The Bwy Hir Complete Trilogy (55 page)

Mirror Men

BOOK T
HREE OF

THE BWY HIR TRILOGY

Rage, rage, the Triskele tree,

Darkness shrouds the broken three,

Come cruel tempest, broiling skies,

Broken limbs to cast aside,

Quiver, tremble, Triskele tree,

Arawn, he waits for thee.

PROLOGUE

All Hallows Eve had come and gone with little fanfar
e. The R’hela, usually greatly anticipated and eagerly received was lack-lustre and sombre. Stag and boar had been released onto the slopes of Mynydd y Gelli but there were only three dragons to add to the chase and no Gwaradwyddedig to hunt down; the whole event was tinged with the erroneous odour of pretence.

The winter games
, usually hotly contested by the Chosen, were flattened by contrived whoops and jeers as winners of the tug-of-war, wrestling and archery competitions accepted their ranking with feigned delight.

The Druid
marshals looked on with silent concern; they were not oblivious to the rumblings of disquiet. Their ears caught the mumbled insults fuelled by anger and mistrust passing between the gathered Chosen, their eyes observed the sly glares aimed at their backs as they judged the games and announced the winners and losers of each bout.

Even the weather was against them as squally showers fell from the blackened night skies, causing the rows of flickering torches to hiss and gutter. The ground was sodden from the melted snow that had blanketed the hills and vales only days before, turning the hillside muddy and treacherous underfoot; a dark night to reflect the dark mood of the Triskele.

The Host kept one eye on the games and one eye on the skies. Ysbrydion had once again begun to stalk y Gwag, the mirrors were once again unusable. The threat of Arawn was real, palpable; no one knew where he was hiding, only that his presence was being felt in the once verdant hills. Livestock were falling sick, illness and infection were plaguing the valleys and a sentiment of ill-will blew in on petulant, inclement winds.

The Chosen were angry, the Druids were defensive and the Host were distant: the R’hela was a sham, all knew it, but none would voice it
– not here, not where the Triskele was joined as one.

The Triskele was crumbling, teetering on the edge of collapse and one Chosen family had been at the epicentre of the turmoil: The Morgans of Ty Mawr Farm.

All the Chosen men and most of their families had attended the joint funeral of Dafydd Morgan and his aunt, Nerys Jones. All had witnessed Dafydd’s son, Gwyn Morgan’s utter misery as the caskets were laid in the cemetery, Dafydd’s coffin joining that of his wife’s. Gwyn had stood alone, his sister, Anwen Morgan had not been at his side as he’d knelt down at the graveside mourning the loss of his family, his shoulders wracking in sorrow: a broken young man.

The Chosen had gathered grim faced, silently cursing the ones to blame for this tragedy: the Druids.  The blame lay squarely at their feet, despite the findings of the Triskelion
jury. All knew that the Druids were no longer the venerated intermediaries they had once been. Now they were tainted by murder and misdeeds, and no Triskelion jury could distemper that fact.

The Morgans, the once tight knit, respected and well liked family was in ruins. Nerys Jones, murdered by Afagddu the Elder Druid, once Councillor to the Winter King himself, had escaped his tri
al with no explanation of his whereabouts revealed to the Chosen at the Triskelion gathering. Dafydd Morgan, father to Gwyn and Anwen, had been killed by Derwydd yn tân wielded by a Seeker. The Druids had claimed self-defence for the Seeker’s actions and he had been acquitted; the Chosen outvoted by the Druids and the Host combined.

And what of Anwen Morgan? The Chosen had been instructed that she was wanted by the Bwy Hir
– any who knew of her whereabouts were to inform the Druids immediately. That demand sat ill with the Chosen; their women were no business of the Triskele.

The rumour amongst the Chosen was that Anwen Morgan was pregnant and had fled the valley in fear of her life. Another rumour was that she had been tattooed with the Triskele, marking her as one of the Pride – as strange as it was incredible. The Chosen had no intention of complying with the demand, despite the fact that no one knew where she was; even Gwyn denied knowledge of her whereabouts.

