Darkspell

  Leaving Mael’s silent room and going into the great hall was like walking into another world. Since the army was mustering, the hall was filled with lords and warbands: men shouting, men laughing, yelling for ale, and throwing jests like daggers at one another. Nevyn sat at Orivaen’s table with the king’s councillors just below the dais. As the meal was being served, Glyn came through his private door with Gweniver. When he went to the honor table, however, she left the dais and went to eat with the king’s guards and her Ricyn.

  “Lady Gweniver seems to hold her nobility in contempt,” Nevyn remarked to Orivaen.

  “She does. I’ve spoken to her about it ever so often, but one simply can’t argue with the god-touched.”

  During the meal Nevyn watched Glyn, who seemed to have changed not at all, still as straight and gracious as ever as he smiled at a jest or listened to the conversation of his honored lords. Yet the change came clear later, when a page took Nevyn to the king’s private apartments.

  Glyn was standing by the hearth. Candlelight shone and sparked on silver, gleamed on the rich colors of the hangings and carpets, and picked out the hollow shadows under his eyes. Although he insisted that Nevyn take a chair, he himself paced restlessly by the hearth as they talked. At first they exchanged little more than news and pleasantries, until slowly, a bit at a time, the regal presence wore away, and Glyn leaned wearily against the mantel, a heartsick man.

  “My liege seems to honor Lady Gweniver highly,” Nevyn remarked.

  “She’s worthy of honor. I’ve given her the place at the head of my guards, you see. No one will dare envy a god-touched warrior.”

  There it was, the memory they would have to face.

  “Does my liege still miss his brother?”

  “I doubtless will every day of my life. Ah, ye gods, if only he hadn’t killed himself! We could have met now and then in secret, or perhaps I could even have recalled him someday.”

  “Well, his pride wouldn’t let him wait.”

  With a sigh, Glyn sat down at last.

  “So many men who’ve served me have come to grief,” he said. “There’s no end in sight, either. By the gods of our people! Sometimes I think I should just let Cantrae have the wretched throne and be done with it, but then everyone who’d died for me would have died for naught. And my loyal friends—Cantrae might slaughter the lot.” He paused for a weary, twisted smile. “How many people here at court have told you that I’m going mad?”

  “Several. Are you? Or are they merely mistaking sanity for madness?”

  “I’d prefer to think the latter, of course. Ever since Danno died, I’ve felt besieged. I could talk to him, and if he thought I was babbling like a fool, he’d say so. Now what do I have? Flatterers, ambitious men, jackals, half of them, and if I don’t throw them enough scraps of meat, well, then, they bite. If I try to ease my mind of some dark thought, they cringe.”

  “Well, my liege, their lives depend on you, after all.”

  “I know. Oh, ye gods, I know that so well! I wish I’d been born a common rider. Every man in the court envies the king, but do you know whom the king envies? Gweniver’s Ricyn. I’ve never seen a happier man than Ricco, farmer’s son or not. No matter what he does, no matter what happens to him, he calls it the will of his Goddess and gets a good night’s sleep.” Glyn paused briefly. “Do you think I’m mad? Or am I just a fool?”

  “The king has never been a fool, and he would be happier if he were mad.”

  Glyn laughed in a way that suddenly reminded Nevyn of Prince Mael.

  “Nevyn, I’d be most grateful if you’d rejoin my court. You see things from very far away. The king humbly admits that he needs you.”

  Because he saw nothing but grief ahead of him, Nevyn wanted to lie and claim that the dweomer forbade him to stay. He liked all these people too much to stay aloof from their inevitable sufferings. Yet suddenly he saw that he had a role to play, that he’d deserted Glyn, Mael, and Gavra when he’d fled for his own selfish reasons.

  “I’m most honored, my liege. I’ll stay and serve you as long as you have need of me.”

  And so, utterly reluctantly, Nevyn received what many men would have killed to get: a position as a royal councillor with the personal favor of the king. It took him two difficult years to untangle the web of envy that his sudden elevation created, but after that time no one questioned his place. Everyone in the kingdom knew that the center of court power rested with this shabby old man with his eccentric interest in herbs, but few, of course, knew why.

  And during those two years, and on into the third, the war dragged on, a sporadic thing of raids and feints.

