
fi
re as he could. Iago had warned that

he might have the strength to burn only one or two, but it was better than nothing. Oh, for more Druids!

She had done the best she could with the forces at her com- mand. Six hundred against three thousand. Quite a joke, that. If only she had a sense of humor, she would have laughed. But she did not, and never had. Her dead husband, Kilwch, had considered it one of her failings. But he had been too kind to say so.

Olwen frowned. Llwyd Cilcoed, her lover, had disappeared two days ago, when the warning had come. Olwen wasn’t sur- prised. Elen had spoken darkly of traitors, but Olwen knew bet- ter. Llwyd Cilcoed wasn’t a traitor. He was merely a coward.

The sun glowed, warming the gleaming sands. Behind the dunes, hidden from the Coranians’ sight, the four hundred and
fi
fty mounted Kymric warriors sat calmly on their rock-steady horses, waiting for Olwen’s signal. The sun gleamed off their bows and arrows, off their metal helmets, off their short spears, their daggers, and their round shields with the emblem of a white swan on a sea-green
fi
eld. Their tunics of stiffened leather were dyed sea green, and their breeches were white. Stiff leather armor, also dyed white, covered the chests and
fl
anks of their proud horses.

Olwen sat upon her horse like a statue. She was dressed all in white, from her leather tunic to her trousers tucked into white leather boots. Her auburn hair was braided tightly to her head and covered with a silvery metal helmet, crowned on either side with metal wings fashioned like those of a swan. The silver and pearls of the royal torque of Ederynion glistened around her slender throat.

They waited, their faces to the sea, their backs to their

proud and lovely city.

The Bard of Caereinon, standing by her left stirrup, stirred. “My Queen, Talhearn says the
fl
eet has been sighted.”

“Tell them to wait.”

The Bard nodded, and his eyes took on a faraway look, as he Wind-Spoke to Talhearn on the heights.

The silence was palpable, expectant, patient. Her forces held steadily to their places. At last, the Bard said, “Talhearn says they are one league from shore.”

“Release the boats.”

A mirror
fl
ashed silver from the heights. Far to the north and south, out of eyeshot, the tiny boats would now be drifting behind the
fl
eet.