That left poor Gwyn Morgan alone at Ty Mawr Farm, with only the family dog, Bara for company. There was no way he could manage a farm of that size alone and so he leased the land to his neighbours and withdrew from village life, reneging his position as Chosen. 

The Spring Solstice came and went,
Gwyn Morgan failed to attend and eventually he had been named Gwaradwyddedig: Shamed, and that suited him just fine.

Anwen Morgan had still not been found, and as the seasons came and went her existence faded into memory, almost forgotten by her absence. Gwyn Morgan became more and more withdrawn from valley life, rarely seen and rarely drawn into conversation, his remoteness led to a solitary life, and that suited him just fine.

CHAPTER ONE

Arawn sat malevolently at the centre of his court in the underbelly of Cadair Idris. High above him the lake nestled at the foot of the mountain hung broody and dark, a reflection of his mood. Ysbrydion lazily drifted through the water
’s depths, brooding and waiting.

The far reaches of the cavern were shrouded in darkness
. Only the central clearing was lit by an ebbing fire that guttered and smoked in its pit, the wood too young and damp to burn fiercely. Arawn frowned.

The cavern he now claimed
as his own was once the lair of the Pride. He had expected to find a sleeping Pride nestled in the bosom of the caves but he had been out manoeuvred and they were gone before his arrival. Another plan thwarted. He had intended to take the Pride as his own. He needed a child, he needed a Bwy Hir body; the Human body he now occupied was failing.

In anger and frustration, his first alteration to the caverns was to destroy the
Cerdd Carega linking the caverns to the Dell. Atgas had shown him the location and despite repeated effort by both himself and Atgas, the Cerdd Carega had proven impassable to his ilk and so he had destroyed it, leaving rubble in his wake.

The only two entrances to his new realm were either through
y Gwag, Arawn’s dominion, or through a Dderwydd Ddrych his warriors had taken from the vaults of the Druids’ lair. This mirror had been removed from the Hall of Mirrors long ago, when Caerlleon fell to the English invaders. Atgas had found its twin in the manor house she had called home and now the mirrors were reunited, paired, and repositioned to aid Arawn’s increasingly frequent forays.

Twisting his head from side to side, feeling the weight of his huge antlers, he flexed and stretched his back muscles. The silver torc decorating his neck glinted in the failing firelight as he tipped his head from left to right. His muscles were growing increasingly rigid, his spine growing progressively coiled. He would need a new body soon.

‘Does something ail you?’ Atgas inquired from her mossy cradle where she was stretched out, feline and alluring. Arawn threw her a brief disinterested glance, making her momentarily scowl before she masked her annoyance with a blank and empty smile.

‘This body grows weak
.’ He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his lap, his antlers dipped as he curled and stretched his taut spine. ‘I need a new one. I need a child.’ His eyes narrowed as he stared into the guttering flames.

Atgas felt a pang of uncertainty, the Druids
’ ateb and even the new ateb they had taken from the belongings Cadno had left behind during his escape had failed to work for them. Atgas was still childless and she knew she was in a tenuous position as Arawn’s aspirant queen. ‘It is early days yet,’ she said, attempting to sooth him, ‘I will be with child soon, it is only a matter of time.’

Arawn cut across her as she spoke
. ‘Any news on the girl and her Halfling child?’ That particular revelation had been welcome news. A female able to carry a Bwy Hir child? Unheard of. Arawn still couldn’t understand how that had come to be, how it was possible, but more interestingly, the child she carried must have been born by now and a likely new donor for a new Bwy Hir body … if only he could find them. He ground his teeth.

Atgas frowned
. ‘Nothing yet, the Druids are still searching for them, we will know as soon as they do. Our numbers among their ranks swell as do the Faithful among those they call Chosen.”

‘Faithful
,’ Arawn grunted, ‘is that what we are calling them?’ He spat into the fire pit.

‘What would you have them named?’ Atgas felt a surge of disgust as she looked upon the withering king. When he was first made flesh there had been a potent, powerful aura about him, a wild, untamed majesty that Atgas had found irresistible, but now his host body was weakening
and decaying. It made her skin crawl. She had even resorted to ingesting a fusion of opium and dwale to numb their couplings, but Arawn’s lust was fading along with his body and her chance of pregnancy was becoming remote.

