Crimson Fire (55 page)

Urien stepped forward and laid Elphin’s spear and shield on the brier. “Use these with honor, in the world to which you have gone.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Good- bye, my son.”

Ellirri then laid her hands on either side of Elphin’s still, white face. She kissed his forehead and whispered, “Sleep well,
cariad
.”

One by one, the others left the barrow, until only Ellirri and Urien were left. They gazed down at the body for a moment. The torches burned in the wall sockets, illuminating the still, white features of their boy. Then Urien placed his arm around Ellirri’s shoulders and gently began to pull her from the barrow.

They reached the doorway, then looked back at their son one last time.

“I’m glad he knew that we loved him,” Ellirri said quietly.

Slowly, the stone was rolled back into place. The
fi
nality of that sound tore into Urien’s heart. Inside him, a rage began. He was tired of skulking behind these city walls. He longed to see blood shed today, in payment for the life of his son, his bright, beautiful, beloved son, cut down before he had even truly begun to live.

It was not to be borne. Not to be borne without a
fi
ght.

Urien turned to his warriors. A scant two hundred left, but they were the best. They gazed back at him, their faces stern, their eyes eager, their spears ready.

“We hide no more behind city walls!” Urien suddenly bel- lowed. “Today we march from the city and cut them down!”

As one, his warriors raised a cry, “Urien! Urien! Urien!”

Dynfwal was suddenly by his side, holding Urien’s spear and shield ready. Reins were thrust into his hands. He mounted his horse and took up his weapons. Beside him, he saw Ellirri do the same, taking her weapons from Sabrina’s hands. Side by side, they rode to the city gates, their warriors following.

Just before the gates were opened, Urien turned to his wife. Her face was calm, her hands steady, her heart was in her beau- tiful, blue eyes. “Ready,
cariad
?” he asked.

“Always,” she said.

His warriors poured from the gate, aimed at Morcant’s still scattered forces like a gleaming arrow. With a resounding crash, the two armies came to grips with each other. Blood began to soak the plain, pouring from the bodies of the dead and dying.

But though Urien’s
fi
ghters were brave and steadfast, they

were outnumbered two to one, and slowly, slowly, they were pushed back, giving ground inexorably as they fell.

Urien, leading charge after charge, saw Morcant in the distance, hiding behind his warriors like the coward he was, always too far away to be reached. Urien was losing this battle, and he knew it. It would all be for nothing if he could not face Morcant himself.

And he could not. The odds were too great. They would have to pull back. In shame and anger, he raised the horn to his lips to sound the retreat.

But just before his horn could sound, he heard other horns. Horns, blowing the charge as six hundred Kymric warriors of Amgoed poured down onto the plain.

It was over. Surely these forces had come to Morcant’s aid, not to his.

So it was with unparalleled astonishment that he saw this new force plunge straight into the heart of Morcant’s army and begin to kill.

Gwyntdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

U
RIEN SAT UPON
his horse patiently at the open east gate, wait- ing for the enemy to come within sight. Not long to wait now.

In truth, patience was not his strong suit. But each moment when he could turn to his wife, as he did now, and see the sun

fl
ashing off her red-gold hair, as he did now, and see the love and trust in her eyes, as he did now—well, those were moments not to be tossed away lightly.

She smiled at him and, as she had done often in the past hour, laid her slender hand on his arm, as though to assure her- self that he was still real, that he was not yet dead.

Ah, well, he and Ellirri had lived a good life together. And eventually they all had to move on to the next world, to wait in Gwlad Yr Haf, the Summer Land, for their turn to be born again.

He was sure that whoever he came back as, wherever he came back, Ellirri would be near him. He was equally sure he would recognize her, as he had, no doubt, for countless life- times. His life with her would not end. No matter what hap- pened today.

He let his thoughts drift back to the battle yesterday and grinned with pleasure. How Morcant’s forces had run! Morcant had run faster than any. And so he still lived today. Morcant had last been seen going east. Urien knew he was meeting his Coranian allies and would return today, bringing their deaths with him.

