Crimson Fire (59 page)

“My King—”

“Do it,” he said shortly. “Your role in this life is not over.

Go with them.”

“Susanna,” Uthyr said to his Bard. She stood stif
fl
y by Grif
fi
’s side, her hands gripping her lover’s arm. “You go with them.”

“No.”

“Yes. Come here.”

Slowly she approached Uthyr and Ygraine. Speaking softly, he said, “Years ago you tested my son. You are one of the few who know what he is.”

“Please—” she began.

“No. You have a task to
fi
nish. Your life is to be given to seeing my son reign in Cadair Idris. You will give Gwydion all the help you can, in my name.”

For a long time she was silent. Then she said softly, “Very well, my King. It shall be as you say. But Grif
fi
will give you trouble. He won’t want to go.”

“Then he will not.”

“What?” she said, shocked, her voice rising. “You would have me leave him?”

Swiftly Grif
fi
crossed to Uthyr’s side. “You will let me

stay?” he asked eagerly.

“You may stay, if you wish,” Uthyr said. “But you, Susanna, must go.”

“Never. Not without Grif
fi
. I won’t—”

“For the reason I have just given you, you will. You know what that reason is. Is it not enough for you, this reason?” Uthyr asked quietly.

Susanna opened her mouth, then shut it. She bowed her head, and her tears dropped to the ground.

“Go now,” Uthyr said, his eyes traveling from Ygraine’s

pale face, to Cai, to Bedwyr, to Susanna, then back again to his wife. “Grif
fi
and I will
fi
ght a last battle of which the Bards will sing.”

Susanna raised her tear-streaked face, her eyes fastened on the face of her lover. Slowly, she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “The Bards will sing of it.”

Uthyr called for the fresh horses he had ordered. He had already seen to it that their belongings were packed and ready. He helped his wife to mount her horse. Then he took the torque of Gwynedd from his neck and pressed it into her cold hands.

“For Morrigan,” he said softly. “Yes,” she whispered. “For her.”

Uthyr removed his helmet and held it out to her. The hawk’s sapphire eyes sparkled. “This, too, for her. She will need it on the day she returns to take back what I will lose today.”

“I love you, Uthyr ap Rathteyn,” Ygraine said
fi
ercely. “I

will love only you until the day I die.”

“May that day be far, far off, my lady. Yet on that day, I will be waiting in Gwlad Yr Haf to greet you. You will see me again. I swear it.”

“I will hold you to that promise,” she whispered. Gently she bent down and touched his face with her hand. And then she rode away. She did not look back.

Meirgdydd, Disglair Wythnos—morning

U
THYR AND
G
RIFFI
sat calmly on their horses just outside the open north gate of the city. They watched without comment as the dust from over a thousand tramping feet rose over the hori- zon, signaling that the Coranian forces were nearing Tegeingl. The morning dawned bright and clear. A slight breeze

stirred through the unmoving ranks of Uthyr’s warriors. Three hundred men and women sat upon their horses proudly. Their spears and shields shone bright and deadly. And in their grim, set faces was the knowledge that they would die, and the deter- mination to sell their lives at the greatest possible cost.

A glimmer to the north winked in the distance. At last the enemy army itself could be seen. On foot they poured over the blameless green hills. There were over a thousand soldiers. They carried shields and huge battle-axes. Daggers were tucked into the tops of black leather boots. They wore byrnies to their knees and heavy iron helmets.

“Formidable,” Grif
fi
said quietly.

“They’ll move slower in battle. Heavy helmets, and those byrnies. And they do not ride. We should be able to do some damage before it’s over.”

“Good enough,” Grif
fi
said. “But don’t you think it would

be best to
fi
ght them from behind the city walls? Instead of out here in the open?”

“No,” Uthyr said absently, still scanning the distant army. “I don’t want them damaging the city too much. It will be Morrigan’s, one day.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Look, there’s Madoc.”

Madoc was striding at the forefront of the mighty army. Next to him was a Coranian. The man wore a metal byrnie, trimmed in silver, and green trousers tucked into black boots. A huge battle-ax was in his hands. He wore a helmet of silver, with the
fi
gure of a boar fashioned at the top of it. Blond hair
fl
owed from beneath the helmet. His handsome features were arrogant. The commander, without a doubt.