  The rain caught them a good forty miles from the main camp. A slantwise-driving storm, with a cold wind that cut through cloaks, turned the road to muck. Even though the situation was desperate, it was impossible for the horses to go at more than a walk. The one good thing about the rain, Ricyn reflected bitterly, was that it was slowing the enemy down, too. He made a point of saying so to the thirty-four men left out of the hundred fifty who’d ridden out. No one responded with more than a grunt. Ricyn rode up and down the line twice, spoke to everyone by name, yelled at the slackers and praised the few who had the least bit of spirit left. He doubted if it was doing any good. When he said as much to Gweniver, she agreed.

  “The horses are in worse shape than the men,” she said. “We have to stop soon.”

  “And if they catch us?”

  Gweniver merely shrugged. Neither of them had the slightest idea of how far behind them the Cantrae warband was. The one thing they could count on was that they were being chased. The hard-won victory that had reduced their warband to this weary fragment was just the sort of battle that Cantrae would feel honor bound to avenge.

  Close to sunset they met a pair of farmers, struggling with a cart pulled by a balky milk cow for want of a horse. In the darkening light, Ricyn could just see that the cart was full of furniture, tools, and barrels. When the warband surrounded them, the farmers looked up in blank exhaustion, as if they didn’t even care if they were slaughtered on the road.

  “Where are you fleeing from?” Gweniver said.

  “Rhoscarn, my lady. The dun fell yesterday, and we’re trying to get south.”

  “Who razed it?”

  “These men with green beasts, like, on shields.”

  Ricyn swore under his breath: the Cantrae Wyvern.

  “They didn’t raze the dun, you dolt!” the second farmer said. “We didn’t see any smoke, like, did we now?”

  “True enough,” said the first. “All the cursed same to me. We saw a powerful lot of them on the roads, my lady.”

  Gweniver pulled the warband off the road to let the weary farmers trudge past.

  “What do you say to this, Ricco? We could ride to Rhoscarn and have a roof over our heads. If they’ve been there already, they won’t ride back.”

  And so they rode straight into the trap. Later Ricyn was to think how cleverly it had been laid, how well Cantrae’s men had played the part of farmers, how nicely Cantrae had judged their minds. At the time he was only glad to find shelter for the horses. When they reached the dun, they found the stone wall breached in three places. Tieryn Gwardon’s body lay headless among the rubble of stone. Although there were plenty of other corpses, it was too dark by then to count them. Since this dun had been taken and burned several times before, there was no stone broch, merely a wooden roundhouse in the middle of a muddy ward.

  It may have been primitive, but the roundhouse was dry inside. The men stabled the horses at one side, laid down their gear at the other, then split up the furniture and built fires in the hearths. Once the horses were at their last nose bags of oats, the men broke out what was left of their rations. Ricyn was just about to mention to Gweniver that they’d have to try to forage on the morrow when he felt danger, a cold touch down his back. From the way that she shuddered, he knew she’d felt it, too. In wordless agreement, they ran out of the house to the ward. Ricy
n stayed below as she climbed the wall. In the darkness he saw her shape crest the top; then she turned and yelled.

  “The men! Guard the breaches! Attack!”

  As he ran back, he heard the distant noise of horses, coming fast toward the dun. Yelling orders, he burst inside and got his men moving. Grabbing swords, swearing, the warband spread out around the wall and filled each breach. By then the sound of an army surrounded them like ocean waves pounding on the shore. Through a breach he saw men dismounting and circling the walls.

  “Penned,” Gweniver said idly. “Think we can hold this siege for a whole day?”

  “Not by half. Here, I’m surprised the Goddess didn’t warn us when we were talking to the farmers.”

  “I’m not. I always knew the day would come when She wanted us dead.”

  She reached up and kissed him on the mouth, just once before she walked away to start giving her orders.

  Since it was unlikely that the enemy would attack in the rainy darkness, they set guards at the breaches and slept in rotating shifts. About an hour before dawn, the rain stopped, and a cold wind sprang up to clear the sky. Ricyn woke the men, who armed in utter silence. Everyone looked at their friends in a way that said farewell without need of words. While Gweniver kept watch at the breach that was once the gates, Ricyn posted the warband at the others.

  “It’s to the death,” he said over and over. “All we can do is make them pay high.”