Thank the gods his Gwardas of Amgoed had
fi
nally come

yesterday. Urien had given them up for good, thinking them traitors. But that was not so. After the battle, they had met with him, telling him that their Dewin had received Wind-Ridden messages from Bledri, Urien’s Dewin, stating that the plans had changed and commanding them to stay put and defend their own lands.

It was not until refugees from Llwynarth reached west Am- goed that the Gwardas had begun to think that they had been

tricked and banded together to ride to Urien’s aid.

If he could only get his hands on Bledri, but his Dewin was long gone, no doubt joining his true masters by now.

If only Hetwin Silver-Brow would come from the south! But that seemed unlikely. It was obvious that Hetwin, too, had received similar messages. And, since Esyllt’s Wind-Speech had raised no answer, he would still not know of the need.

Nonetheless, he had sent Esyllt south yesterday, to bring word to Hetwin of their peril. He had given his opal ring to her, along with the words that Bran the Dreamer had spoken so long ago. Esyllt would see to it that Owein received the ring.

Urien had thought to send Sabrina away, too, but she had refused, saying that she had not yet paid for her shame and thus could not retreat. Teleri, too, had refused to leave. Her place, she had said
fi
rmly, was leading his teulu. Well, he couldn’t argue with that. But he was able to extract a promise from her—and hard work that had been, too. She had
fi
nally agreed that, should she
fi
nd herself alive after today’s battle, she would
fi
nd Owein. He had given her the torque of Rheged to clasp around Owein’s neck. He also charged her with delivering the helm of Rheged to his son. Though Urien wore the helm now, he knew Teleri would be able to retrieve it before they laid him in his grave. A clever, reliable woman, Teleri. She would sur- vive. He felt sure of it.

Unlike himself. And his wife.

Once again, he turned to Ellirri, drinking in the sight of her. And once again, she lightly touched his arm, smiling that special smile that she reserved only for him.

Ah, he was a lucky, lucky man.

There it was, movement to the east. A cloud of dust had

risen. The earth rumbled slightly. Urien glanced behind him to see the set, grim faces of the men and women who would
fi
ght—and likely die—today. Proud he was to lead them in this
fi
nal, hopeless stand. The Bards would sing of this battle. Of that he was sure.

One last look at Ellirri before the end. Gently, she reached out and touched his cheeks, framing his face with her hands. He laid his palms over her slender
fi
ngers, then kissed her pas- sionately. Their last kiss for this lifetime.

And it was sweet. So sweet.

Then Urien gave the order. And he led the charge to death. And, in a way, that was sweet, too.

E
LLIRRI RODE FEARLESSLY
by Urien’s side through the press, her blue eyes focused on the distant
fi
gure of Morcant, who was standing at the top of the hill next to a Coranian warrior. The warrior was wearing a silver helmet, shaped in the fashion of a boar. Surely this was the leader of the Coranian army. Mechanically she cut down the Coranian warriors in her way. She had spent her arrows long ago and now worked with spear, shield, and daggers.

As they neared the crest of the hill where Morcant stood, Urien began to shout. “Morcant!” he bellowed. “Come and
fi
ght, coward! Come and
fi
ght!”

The Coranian commander said something to Morcant. Then the commander barked orders in a language Ellirri did not understand, and suddenly their way was clear, the warriors pulling back to give them a straight path toward their goal. Urien leapt from his horse and rushed up the hill toward Mor- cant, a gleaming dagger in each hand.

At the sight of Urien coming for him, Morcant tried to turn and run, but the Coranian commander grasped Morcant’s shoulder, forcing him to stand. With a roar of rage, Urien con- fronted Morcant. And now the traitor, unable to run, drew his own daggers and faced the King he had betrayed.

Ellirri jumped from her horse and ran up the hill, closing in on the commander, who was watching the contest with a sneer. After a few moments, it was obvious that Morcant would sooner or later die at Urien’s hands. The commander, deciding to in- terfere, drew his ax and started toward the two men.

Ellirri hoped that the man understood at least a little Kymri. “Coranian dog!” she shouted. The commander stopped and turned to her, his ax at the ready.