Atgas pushed her worries away and forced a languid smile
. ‘Druids, Chosen and Lost join our ranks almost daily. Soon we will have an army to outrank the Triskele. They are Faithful to us. We grow ever stronger.’

‘
Our
ranks, Atgas?’ Arawn’s brows drew down until his eyes were black slits. ‘
We
grow stronger?’ His voice was low and laced with menace. He twisted his head slowly, his ridged horns swept in an arc towards Atgas as he studied her.

Atgas swallowed
. ‘
You
grow stronger My Lord,’ she said bowing her head diffidently, ‘with me at your side, your humble servant, your humble queen.’

Arawn studied her a moment longer before sweeping his gaze back to the spluttering fire
. ‘My warriors will be returning soon and they will be hungry.’ He lifted his head towards the darkest corner of the cavern where the Dderwydd Ddrych, the Druid Mirror, leaned heavily against a stony outcrop. ‘They too grow weary and weak. See to their feed.’

Atgas rose to her feet and gave a small curtsey before withdrawing from Arawn’s presence. Once her back was turned she dropped her mantle of reticence and squared her shoulders, glaring at the path she followed towards the pens.

The smell assailed her nostrils long before she reached the cages, her nose wrinkled in disgust. This was not what she was used to and it irked her to have given up her sumptuous and comfortable manor for this hellhole. She knew the cavern well, every nook and cranny, every passageway and rivulet. This had been her sleeping place, long ago, when she was a member of the Pride. A small half smile creased her lips, the only comfort her present circumstance gave her was to know she now possessed the Pride’s lair and they had no way of reclaiming it – not unless they were prepared to navigate y Gwag to get here – something she knew they would never do. She clung to that spiteful contentment; it helped her get through the lonely hours, especially during the night when no daylight filtered through from the lake above.

Heading towards the torchlight that marked the gates to the pens, Atgas watched as the dishevelled guard jumped to his feet and stand to attention. ‘Lady Atgas,’ he stammered, ‘
is it that time already?’

Atgas frowned as she towered above him.
Pathetic Human
, she thought to herself.
He does not even have Derwydd yn tân
. She forced a smile to her lips, a smile that did not reach her feral eyes. ‘Master Gatekeeper,’ she purred, ‘as much as I would like to idle my time away with you in conversation, the Wraith Warriors will be returning soon and they will need feeding, so please open the gate immediately lest they turn their attention to one such as you.’

Her smile held as the guard’s faltered. He dropped his gaze and muttered an apology as he opened the makeshift gate that led to the pens
. Atgas lifted the hem of her silk skirts and stepped past. The guard followed behind her, suitably chastised. She stopped outside a dimly lit pen and peered through the bound wooden staves at the occupant huddled in the corner. ‘Come forward,’ she demanded.

Slowly, reluctantly the figure unfolded and shuffled towards the bars of the pen. His clothes were filthy and torn, his body bruised and wasted, his haunted eyes were bloodshot and yellowing, a shadow of the jovial landlord that had once owned the Eagles Pub.  Bryn-Wisgi remained silent as he pushed his arm through the gap between the staves and upturned his wrist, waiting for the inevitable sting of Atgas’ blade as she drew the amount of blood she had come to collect.

Scores of half healed cuts etched up and down both of his arms. Bryn-Wisgi had lost track of time; he had no idea how long he had been locked up in the semi darkness of the cavern. He had given up counting the cuts on his arm to try and gauge the days he had been imprisoned here; there were so many cuts and scars now that they all interlaced over each other.

He watched the Bwy Hir woman as she held a bowl under his outstretched forearm. He did not recognise her and he knew she was not one of the Pride, but she was unmistakably Bwy Hir. A half formed memory bubbled up through his consciousness as he stared into her beautiful but cruel face
– a flutter of remembrance of a long forgotten fireside tale tickled his dull awareness. ‘Atgas
Adfyw
,’ he mumbled in realisation.

Atgas hissed at his words, she was shaken by hearing her long forgotten name. She squeezed his wrist in a vice like grip and wrenched him against the bars
. ‘You dare call me by that name?’ she breathed. ‘You dare call me
Adfyw
?’ Her eyes blazed with fury.