  Over and over, the men nodded their silent agreement. Down by the back wall Ricyn found Alban, just fourteen that summer and brand new to the Cerrmor riders. Although the lad stood as straight and bravely as any man there, Ricyn was determined to spare his life if he could.

  “Now, listen, lad,” he said. “I’ve got an important mission for you. I’m choosing you because you’re the shortest man in the pack and the least noticeable. We’ve got to get news of this back to the king. You’re taking the message.”

  Wide-eyed in the rising dawn, Alban nodded.

  “What you do is this,” Ricyn went on. “Crouch down behind this pile of rubble and hide until you see a Cantrae man fall where you can grab his shield. Once the action sweeps past you, you slip out, pretend you’re wounded, and mingle with the enemy. Then steal a horse if you live that long and ride like the hells were opening under you.”

  “I will, and if they catch me out, then I’ll dine with the rest of you in the Otherlands.”

  As he walked away, Ricyn begged the Goddess to let this clumsy ruse work.

  When he rejoined Gweniver at the gates, he found the squad that would fight behind them already in position.

  “There’s over a hundred,” Gweniver remarked. “They’re just drawing up for their charge now. On foot, at least.”

  “Why waste horses killing rats in a hole?”

  As he took his place beside her, they exchanged a smile. Beyond the breach he saw men climbing slowly uphill, then fanning out to the breaches. Inside, it was dead silent except for the occasional clink of a sword or shield. As the eastern sky brightened, Ricyn felt his heart pounding, but it wasn’t truly a fear, more a wondering what the Otherlands would be like. I’ll see Dagwyn again, he reminded himself, and tell him about his daughter. The dawn light brightened on metal, sword and mail, helm and shield boss. From far back in the Cantrae line, a silver horn cried out. With a yell, the Wyvern shields surged forward.

  It had started.

  Cerrmor held the breaches far longer than any of them had a right to expect. Gweniver and Ricyn themselves, fighting side by side, could have held off a large force alone in that size of a breach—if only there had been no gaps behind them. As it was, they fought grimly, barely aware of how high the sun was climbing. Screaming, the mob swirled for them, but Ricyn kept swinging, thrusting forward and falling back in perfect rhythm with the perfect partner. The dead began to pile up, hampering the Cantrae charges. Ricyn felt sweat streaming down his back and wished for a drink of water as he fought on and on. Next to him a Cerrmor man fell; another stepped forward to kill the Cantrae man who’d dropped him. Suddenly Ricyn heard screams from behind him—warning, despair.

  “Fall back!” Gweniver yelled. “They’ve broken through behind.”

  One cautious step at a time, the line retreated, swinging, parrying, trying to fan out as the Cantrae men poured through the gates. The ward became a madhouse of running men as the other Cerrmor squads tried to re-form their lines. Ricyn began cursing, a steady stream under his breath, but he heard Gweniver laughing and howling in her berserker’s fit. Suddenly the sun dimmed. As Ricyn made a quick thrust at an enemy, he smelled smoke, a thick, billowing cloud of it. Back and back toward the roundhouse, stumbling over the bodies of dead friends and enemies, choking from the smoke and swinging thrusting slashing—still Ricyn had time to look her way and hear her laughing as the mob grew round them. They reached the house and held the door while, one by one, what was left of the Cerrmor warband hobbled, crawled, and ran inside, all eight of them.

  “Get in, Ricco!” Gweniver yelled.

  He stepped in, dodging to make room for her to follow, then helped Camlwn swing the door shut and bar it. The roundhouse was sweltering hot from the burning upper story. The horses reared and screamed in panic as the men grabbed their reins and pulled them forward. Outside, Cantrae men were yelling for axes and pounding on the wooden shutters at the windows. At last the horses were gathered in a hysterical mob at the door. Ricyn and Camlwn flung it open as the men behind screamed at the herd and slapped them with the flat of their swords. Trampling and kicking, the horses tore out and plunged into the Cantrae men like living bludgeons.

  Ricyn swung around and started to yell an order. Then he saw Gweniver, and his voice cracked in his throat.

