Crimson Fire (54 page)

Llwynarth Kingdom of Rheged, Kymru

Gwernan Mis, 497

U

Suldydd, Disglair Wythnos—early morning

rien ap Ethyllt, King of Rheged, took another hearty swallow of ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and belched hugely.

“Excuse me,

cariad
,” he said apologetically, though absently.

“Of course,” Ellirri replied cordially. After over twenty years of marriage, she was used to Urien’s table manners. And she had many more important things to worry about. At this moment Morcant Whledig, Lord of Penrhyn, was camped to the plain just south of the city with seven hundred warriors at his back, his purpose to be the new King of Rheged.

Even worse, the Coranians had now landed and were marching toward Llwynarth. Urien said they had
fi
ve days until the Coranians came over the horizon to
fi
nish the job that Morcant would begin today.

Urien was counting heavily on the forces of Amgoed, and the teulu of Hetwin Silver-Brow, Lord of Gwinionydd, to come

to their aid within the next few days, as had been agreed upon months ago. But Ellirri was not so sure. It was obvious that Morcant had laid his plans with the Coranians long ago. Surely he would have taken the possibility of aid to the city into ac- count and come up with a plan to prevent it.

She thought of her children, as she often did these days. Elphin was with them here in the city, waiting in the courtyard now for his orders. She hoped with all her heart that he would survive, but she didn’t expect it. She had sent her two youngest children, Rhiwallon and Enid, to the forest of Coed Addien, under the protection of her steward. It was true that Isgowen was Morcant’s sister, but Ellirri did not fear for the safety of her two youngest. Isgowen would be shamed when she found out what Morcant had done.

Her thoughts turned to Owein, her troubled, troublesome son. She had sent him south weeks ago, in the company of Trystan, Captain of Urien’s teulu. By now he would be on his way back to Llwynarth, having guessed that she had sent him on his errand to keep him away. They could not possibly arrive before it was all over—for good or for ill. She expected that things would be very ill, indeed. But at least Owein would still be alive.

She had not even attempted to fool herself. The knowledge that they would die in the invasion had been in Gwydion’s eyes the night he had come to them. Since that night, neither she nor Urien had spoken of it, for there was nothing that could be said. What would be, would be. They would face death together, as they had faced life.

Her eyes roved around the huge, comfortable room. Here, on the thick carpet just before the hearth, all her children had

taken their
fi
rst, tiny steps. Across the room, in the huge cano- pied bed, she had slept night after night in Urien’s strong arms, reveled in the feel of his hands on her body, wept on his strong shoulder, lay dreaming, safely cradled in his unchanging love.

Urien took another swallow of ale and belched again. He looked curiously at the mug. “You know,” he said, “I truly be- lieve this to be a very poor grade. I understand Morcant sent this batch to us a few months ago. He must have kept the best for himself. But that’s Morcant all over, isn’t it?”

“Yes,
cariad
,” she replied absently, still checking the arrows in her quiver, one by one. “Perhaps we should speak to him about that before we kill him.”

“Oh, I think we should,” Urien said earnestly. “After all, Rheged has a reputation to maintain.” He tested the edge of his spear with his thumb, nodded, and laid down the whetstone. “Almost ready?” he inquired.

“Just about.” Carefully, she strung her bow and tested the string. Satis
fi
ed, she stood, slinging the quiver over her shoulder. Urien rose also, picking up his helmet of gold fashioned like a horse’s head, studded with opals. The badge of the white horse, rearing proudly in de
fi
ance, shown white against his red tunic.

His cloak was red, worked with gold thread. The gold and opal torque of Rheged hung about his neck like a river of
fl
ame.

“Shouldn’t you leave that here?” she asked, nodding at the torque.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his shaggy head. “I want Mor- cant to try and take it.”

“Ah. Of course.” She, too, wore all red. Her red-gold hair was tightly braided against her scalp. Carefully she settled her own helmet over her head.

Urien’s brown eyes lit up, and he grinned down at her. “You look very nice.” He held out his arm to escort her from their chambers. Ellirri came to him, taking his arm.

As they walked from the chamber, she held her head high and did not weep. Everything she had ever wanted out of life, this man had given her. He had given her children, warmth, and a secure place in his unchangeable heart. And she had made a vow that she would keep, no matter what. They would die together.