Uthyr’s eyes were drawn back toward Madoc, back to the

brother who had betrayed him.

“Foolish of Madoc to stand in the forefront, don’t you think?” Grif
fi
said, reading Uthyr’s mind.

Uthyr grinned a wol
fi
sh grin. “Very foolish.” He raised the horn of Gwynedd to his lips and blew the challenge. His horse leapt forward, Grif
fi
’s horse keeping pace with his. Be- hind them, the rest of the warriors gave a mighty shout and began their last ride.

M
ADOC GASPED AS
Uthyr rode straight toward him, his war- riors following behind. “Uthyr’s crazy,” he said in disbelief.

“Looks like he’s coming straight for you,” Catha smiled un- pleasantly.

“Well, hold him off. Do something! By the gods, there are over a thousand warriors here. Kill him!”

“Oh, I think not,” Catha said lazily. “It looks like he wants to talk to you. Let’s give him a chance, shall we?”

At Catha’s signal, the Coranian forces broke and ran across the
fi
eld to close with the Kymric warriors, and the slaughter began. But the warriors left Uthyr alone. Catha would let the King approach. And see what the man would do.

U
THYR RODE THROUGH
the ranks of the Coranian warriors, who seemed to melt from his path. Grif
fi
still kept pace with him. He could see Madoc standing as though frozen at the top of a low hill.

With a shout, Grif
fi
rose in his stirrups and began to ges- ture toward the Coranian commander. But the commander must have understood what was coming, for before the shout had died from Grif
fi
’s lips, the commander had thrown his ax.

Grif
fi
froze on his horse, astonishment spread across his freckled face as he looked down to see the ax buried in his chest. Blood bubbled from his mouth, and his lips moved. “Susanna,” he whispered, then toppled from his horse.

Catha calmly bent over the dead Druid, wrenching his ax from Grif
fi
’s chest. He turned toward Uthyr, arresting the King’s movement toward his friend’s still body.

“I am Catha, brother of Ceadda, the Eorl of Pecsaetan, in the country of Mierce, in the Coranian Empire. My Bana has come to take this land. Surrender to me now.”

Uthyr laughed. He leapt from his horse, then grasped the dagger from his boot. “I am Uthyr ap Rathtyen var Awst, King of Gwynedd. And neither myself nor my people will surrender to you.”

“Your warriors are even now being slaughtered,” Catha said, gesturing toward the bloody meadow.

“But they sell their lives dearly. So shall we all.” “You will all be defeated.”

“For a time, Catha, brother of Ceadda. For a time.” Catha’s brow rose. “And then?”

“And then death will come to you all. At that moment, remember me. Don’t move, Madoc,” Uthyr hissed.

Madoc, who had been slowly backing away, halted. Uthyr turned back to Catha. “This,” he said, gesturing contemptu- ously at Madoc, “is my brother. My half-brother. I have better ones than this, of course.”

“Of course. I have met Gwydion ap Awst. In Corania.” Uthyr nodded. “He will bring you all down, one day.” Catha grinned unpleasantly. “Words, King Uthyr. Just words.” “You will see. For now, my other brother and I have un
fi
n-

ished business.”

“Go to it, then,” Catha said.

“You will not interfere?” Uthyr asked. “I will not interfere. For the moment.” “Catha!” Madoc gasped.

“Are you a man?” Catha asked, contempt in his blue eyes. “Fight your brother, Madoc, you who think you should be King.”

Without another word, Uthyr closed in on Madoc. Back and forth they fought, daggers in hand, twisting and slashing. Then Madoc stumbled. Uthyr grinned. He had known Madoc would be no match for him.

But as he raised his dagger to strike, a huge, burning pain slashed across his back. Falling to the ground, he felt another wrench as something was pulled from his body. A foot planted itself on his shoulder, then turned him over so that he was lying on his back. He tried to get up, but could not move. Blinking sweat from his eyes, he looked up into the face of the Coranian commander.

Sighing, Catha said, “You are the better man, King Uthyr.

But I could not let you kill such a
fi
ne tool.”

The morning light wavered in front of Uthyr’s eyes, the col- ors bleeding from his sight. He blinked again, for everything had become suddenly bright. Catha’s face, Madoc’s face, faded from his sight as a white light built before his eyes.