  She’d staggered back out of the way to die in the curve of the wall. In his battle fever he’d never seen her struck. He ran to her, sank down on his knees, and saw that she’d been stabbed in the back through the joining of her mail. When he turned her over, her face was oddly calm, her lovely blue eyes wide-open as her blood spread around her on the floor. Only then did Ricyn truly realize that he’d never live to see the noontide. He dropped his sword, grabbed hers like a talisman, and ran for the door. The smoke billowed down thick and swirled around the Cantrae men regrouping out in the ward.

  “Let’s charge, lads,” Ricyn said. “Why die like rats?”

  With one last shout of Glyn’s name, his men fell in behind him. Camlwn gave him one last grin; then Ricyn raised the sword that once the Goddess had blessed and charged straight for the enemy. For the first time he started laughing, just as coldly as she had, as if the Goddess were letting him for this little moment take Her priestess’s place.

  Ricyn stumbled over a dead horse and flung himself on the first Cantrae man that came his way. He killed him in one thrust, then spun around to meet the Wyvern shields ganging around him. He got a weak backhanded slash on an enemy, spun and lunged at another, then felt a bite of metal on his face, so sharp that for a moment he thought it was a bit of burning thatch, but blood welled up warm and salty in his mouth. When he staggered, a sword bit into his side. He threw his useless shield and turned, stabbed hard, and killed the man who’d wounded him. The fire was roaring, and the smoke was thick as sea fog. He staggered, swung again, choked on his own blood, and fell, trying to cough it back up. The enemies left him for dead and ran on.

  Ricyn staggered to his feet and took a few steps, but only when he tripped over the lintel to the house did he realize he’d gotten turned around. The fire was already creeping down the walls inside. He got to his feet and stumbled toward Gweniver. Although every step stabbed him with pain, at last he reached her. He fell to his knees beside her, then hesitated, wondering if the Goddess would condemn him for this gesture. He felt sure that She would no longer care. He threw himself down, reached out, and pulled Gweniver into his arms until he could rest with his head on her chest. His last thought was a prayer to the Goddess, asking forgiveness if he were doing a wr
ong thing.

  The Goddess was merciful. He bled to death before the flames reached him.

  Nevyn was in the king’s tent at the encampment when he heard the shouting and hoofbeats that meant the army had returned. He grabbed a cloak and ran through the drizzling rain to the meadow, a mob of confusion as the men dismounted. He shoved his way through and found the king, handing over his reins to his orderly. Glyn’s face was stubbled and filthy, with a streak of another man’s blood on his cheek and a black smear of ashes on his pale, stiff hair.

  “No one left alive,” he said. “We buried everyone we could find, but there was no trace of Gweniver and Ricyn. The Cantrae bastards had fired the dun, so most likely they were inside the roundhouse. At least they had a pyre, just like in the Dawntime.”

  “They would have liked that. Well, so be it.”

  “But we caught the Cantrae warband on the road— what was left of them, anyway. We wiped them out.”

  Nevyn nodded, not trusting his voice. Gwen would have liked that best of all, he thought. The king turned away and called for someone to bring Alban to him. So pale and exhausted that he was staggering, the lad came to the king’s side.

  “Can you do somewhat for him, Nevyn?” Glyn said. “I don’t want him getting a fever or suchlike after the splendid way he rode that message.”

  The praise from the king himself broke Alban’s last resistance. He tossed his head once, then began to sob like the young lad he was. As Nevyn led him off to the chirurgeon, he had trouble holding back his own tears. It will happen again and again, he reminded himself, that someone you love will die long before you. He wanted to curse his bitter Wyrd, but the most bitter thing of all was knowing that he had only himself to blame.

  INTERLUDE SPRING, 1063

  A hunter who lays snares had better watch where he puts his feet.

  —Old Deverry proverb

  Of all the towns in all the wide kingdom of Deverry, the Westfolk only ever visited Cernmeton and Dun Gwerbyn, and them only rarely. The townsfolk in both places had a curious reaction whenever the People rode their way. In a kind of unconscious conspiracy, they simply refused to admit how different the elves were. Any child who asked about elven ears was told that this savage tribe cropped their babies’ ears. Any child who pointed out the strange cat-slit eyes was told to hold his tongue, or else his ears might get cropped the same way. The adults themselves, however, found it hard to look an elf in the eye, which was one reason that the People considered human beings shifty and untrustworthy.