And with this, she was content.

Gwaithdydd, Disglair Wythnos—early evening

T
HREE DAYS LATER
,
Urien stood on the battlements, looking down at Morcant’s camp. Hundreds of tiny camp
fi
res dotted the plain. Urien’s decimated forces were still holding the city. They still stood alone, for no help had come from Amgoed, or from Hetwin Silver-Brow. Esyllt’s call had gone unanswered. Urien knew now that they would never arrive.

Three desperate battles had been fought, and each time Urien’s warriors had beaten Morcant back from the city walls. But Morcant’s forces now numbered four hundred, and Urien had only two hundred warriors left. Even at odds of two to one, he would be inclined to pit his forces directly against the enemy—if it wasn’t for the Druids. Morcant had three Druids in his army, and the havoc they caused was unbelievable. Balls of
fi
re and huge boulders had rained from the sky. His Druid, Sabrina, had done her best against them from the city walls, but it was not enough.

And he was running out of time. The Coranians should arrive at the city in two more days, and that would be the end

of it.

He gritted his teeth, his hands clenched
fi
rmly on the stone wall. What he wouldn’t give to feel Morcant’s scrawny neck be- neath his callused palms. With any luck, Morcant would come back to this world as a chicken and have his neck wrung. Better still, Urien would come back as the farmer who would wring it. Now that was a satisfying thought.

Tired of staring at the enemy
fi
res, he looked up. Absently,

his eyes picked out the
fi
ve bright stars of the constellation of Beli. Beli had been the husband of the Lady Don in the far off days of Lyonesse, before that land had sunk beneath the sea. The Druids had killed Beli, burning him to a crisp, and seized his lands. The Lady Don had
fl
ed, and then worked in secret for many years to get her revenge. Poor Beli. Someone should burn the Druids to a crisp. See how they liked it. Someone should . . .

And that was when he got an idea.

“A
MIDNIGHT STRIKE
,”
he said with satisfaction. “Right in the heart of Morcant’s camp. They won’t expect it. We hit the Druids’ tent, and that is that.”

His son, Elphin, grinned, his brown eyes alight. Teleri, his lieutenant, smiled wickedly. Esyllt, his Bard, frowned, and March, her husband, frowned also. The reaction seemed fairly mixed. Urien turned to Ellirri. Hers would be the deciding vote.

She smiled. “An excellent idea,
cariad
,” she said calmly. “It will be done, my King,” Teleri said eagerly. “I will do it.” “No—let me,” Elphin put in quickly.

“No! I will do it.” Sabrina, her face pale, her slender
fi
gure

stiff and unmoving, stood at the chamber door. Her tangled black hair spilled down her back. Her brown Druid’s robe was

torn and bloodstained. Her blue eyes were cold. “I will do it,” Sabrina continued, “to make up for my shame.”

Esyllt jumped to her feet, her face
fl
ushed with anger. “How

dare you! The King will not consider it!” “And why not?” Sabrina snapped.

“Because you can’t be trusted, why do you think?” raged Esyllt. “You’re a Druid. A traitor. How do we know you won’t betray—”

“Enough.” Ellirri’s cold voice stopped Esyllt in mid-rant. The Bard opened her mouth to protest further, but the Queen’s glance stopped her. Esyllt abruptly sat down, her head bowed. “Urien, may I speak to you for a moment?” Ellirri asked.

Urien nodded. The two walked out of their chamber and down the hallway. “What’s Esyllt’s problem?” he asked curiously.

“Lower your voice,
cariad
,” Ellirri begged. “Sorry.”

“Esyllt is jealous of Sabrina. I told you that once. Remember?” Oh, yes, he remembered now. Both women were after Trystan, or something like that. It was most confusing. One of

those female things he could never understand.

“Well, I don’t care about all that,” he said dismissively. “I need to decide who’s to go. I think myself, Teleri, and Sabrina can handle it.”

“I agree. With one change. You stay here. Someone else can go in your place.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why not me?”

“I think someone quieter would be better.”

“Why, I can be quiet. Are you suggesting—” Quite sud- denly, Ellirri’s blue eyes
fi
lled with tears. Shocked, Urien pulled her to him, cradling her in his strong arms. “
Cariad
,
cariad
,

what have I said? Why are you crying?”