He whispered the names of his wife and daughter, and held up his son’s image before his eyes, for, even in death, he would not speak Arthur’s name to the enemy.

He thought of his brother, Gwydion, whom he loved so. He would leave his family in Gwydion’s capable, faithful hands.

And that thought comforted him.

A sigh escaped him as blood bubbled from his lips. He was ready now. And as the Shining Ones came to take him away, he whispered his dying thanks that his prayer had been answered.

He had not died at Madoc’s hands. And it was enough.

W
HEN EVENING FELL
,
their party was just at the fringes of the huge forest of Coed Dulas. Tomorrow they would venture across the border into the cantref of Rosyr and follow the tiny secondary roads that wound through the mountains.

Ygraine knew that Uthyr was dead. Sometime that morn- ing, as they rode silently through the forest, she had felt a wrench inside. This world no longer contained the living soul of her husband. She rode numbly, barely seeing the forest around her. She was not even aware that night had fallen until Cai called for a halt.

Wearily, she dismounted at the edge of the clearing, tying her horse to a nearby bush. Bedwyr was already digging a shal- low hole.

“We risk a
fi
re?” she heard Susanna ask Cai.

“Not much of a risk. The enemy is busy elsewhere. And it will be a small
fi
re,” Cai had answered.

Morrigan, Ygraine thought desperately. She forcibly turned her thoughts to her daughter, to the only reason why she had not died with her husband today. And now, now that she knew she was truly alone in this world, now that there was no one who would ever again try to reach behind her icy walls, she knew that her reason to live had not been enough. The world would never again hold anything for her.

Involuntarily, she glanced up and caught Cai’s face as he

stared into the
fi
re. It was the face of a dying man, the face of a man who had nothing left to care for. Susanna sat down with a tired sigh. Her blue eyes were sad and dull.

For a time no one spoke. Ygraine knew that they were each holding the dead in their thoughts. At last Cai said, “I will see you all safely to Mynydd Tawel. Then I will go. Bedwyr, you will be Morrigan’s Captain.”

“Where will you go?” Bedwyr asked, startled.

“Back to Tegeingl. To kill Madoc if Uthyr has not done so.” Ygraine nodded. “Fine. I go with you.”

“No,” Cai’s eyes
fl
ashed. “Uthyr gave me a last command.

To see you safely to the mountains. And I will. After that, my life is my own.”

“After that, your life can be measured in minutes!” Susanna exclaimed. “Don’t be a fool.”

“A fool? Only a fool would outlive his King.” “Uthyr ordered you—” Bedwyr began.

“To see the Queen to safety. And I will.”

“But you can’t keep me there,” Ygraine pointed out. “I will return with you. As you say, only a fool would outlive their King.”

“Uthyr told you to look after Morrigan,” Susanna said qui- etly. “You promised.”

“Uthyr’s gone. My promise to a dead man does not hold.”

Susanna reached for her harp case. She opened the leather bag and pulled out a crumpled parchment. “I have a letter here. From the Dreamer.”

A letter from the Dreamer, from the man who had broken Ygraine’s heart by taking her son away? What did she care for Gwydion’s words?

“He gave it to Uthyr, who gave it to me when he was last here. He said that I would know when to open it. And I do,” Susanna went on.

“The Dreamer has nothing to say to me,” Ygraine spat. “Nor to me,” Cai said abruptly. “I tell you, I am going back

there.”

Without another word, Susanna opened the parchment and began to read aloud.

To: Ygraine ur Custennin and Cai ap Cynyr,

By now Uthyr and Griffi are dead. Cai’s family has perished.

Tegeingl and Gwynedd are lost.

My heart goes out to you in the face of so many losses. But you must not give up. A great task awaits all of you. Gather the survivors, and make for the hiding place that Uthyr prepared for you. By stealth and by cunning you must gather a teulu that will become a thorn in the side of the enemy. From this seed will come a mighty army. For one day soon the High King will come again. And when he does, he will lead us to take back our own. I command you, in the name of the High King soon to be, that you take on this task. Though you may wish to die, you are commanded to live. This is your duty to Kymru.

Gwydion ap Awst var Celemon Dreamer of Kymru

Cai bowed his head. Bedwyr walked over to his uncle, knelt down next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. After a few moments, Cai reached up and laid his hand on top of his nephew’s.