Crimson Fire (48 page)

“Iago,” Olwen said coolly. “Mark the lead ship.” Cautiously, Iago peered over the dune. “Marked, my Queen.”

She turned to the Bard. “Have Lludd begin shooting the catapults at my word. Iago, when the
fi
rst ship touches shore, Fire-Weave it.”

“Yes, my Queen. Almost to shore,” Iago said tightly. “Al- most there . . .” The sound of an explosion shook the beach. A huge spout of
fl
ame shot into the sky, and bits of wood hurled through the air, scattering burning planks onto the sand.

“Now,” she said to the Bard. Almost instantly, the catapults on the cliffs began to
fi
re. And from the tiny boats behind the
fl
eet,
fl
aming arrows tore through the air to catch on the sails of the ships.

Still she waited. “How many ships on
fi
re, Iago?”

Iago craned his neck over the dune. “Four ships on
fi
re. The men are leaping into the sea. Most of them are drowning.”

Olwen’s brows shot up.

“Mail shirts,” Iago explained. “Foolish.”

“Catapults have taken two ships,” Iago reported. “How many men on shore?”

“Looks to be about
fi
ve hundred.”

Olwen turned to the Bard. “Tell Lludd to begin
fi
ring the arrows.”

From the cliffs, arrows streamed into the enemy host gath- ering on the beach. The Coranians, armed with battle-axes, roared de
fi
ance and started north, toward the cliffs.

“Now,” Olwen said, satis
fi
ed. She raised the horn to her lips and blew a long, clear note. And led the rush to death.

T
HAT NIGHT
O
LWEN
stood alone on the battlements of what was still her city. She was tired, so tired that she was capable only of a weary astonishment that she still lived.

The day had been bloody—almost half of her forces had been killed. After a few hours of
fi
ghting on the beach, they had been driven back to retreat inside the city, as she had expected. During the long afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, the Cor- anian host had battered at the gates and walls. But the city held fast. Wave after wave of arrows had hailed down on the enemy, and burning pitch poured from the walls had helped to slake their desire to batter the walls down. For today, anyway.

She gazed eastward toward the sea, her pointed chin cupped in her hands, her elbows resting casually on the top of the wall. The torque around her neck seemed heavy, heavier than it had ever been. The full moon had risen, proudly riding the night sky, as though in honor of what Olwen’s people had done that day. A beam of silver stretched across the water, shimmering

and glistening distantly, like a promise made long ago.

She tore her eyes from the sea and gazed at the beach in front of the city. The sand was dotted with hundreds of small camp
fi
res of the Coranian host. A rough count of the
fi
res had shown there were over seventeen hundred left of the enemy.

She was disappointed that, as they had fought on the beach, she had not been able to come to grips with the enemy com- mander. She had spotted him early on in the battle. He wore a helmet of silver, topped with the
fi
gure of a boar. He was a thin man, with dark blond hair. The shouts in battle had revealed his name. Talorcan.

To the south, two large bon
fi
res still burned. One was fu- eled by the bodies of the Coranian dead, while the other burned the Kymric dead. She had watched from the walls as Talorcan had ordered that her dead warriors were to be treated as hon- orable enemies. This had surprised her—she had thought all Coranians were barbarians. Even more surprising, Talorcan had seen her on the walls as he gave the orders. And he had bowed to her, with the respect of one commander for another.

She stared out at the
fi
res from her place on the walls, try-

ing not to think of anything for the moment. Every once in a while, a catapult shot heavy rocks from the heights, straight into the Coranian camp, causing considerable confusion and an oc- casional casualty. Her son was working late into the night.

A weariness, a strange, fateful lassitude, overtook her as she stared at the enemy
fi
res dotting the beach. On the brink of losing everything—including her life—she could only think of how her husband would have stood here with her. But then, in her pride, she probably would have sent him away. If only she had known then that she loved him, when he was still alive. If

only she had told him so, even once. Such thoughts, buried deep within her for years, came crowding to the surface, shoot- ing up through her weariness, to stab sharp daggers of regret and sorrow through her tired mind.

Sighing again, she got to her feet and made her way down from the battlements. Almost instantly, Angharad was by her side, materializing at the edge of the shadows.