For a moment, her shoulders shook, then she took a deep breath and raised her head, looking up into his eyes. “Urien,” she whispered. “Don’t go. I want to face death by your side. If you go without me, you may not come back. Please,
cariad
. Please. Stay here. Do this for me.”

“Of course, Ellirri. I will send Elphin in my place. All right?”

She nodded and wiped her eyes. He kissed her, then drew her back down the hallway and into their chamber, his arm around her slender shoulders.

“We have decided,” he announced. “Teleri, Sabrina, and Elphin. You three will go. At midnight. Be ready.”

Elphin leapt up, his brown eyes shining. “I will. Thank you, Da!”

Sabrina bowed, her face tight and pale. “Thank you. I will not fail you.”

Abruptly, Esyllt stood and left the chamber, followed by her husband. Sabrina and Ellirri exchanged a look. Urien sighed. One of those female things. He’d never understand.

U
RIEN AND
E
LLIRRI
watched Morcant’s camp from the battle- ments. It was almost midnight. The camp
fi
res had died down, glowing wanly in the still night. Suddenly,
fi
re blossomed and
fl
ared in the middle of the camp.

“Sabrina’s quite good,” Urien said proudly.

They watched for a few moments longer. Warriors poured out of their tents, scurrying like ants as they searched for the source of the attack. Some arrows were shot into the night, and there was a great deal of shouting and screaming.

Suddenly, Ellirri shivered, clutching at her heart. Blindly,

she turned to Urien. But before she could speak, he cried, “Come,
cariad
, they’ll be returning soon. Let’s meet them.” He leapt down the stairs, Ellirri following much more slowly. A great weight had fallen on her heart, though it was obvious that the foray had been successful.

As she came to the gate, she saw Sabrina and Teleri stand- ing awkwardly, tears streaming down their faces, the blood of her eldest boy staining their hands. Urien sat on the ground, cradling his son’s dying body in his arms.

Elphin’s breathing was ragged. A spreading pool of blood spilled through the
fi
ngers clutched around his belly. “We did it, Da,” Elphin whispered, looking up at his father and trying to smile. “Killed all Morcant’s Druids.”

Urien tried to smile back. “Of course, you did it, my son. I knew you would.”

As if in a dream, Ellirri went to them, kneeling by her son, laying her cool hand against the cheek of her dying boy. “Do not go far, little one, without us,” she whispered gently. “Your father and I will soon follow.” She kissed his forehead tenderly and smiled a last smile for him as he looked up at her. And even as she gazed down on him, the darkness gathered up the light in his eyes and took him far, far away.

Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

T
HE NEXT MORNING
they laid Elphin to rest in the barrow of Crug Mawr. In the early morning hours, Urien and Ellirri had prepared the body of their son for burial, washing the blood away, dressing him in his
fi
nest clothes, combing out his tangled, brown hair. Then, when all was done that could be done, they had sat next to his body, each holding one of his cold hands,

looking down upon their son and remembering.

In those hours, once and once only had Ellirri spoken. She had said in a distant, puzzled tone: “All those months he grew in my body. All those hours I labored to bring him into the world. It is strange.”

“How is it strange?” he had asked.

“That it took so long to give him life, but it took only a mo- ment for him to die.”

When dawn at last broke over the stricken city, Urien, his huntsman, March, his doorkeeper, Cynlas, and Dynfwael, his chief counselor, picked up the pallet on which Elphin lay and bore him out of Caer Erias to the barrow. Ellirri, Sabrina, Teleri, and Esyllt followed behind, each carrying a
fl
aming torch. Urien’s warriors, mounted on rock-steady horses, lined the street leading to the barrow, their swords drawn, their faces like stone, meditat- ing upon their revenge for the death of their Prince.

The stone was rolled back from the doorway, and they car- ried Elphin into the cool depths of the resting-place of the dead. Gently, they laid the pallet within one of the niches carved into the stone wall. The men stood back as Ellirri stepped forward and placed Elphin’s quiver and arrows at his feet. “Use these with honor, in the world to which you have gone,” she said, her voice clear and
fi
rm.