Crimson Fire (57 page)

Tegeingl

Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Gwernan Mis, 497

K

Llundydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

ing Uthyr gazed down from his place at the top of the city walls into the grinning, gleeful face of his traitorous half-brother, Madoc.

Uthyr’s face was stern and set, showing none of the pain and bitterness he felt at his betrayal. His hawk-shaped helmet, fashioned of silver and studded with sapphires, glistened in the morning light. His dark blue cloak, fastened onto his broad shoulders with sapphire brooches, stirred slightly in the
fi
tful breeze. Around his neck hung the silver and sapphire torque of Gwynedd, glittering on his breast in the morning light.

His wife, Ygraine, stood by his side, her auburn hair braid- ed tightly to her proud head, her slender body clothed in a plain tunic of blue and brown. Behind the couple, Cai, the Cap- tain of Uthyr’s warband, stood armed and ready with spear and shield. Beside Cai stood his nephew, Bedwyr, lieutenant of Uthyr’s forces.

On Uthyr’s other side stood Grif
fi
, his Druid, on whose pale face freckles stood out in bold relief. His usual infectious grin was absent as he surveyed the army drawn up before the gates of the city. Next to Grif
fi
stood Susanna, Uthyr’s Bard and Grif
fi
’s lover. Her red-gold hair shone in the sun, and her blue eyes were cold.

“What do you do here, brother?” Uthyr called down, as though the seven hundred warriors at Madoc’s back did not exist, as though his half-brother did not
fl
y the banner of the golden boar, the symbol of the Warleader of Corania.

The sun turned Madoc’s bright hair to spun gold, and his blue eyes were fastened hungrily on the torque around Uthyr’s neck. “All Kymru is under attack by the Coranians, brother,” Madoc replied. “The Kymri have no chance against them. Their Warleader will crush us beneath his heel, unless we co- operate with them. Gwynedd needs a new King, one who can bring our kingdom safely through these perilous times.”

“Ah. And you are that man?” Uthyr asked.

“I am. I have come to take the torque of Gwynedd for my own. Submit to me, and you will be unharmed.”

All these years, Uthyr mused, he had ignored warnings about Madoc. Instead, he had given Madoc control of one of the kingdom’s richest cantrefs. He had given his half-brother gifts of horses,
fi
ne clothes, bright weapons. He had given his trust. And for all that, he had been betrayed. The betrayal left a bitter, bitter taste in his mouth. And there was only one way to rid himself of that.

So he spat, and the bile arced through the air to land squarely on Madoc’s upturned, triumphant face. Madoc’s ex- pression darkened, suffused with rage as he hastily wiped the

spittle from his cheek.

“Your life is measured in hours, Uthyr!” Madoc raged. “I have seven hundred warriors, and you have only four hundred. We have already killed the Gwarda of Is Dulas. Reinforcements cannot come to your aid in time. Your city will be mine!”

“Pit your seven hundred against my warriors, brother! And you shall see how true warriors of Gwynedd
fi
ght! Come against me, then. We are ready for you!”

Madoc grinned
fi
ercely. “I have more than warriors, brother.

I have
fi
ve Druids to do my bidding!”

Grif
fi
stiffened from his place next to Uthyr. The red-haired Druid furiously shouted, “What Druid dares to betray their King? Come forth, traitors, and receive your punishment!”

“Druid of Uthyr,” Madoc replied, “you do not understand.

The Druids act on the will of the Archdruid himself.” “You lie!” Grif
fi
shot back.

Madoc gestured, and
fi
ve Druids cowled in brown robes trimmed with green stepped up from the ranks of the army to stand before him. One Druid handed Madoc a scroll, tied off with ribbons of brown and green.

“I have a message for you from your Archdruid,” Madoc called, holding up the scroll. “Read it.”

Contemptuously, Grif
fi
gestured, and the scroll
fl
ew out of

Madoc’s grasp, arced up high in the air, and came to Grif
fi
’s waiting hands. As Grif
fi
read, all color drained from his freck- led face. At last, he raised his head and looked at Uthyr.

“My King,” he rasped. “The Archdruid has bound all Druids to the Coranian Warleader. We are ordered to support those acting on this Warleader’s behalf.”