“Where’s Elen?” Olwen asked wearily.

“In Caer Dwfr, with Regan and the wounded,” Angharad answered.

Olwen turned up the main street, to trudge back to the for- tress, Angharad falling in beside her. The streets themselves were deserted. All the folk still left in the city were either guard- ing the walls or at the fortress tending the wounded. The two women passed Ty Meirw, the burial place of the rulers of Ed- erynion. Olwen halted for a moment, laying her hand on one of the standing stones.

“I hope,” she said quietly, “they bring me back to rest here.

But I doubt it.”

Angharad, too loyal to pretend, merely said, “That Talor- can sounds like he might get them to do that.”

“Yes.”

“We gave a good account of ourselves today,” Angharad said, conversationally, as they began walking again. “Four ships burned by
fl
aming arrows, three sunk by catapult, and two burned with Druid’s
fi
re.”

“A pity there hadn’t been more Druids on hand today,” Ol- wen answered.

“The forces of commote Glndyfrdwy should be here tomor- row, according to Regan. She Wind-Rode east just a while ago,

and saw them.”

“Another two hundred. It’s not enough. I want you to leave here tonight, with Elen, join Lludd on the heights. When I am killed, take both of them to safety.”

Angharad opened her mouth to argue, then apparently thought better of it. “If Elen goes, I’ll go with her, at your com- mand,” she said mildly.

Yes. Angharad would let Elen do the arguing for her. She knew as well as Olwen that Elen would not leave. Olwen glanced up at the moon. Great Nantsovelta, Goddess of the Moon, Lady of the Waters, spare my children, she begged silently. Spare them from what my pride has done.

T
HE WOUNDED WERE
laid out on the
fl
oor of the great hall. Regan passed among them, giving orders to the able-bodied to do what they could for the dying. It was little enough—change their bloody bandages, give them drugged wine to ease them out of this life, close their dead eyes. Torches
fl
ickered from the wall brackets. The banner of the swan, worked in pearls and silver on white cloth, dominated the room. The swan’s proud, outstretched wings seemed to be the only thing in the city that was not bloodstained.

Olwen spied Elen, her auburn hair blood-splattered, her young face smudged with soot and blood, kneeling down beside a warrior, supporting his grizzled head as he feebly drank a cup of drugged wine. Elen looked up and saw her mother. Gently, Elen set the cup on the
fl
oor and laid the man’s head back down on the pallet. She began to walk away, then returned to his side, looking closely. She knelt down again and covered the man’s now-dead face with a blanket.

Elen stood up again and made her way to her mother’s side. Olwen put her arm around Elen’s shoulders. At her touch, Elen gave a choked sob and began to weep. Olwen led her out of the hall, Angharad following closely behind. Slowly they crossed the courtyard and entered the Queen’s ystafell. Olwen sat Elen down in the canopied chair. Angharad lit some of the candles. The shadows danced across the room as Olwen poured a goblet of wine and forced Elen to drink it until her sobs tapered off.

“Better?” Olwen asked quietly.

Elen nodded and clumsily tried to wipe the tears from her face with her sleeve. Olwen took a seat on the footstool in front of the Queen’s chair and grasped her daughter’s hands tightly in her own.

Elen, startled to see her mother on a mere footstool, tried to rise from the canopied chair. “Mam, this is your place.”

“No, it’s yours. Or will be, soon.” “Mam,” Elen whispered.

“Listen to me. Tomorrow I will die.” “No!”

“Yes,” she said
fi
rmly. “This was something that Gwydion

ap Awst told me when he was here. He saw that I died
fi
ghting. One other thing he told me. That we would lose these battles. But that the war would go on. He said that, one day, we will have a chance to win back what we have lost.”

“And you believe him?” Elen asked incredulously.

“Why not?” Olwen said simply. “He’s the Dreamer. He would know.”

“But you hate him!”

“True. But that doesn’t mean I think he’s lying—in this particular instance, anyway. Tomorrow you will be the Queen

of Ederynion. And it will be your responsibility to lead our people in the battles to come, when we take back our own. For that, you must live. And to do that, you must leave. Tonight.”

Elen shook her head
fi
rmly. “No.”