‘I know you by no other name.’ Bryn-Wisgi gasped as her fingers dug into his wounds
. ‘You are Atgas
Adfyw
: “Half Alive, Half Dead” that is your name, it matches your deeds. It is what you are.’ His voice was monotone yet defiant. Atgas was incensed.

Holding his arm with one hand she spitefully and viciously cut four large slices into Bryn-Wisgi’s outstretched arm, careless
as to whether the bowl collected all his blood or not, she twisted her hand and pulled back his wrist, allowing the gashes to open and bleed freely, relishing in his pain.

‘Of the two of us,’ she whispered with satisfaction, ‘
you are more “
Adfyw
” than I.’ She held his arm a few moments more before releasing him. Bryn-Wisgi slowly withdrew his arm and held it against his chest.

Atgas smiled as she watched the prisoner stumble back into the shadows of his pen, she stared into the darkness a few moments more, relishing in the pain she could feel emanating from his tiring body
– she could practically taste his despair.  She licked his blood off her fingers before continuing down the line of pens, standing in front of each one. ‘Come forward,’ she demanded to each occupant.

She gave no consideration to the captives, no compassion
; she cut them, gathered their blood and moved on. She did not know their names or from where they had been gathered. They were animals to her: filthy Human blood banks.

She had much preferred her system in Caerlleon. There she had worshippers, intelligent, clean servants who had catered for her every whim, supplied her with copious amounts of
clean, fresh blood, but here she was reduced to harvesting blood herself, from filthy, wretched prisoners in filthy, dirty pens. Atgas gritted her teeth. Arawn was rotting in this cavern; his preparations for dominion were taking too long. He had promised her castles and jewels, servants and celebrants - power beyond measure - yet she was still confined to the underground caverns of Eryri, living in near squalor and still without the one thing she craved more than anything: Mab’s golden torc. Without that, she would be no more than an aspirant queen, a pretender. Once Atgas had the torc of the Summer Realm around her neck all would acknowledge her as the true queen of the Bwy Hir, an equal to the king.

Atgas’ attention was drawn back to the cavern interior; a flash of light announced the return of the Wraith Warriors. She clicked her tongue and with one deft motion, sliced her own wrist and allowed her own blood to drip into the bowl and mix with the
Human blood.  Judging the quantity sufficient, she held her fingers over her open wound and closed her eyes. The rent to her skin healed and vanished immediately. This was a skill she had learned from the Chronicles stolen from the Host during the assault of Maen-Du. She touched the scar at her temple, if only she had acquired the skill to heal when Mab had dispensed her justice, back when Atgas was still a member of the Pride. How different her fate would have been.

Atgas exhaled as she lifted the bowl into her arms and made her return towards Arawn and his waiting Wraith Warriors. She skirted away from the larger pens holding the Helgi
. She could hear the guttural whining of the new breed of beasts spawned from the male and female Helgi, they were a particular pleasure to Arawn who had named them Cŵn Annwn:
Hounds of Annwn
.

The
Cŵn Annwn
were smaller than the Helgi but much more aggressive and sly. They were merciless hunters, hostile and destructive and would only take instruction from Arawn or the Wraith Warriors - everyone else they dismissed. Atgas feared them, even now she could feel them watching her as she passed, their malevolent stare following her, observing, calculating. Atgas shivered.  She passed the guard and nodded briefly to him as he locked the gates behind her. She was relieved to hear the bolts slide into place, another barrier between her and the Cŵn Annwn.

Atgas approached the ring of firelight. The Wraith Warriors had returned and were obviously pleased with themselves. There was much back slapping and raucous merriment - their foray had clearly been a success.

‘Ah, Atgas!’ Arawn stood and spread his arms wide to his warrior. ‘A deserved repast for my worthy warriors!’

Atgas smiled an empty smile and passed the bowl to the nearest warrior, she cringed inwardly as his fingers touched hers.  Nine Wraith Warriors stood in a circle around the fire. The guttering flames illuminated their insubstantial bodies. Half
Ysbrydion, half mortal, their forms were solid yet transparent, akin to garnets or rubies, but malleable and pliant.