Grif
fi
and Uthyr, Druid and King, stared at each other. “What

will you do, Grif
fi
ap Iaen?” Uthyr asked softly. “If you wish, I will give you safe passage out of the city. I owe you that much for the many years of loyal service you have given me and mine.”

In a choked voice, Grif
fi
answered, “How can you ask me such a thing? Do you not know me?”

Slowly, Uthyr smiled. He reached out his hand for the Archdruid’s letter, and Grif
fi
handed it to him without demur. Uthyr crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it high in the air. When the paper reached its apex and began to descend, Grif
fi
gestured, and it burst into
fl
ame. Ashes drifted down onto Madoc’s upturned face.

Enraged, one of Madoc’s Druids stepped forward and, with a wave of his hand, sent a ball of
fi
re whistling through the sky, heading straight toward Grif
fi
. But at Grif
fi
’s gesture, a wheel of
fl
ame shot forth from the walls. High in the air, the ball of
fi
re was met by the wheel of
fl
ame. The wheel consumed the enemy Druid’s
fi
re, then sped on through the sky to land in the middle of Madoc’s army. Men and horses scattered. Some were not fast enough, and they screamed as they burned.

Quickly, Uthyr turned to Ygraine, who still stood un
fl
inch- ing by his side. “Better organize a
fi
re brigade,” he said. “Looks like things are going to get hot in the city.”

“Certainly,” she replied crisply.

“Cai, Bedwyr,” Uthyr called, turning to his Captain and lieutenant. “Now is a good time, while they are still scattered. Let’s go.” Uthyr swiftly kissed his wife. To Grif
fi
he said, “Stay here with Ygraine. Fight those
fi
res.”

The three men raced down the stairs and mounted their horses. Without further pause, Uthyr gave the order, and four hundred men and women of Tegeingl poured out of the city to

face seven hundred warriors. And the killing began.

U
THYR SAT ALONE
in the eastern watchtower in the city he still held. Night had fallen, masking the
fi
eld where the armies had fought that day. He was grateful that the dark spared him the sight of the bloody ground. He did not want to look at the meadow where so many of his people had died. For they had all been his people—even those who had fought for Madoc.

As dusk fell, Uthyr’s warriors had gathered the bodies of their comrades, intermingling peacefully with Madoc’s war- riors who had come to the
fi
eld to claim the bodies of their own dead. At the edge of the
fi
eld, a huge bon
fi
re rose into the night, set to burn the bodies of the enemy dead. The dead of Uthyr’s warband were to be burned in the marketplace at the center of the city. In a few moments he must leave the tower and lead the ceremony in their honor.

The glow of the
fi
re mesmerized him. Madoc had lost half his force today, and the
fi
re was tremendous. It blossomed in the night like an evil
fl
ower, fed by the power of Madoc’s three remaining Druids.

Over and over in the battle today, Uthyr had come close to Madoc, only to be turned from his prey by the vagaries of battle. It was the dearest wish of his heart to come to grips with his brother, to make him pay for what he had done.

He sighed. He was fated to die. But, please the gods, not at Madoc’s hands. He raised his eyes to the starry sky. Let some- one else kill me, he begged silently to whatever Shining Ones might be listening. Do not let it be Madoc.

He closed his eyes, remembering the last sight of his beloved thirteen-year-old daughter, Morrigan. Her dark eyes, so like

her mother’s, had been misted with the sheen of tears that she had struggled to prevent from falling. She had tried to smile bravely at him as he said farewell. He had known he would never see her again. And she had guessed that truth somehow, as well. He had seen the knowledge in her tear-
fi
lled eyes.

He had taken the ring from his
fi
nger, put it into her slender hands, and solemnly spoke the words handed down to the rul- ers of his house for the last two hundred years, words he himself had last heard from the lips of his dying mother.

“This ring,” he had whispered, his throat tight, “is never to fall into the hands of any but those of our house, the house of PenHebog. Surrender this ring only to one who speaks these words, words
fi
rst given to us by Bran the Dreamer: ‘In the name of the High King to be, surrender Bran’s gift to me.’ Give the ring to one who speaks those words and no other. Do you understand?”