Insolently, he looked her up and down. He was stocky with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. “And who might you be?” he asked, in perfect Kymri.

“I am Queen Ellirri PenMarch,” she said clearly.

“I am Baldred, son of Baldaeg, the Eorl of Tarbin, of the country of Dere, in the Coranian Empire. My Bana has come to take this land. There is no escape from him.”

“We do not seek to escape,” Ellirri said contemptuously. “Tell me, Baldred, son of Baldaeg, do you know how to
fi
ght? Or do you only know how to talk?” Morcant was still desperately try- ing to defend himself against Urien’s furious blows. She wanted Baldred to be distracted from that
fi
ght. This was her job.

So she raised her daggers and waded in.

U
RIEN RAINED BLOW
after blow upon Morcant with the
fl
at of his blades. A quick death was too good for the bastard who had killed his son, who had consorted with Kymru’s bitterest enemy,

who thought he should be King of Rheged. King! Ha!

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife engaging the enemy commander. Perhaps it would be best if he made a quicker end to Morcant, for the commander fought well with his ax, and Ellirri was tired.

He had raised his daggers for the killing blow when the low groan of his wife distracted him. His eyes
fl
ickered toward her, and he saw with horror that her daggers had gone spinning out of her hands as she fell to the ground from the force of the commander’s blow. The commander raised his ax high. The sun
fl
ashed off the killing blade as it began its deadly descent toward his wife’s beloved face.

With a shout, he leapt toward the commander in a desper- ate attempt to knock the ax from the man’s hands. But just at that moment, he felt a huge burning, a rending, a tearing in his heart. He looked down in astonishment at the sight of Morcant’s dagger protruding from his chest. Blood spurted from him in a wave, and all his strength drained from him. Slowly, as though in a dream, he fell, and watched helplessly as the Coranian commander ruthlessly buried the ax into Ellirri’s breast.

With his last strength, he reached out for his wife. The darkness was coming for him, but he would not yield to it. Not until he felt her touch for one last time.

E
LLIRRI KNEW THAT
she was dying. The sounds of battle faded away. The colors of the morning had gone dim. A mist had fallen over her eyes.

She was puzzled that she was not yet dead. Why? What was keeping her here? There was something she had to do, but she was too tired to remember what it was.

And then it came to her. Her husband needed her. He was by her side, wounded to the death, his hand reaching for her own.

She tried to stretch out her hand. But she was weak, so weak. And tired. So very tired. Yet her Urien needed her. From somewhere deep within, from a place no death-blow could ever touch, she found the strength she needed, and stretched out her hand for that
fi
nal measure.

Their hands clasped tightly for a moment. Then slowly, ever so slowly, their grip slackened. And they were gone. Together.

Meriwdydd, Disglair Wythnos—late afternoon

O
WEIN AP
U
RIEN
var Ellirri urged his horse on to greater speed. Weary, but eager to please him, his horse galloped faster through the hilly, woody country of Gwinionydd. The late af- ternoon sun warmed the green land, and the springtime air was light and crisp. But Owein did not, could not, feel the beauty of the day. All his awareness was focused on the still faroff city of Llwynarth, the place where he longed with all his soul to be. Two more days still before they knew if the city still stood. Two more days before he knew if his mother and father yet lived.

Behind him, Trystan and his band of twenty warriors fol- lowed closely. Only twenty were left of the one hundred with which he had set out a week ago, for the Coranians had tak- en a toll. For the last seven days, they had been encountering small bands of Coranian warriors. But Owein and his men had merely fought their way through, then
fl
ed, for he would not be waylaid on his journey to Llwynarth.

A shout just a few paces to his left made Owein rein in his horse abruptly. A strange Kymric warrior stood at the base of a hill, gesturing for them to come to him. Owein glanced back at

Trystan. They had heard rumors that some of his countrymen were in league with the Coranians.

“He’s wearing Hetwin’s badge,” Trystan said quietly. “What do you think?” Owein asked.

“I’m not sure. Let’s talk to him for a moment.”