“Think carefully, Elen,” Olwen said, her voice cold. “You tell me by your too-swift response that you have not done so.”

Elen was silent for a few moments. “No,” she said again. Olwen nodded. “Angharad,” she said over her shoulder. “My Queen?”

“Tomorrow, your task will be to keep my daughter alive.

Understood?”

“Understood,” Angharad answered brie
fl
y.

Olwen turned back to Elen. Gazing into her daughter’s blue eyes, she slowly twisted the pearl ring off the fourth
fi
nger of her own right hand. She held the ring in her palm, staring down at it. Then she looked back at Elen. “The ring of Ed- erynion must be protected at all costs. Never, never should it fall into enemy hands.”

“The ring? Why the ring?” Elen asked in surprise. “Why isn’t the torque—”

“The torque is not important. The ring is. It was given to us over two hundred years ago, soon after the High King was murdered. It was brought here by Bran the Dreamer. His words were to guard the ring carefully, relinquishing it only to the Dewin who comes to claim it with these words, ‘The High King commands you to surrender Bran’s gift.’ Have you got that?”

Elen nodded. “But there is no High King!”

“One day there will be again. Now, take the ring.” “Mam, I—”

“Take it,” Olwen ordered sternly. Elen reached out a trem-

bling hand, plucking the ring from Olwen’s palm. She slipped it onto the fourth
fi
nger of her right hand.

Slowly, Olwen reached up and unclasped the royal torque from around her neck. She gestured for Elen to stand. “I do not give you this torque now. It is not
fi
tting to do so while I still live. So I will leave it here, on the Queen’s chair. Guard your life carefully, Elen. And one day, gods willing, the torque may be yours.”

Olwen gently laid the torque in the now-empty chair. The room was silent as the three women looked down at the shining collar.

“Come, Elen,” Olwen said, holding her cold hand out to her daughter. “Come, Angharad,” she continued. “Tomorrow is my last sunrise until I am born again. I wish to spend this night under the moon with two whom I love.”

Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—early morning

O
LWEN MOUNTED HER
horse in the early morning light. Ang- harad, her green eyes underlined with the shadows of a sleepless night, yet her voice cool and calm, gave the order for the three hundred remaining teulu to mount up. Elen, her face drawn and pale, edged her horse next to Olwen’s.

About twenty wounded warriors dragged themselves out of the great hall and were helped onto their horses. The rest of the wounded from yesterday were dead. Those who had not died from their wounds by this morning but were too ill to sit a horse, had chosen another way out.

Regan’s light brown eyes held the sheen of tears as she emerged from the hall. Her hands and dress were blood- stained—some of the dying had needed help to hold their

daggers. But they had all refused the drugged wine, saying that such an ending was not
fi
t for warriors of Ederynion. Wearily, Regan made her way through the courtyard and came to Ol- wen, laying her hand on the horse’s neck. She looked up at Olwen and swallowed her tears. “My Queen, Teithi ap Gwyn- nan brings the forces of Glndyfrdwy. They will arrive at the west gate within a few moments.”

The Bard from Caereinon said, “I have Wind-Spoken with their Bard. They bring two hundred men and one Dewin.”

“No Druid?” Olwen asked quickly.

“Their Druid cannot be found. None of them can.” “I see.”

Suddenly Iago was at her side, his face pale, anguish in his black eyes. “My Queen, what can this mean? I don’t—”

“Your Archdruid has made a deal with the enemy. Fortu- nately, for your sake, he did not share the details with you. You don’t have to convince me of your loyalty.”

“I am shamed. Shamed before you all,” he whispered. His eyes
fl
ickered to Elen, then looked away.

“Never mind, Iago,” Elen said gently. “It’s not your fault.” She reached out and patted his shoulder, as she would pat a favorite elderly horse or dog. Iago
fl
ushed.

Only the young, Olwen thought pityingly, can be that blind.

She turned to the Bard. “Are they ready on the heights?” “Talhearn says they are.”

“Good. Contact Teithi’s Bard. Tell them to gather on the far side of the cliffs. The plan is simple. When I sound the horn, they come in from the north. Lludd is ready with the catapults on the cliffs. We do the best we can before we are killed.” She looked down at Regan. “Go to the cliffs,” she said