Morrigan had nodded her head and repeated the words perfectly. Then he had held her in his strong arms and kissed her good-bye, giving her into the keeping of Neuad, his Dewin. Neuad would escort Morrigan to the mountains, to a hiding place already prepared against this day. As she rode away, Morrigan had sat straight on her pony, her thin shoulders un- bowed. And so she was gone.

Arthur was safe in Dinas Emrys. Now Morrigan was safe in Mynydd Tawel. His children would live. And, with the help of Gwydion, they would drive off the enemy and take their right- ful places in Kymru. Morrigan would be Queen of Gwynedd. And Arthur would be High King of Kymru itself.

He heard light footsteps ascending the tower stairs. He knew that rhythm as he knew the beat of his own heart. At last

she had come to him. He felt her cool hand smooth his hair back from his forehead, then she settled on the
fl
oor next to him. She did not speak, and he, too, kept silent.

At last she turned her head to look at him, and he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her tunic and trousers were blood- stained. Her auburn hair was not yet loosened from its tight braids. Weariness lined her proud face. But her dark eyes were clear and bright, undimmed by tears.

“Husband,” she said at last, “you are late. They wait for you to begin the burning.”

He rose to his feet, helping her to stand also.

“I have heavy news, Uthyr. Arday cannot be found.” “Arday?”

“Our steward,” she said crisply.

“Yes. Thank you. I know who she is. I just don’t—” “Our steward, who is also the sister of Menwaed, the Lord

of Arllechwedd.”

“You think her brother is planning something? In league with Madoc?”

Ygraine shrugged. “She is gone. I fear that she slipped out of the city because she knew that her brother was to join Madoc in battle against us.”

“Well, why not?” he said bitterly. “What’s one more trai- tor? All in a day’s work here in Gwynedd.”

She ignored his bitter tone. “Arllechwedd is to the far north. I fear that his task is to keep the forces of northern Rhos from coming to our aid. And if northern Rhos does not come to our aid, we are lost.”

“Ah, Ygraine,” Uthyr said, “we are lost anyway.” “Perhaps,” she said coolly. “Perhaps not. We are not done

trying yet.”

He looked into her dark eyes, pools of shadow in the fad- ing light. For the
fi
rst time in many years, he saw something in them he had thought gone forever. Something that had
fl
ed from her eyes long ago.

“I want you to leave tonight,” he said abruptly, forcing the words past his aching throat. “We lack the power now to even wage war beyond the city gates. You must go. Morrigan will need you. One day she will be Queen of Gwynedd. And you have sworn to stay alive for her.”

She stood silently for a time, her head bowed. At last she whispered, in a broken voice that Uthyr had never heard from her before, “But,
cariad
, life without you means nothing to me.”

Uthyr was shocked. For years now he had thought her love for him was dead. For years he had given her every shred of himself that he had to give, in hopes that she would turn back to him. And now, now that it was too late. . .

She raised her head, and tears were in her eyes. Through the years, he could count on one hand the times he had seen her cry. She studied his face, as though storing up memories of him for long, cold nights when he would be gone from her side. “Ah, Uthyr,” she whispered, “did you really not know? Had I not said? You are my life. You are my heart. Without you, I have neither, and life holds nothing for me.”

He reached out and touched her face, her tears washing over his hand. “Would that I had known that years ago, my love. Much loneliness you might have saved me.”

“Would that I had known, too. And now it is too late. There is so little time left to us. Oh, Uthyr, do not send me from you. Let me die here with you. Please.”

“Ygraine, you cannot stay. Morrigan needs you. You have promised. I know you too well. You keep your promises.”

She pulled away from him and stood at the tower’s edge, staring out at the
fi
re in the meadow. At last, she turned to him. “I remember saying I would choose my time to leave your side. And that time is not yet.”

“Then when?”

“Soon. Why, do you tire of my presence?”

For an answer he grabbed her and pulled her to him, his mouth crushing hers in a passionate kiss, a kiss she returned so enthusiastically he was left weak at the knees. Her dark eyes were full of promise, and a hint of desperation, as she reached out to him at last, now in the shadow of death,
fi
nally under- standing all she would lose when he was gone.