Crimson Fire (9 page)

Talorcan’s family came from the marc of Bernice in Dere, the marc that contained Wodnesbeorg, a place most revered by the Heiden. Havgan even had some suspicions that Talor- can was related to the old ruling family of Dere, a family long steeped in magic.

Penda came from the shire of Lindisfarne, in Mierce, and had lived at the foot of Mount Badon, that mountain from where the Wild Hunt itself was said to ride. Though Penda’s father professed the new religion, Havgan was not so sure that his worship of Lytir descended beyond lip service. And Penda was promised to the daughter of the Alder of Minting, a man once accused of being one of the Heiden. The Alder had suc- cessfully defended himself against the allegation, but there were many who still believed it.

Havgan was aware that Sigerric, too, was uneasy, but for different reasons from the rest. Sigerric knew Havgan best of all. They all knew that something very important had hap- pened to Havgan during the Gewinnan Daeg celebration al- most two years ago. They all knew that he had heard the voice of God, telling him to exterminate the witches of Kymru.

But only Sigerric seemed to suspect that Havgan had re- cently set in motion a train of events that would carry him to the notice of those who ruled the Empire, an essential step in his plan. Not that Sigerric knew details—Havgan had been very careful for, though he trusted Sigerric, he did not want to burden his friend. Some details involved cold-blooded murder, something Sigerric would surely frown upon.

He walked back across the ruins toward his men, eyeing the huge, blackened, T-shaped stone that rested in what had once been the central courtyard. Around the stone,
fi
re-blackened urns rested. Hundreds of runes were incised into the granite rock, their stiff, angular shapes menacing beneath the gray sky.

Havgan nodded toward the rock and turned to Penda, his brows raised.

“It was carved in the shape of Donar’s hammer,” Penda

said reluctantly. “It was here that the bodies of the Maeder- Godias were laid to rest.”

“Then they burned them,” Talorcan went on, “and gath- ered their ashes into urns.”

“Why are the urns still here?” Catha asked curiously. “I would think that destroying them would have been paramount when the temple was burned.”

“They tried to take them,” Penda said softly. “But those who even so much as touched them sickened and died. And so Asbru Hlaew, the Rainbow Mound, stays inviolate.”

“Why is it called the Rainbow Mound?” Baldred asked. “Because it is said that this is the place where the Asbru

Bridge, the rainbow of the gods, touches the earth,” Talorcan answered. “It is said that on Ragnorak, the Twilight of the Gods, the gods themselves will ride over that bridge and onto Middle-Earth to begin their destruction.”

“It is further said that only one will hold them back—and that one is not even a Coranian. One of the Kymri will save the world that day, here at the Battle of Camlan,” Penda said solemnly.

“A most unlikely tale,” Havgan said. “For why would a Kymri save Corania?”

“Even more unlikely that one of Kymru would be alive to save us,” Sigerric said harshly. “For do you not plan to kill them all?”

Havgan whipped around to face his friend. For a moment the two stood there, facing each other, unmoving. Sigerric’s brown eyes held both disdain and a hint of sorrow. Havgan’s amber eyes
fl
ashed, but subsided. Sigerric was his dearest friend, and Havgan knew that, no matter what, Sigerric would not desert him. Not ever.

“These are old tales,” Havgan said softly, “from before the

time Lytir came to us and showed us that the Old Gods had no power. Now Lytir reigns supreme. He will send someone to hold back that destruction—if, indeed, the Old Gods are even capable of it.”

“You think they are not?” Penda asked.

“Their power is long since faded,” Havgan replied.

“Do you truly think so?” Talorcan asked softly. “You do not know, I think, of what you speak.”

“I know that Lytir himself commanded me,” Havgan said. “I know that his power is within me. I know that I cannot be stopped. Penda, Talorcan,” Havgan went on, “tell me of the signs on the wall of the temple itself.” He turned and led them to the crumbling inner walls that brooded silently beneath the cloudy sky.

Penda spoke
fi
rst. “These are the signs of the chief gods,

those that are honored in the six festivals.” He pointed
fi
rst to three concentric circles within a triangle, painted in black and silver. “This is for Narve, the father of all, the God of Death. He is also called Yffr, the Terrible One, and the One that Binds.”

“The next symbol is for Nerthus,” Talorcan said, pointing to a symbol on the wall of two half circles, one brown and one green, joined at their arcs. “She is the Goddess of the Earth, the daughter of Narve and Ostara, the Warrior Goddess. She is said to live on an island in the ocean, and boars are sacred to her.”

“The next is for Donar, the God of Thunder. When he throws his hammer, Molnir, lightning plays across the sky. He has red hair, and both the oak and the bull are sacred to him. He is much to be feared.” Penda pointed to a T-shaped symbol painted in dark blue and silver.

Talorcan continued. “The next sign is for Tiw, the God of War,” he said, pointing at a large arrow painted in red and gold pointing upward. “His sword, called Tyr
fi
ng, could only be sheathed if human blood was on it. He is the son of Wuotan and Nerthus.”

“The next two symbols are for Fro and Freya, the Lord and the Lady,” Penda said, pointing to two intertwined symbols in white and gold. One was two triangles lying on their side, and the other was a line with two jagged perpendicular lines jutting from it. “They are the twin children of Narve and Erce, the Goddess of Peace. They are the givers of peace and plenty. Freya is the goddess of fertility, and Fro is the one who bestows dreams and visions.”

Talorcan gestured to the last symbol, a circle cut into quar- ters, painted in gray and purple. “This is the sign of Wuotan, the God of Magic, the son of Narve. His secrets of magic are called seidr. He hung on Irminsul, the World Tree, for nine days to gain the knowledge and mastery of the seidr. He is called the Wanderer and also One-Eye, for he gave one of his eyes to the Wyrd to drink from the well of knowledge. The eagle is sacred to him. Along with the goddess, Holda, he leads the Wild Hunt.”

Havgan lifted his hand to silence the rest as he stared at the symbol for Wuotan, not taking his eyes from the circle. He had felt something, something he could not name, as Talorcan had spoken of Wuotan. It almost seemed to him that the air grew thicker, the wind perhaps a little sharper, even the leaden sky above them seemed to have darkened. He was not afraid, for he knew Lytir would defend him against Wuotan. But he knew, somehow, that the God of Magic had power still. And he knew,

for he had felt it many times in his life, that Wuotan had long fought Lytir for the possession of Havgan’s soul. But One-Eye had lost, for Havgan belonged wholly to Lytir. He would do Lytir’s bidding, for he knew what happened to the Heiden when they died. He knew that they were sent to Hel, where all those who did not worship Lytir were sentenced.

He would not, he would never be, one of them.

Without speaking, he turned away from the painted walls and began to make his way slowly through the ruins, away from the others. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He had come here because he had thought that it might be useful, that he might gain some insight into the witches of Kymru by com- ing to a place once sacred to the witches of Corania. They were different from each other only in that they lived in different parts of the world. They were both evil.

He had been commanded to destroy the witches of Kymru, the Y Dawnus, and he would not be distracted from that pur- pose. The wyrce-jaga had already made it their life’s work to destroy the witches of Corania. While he would not actively aid them, for it would distract him from his purpose, he would not even think to hinder them. Yet it had occurred to him that the Wiccan themselves might be useful to him. It might be that he could tap into some of their power. He would use anyone and everyone to do what was necessary. He would even use Wuotan himself if it came to that.

“That might be a problem, for he is not trustworthy, you know.”

Havgan whirled around to face an old man. The man had a patch over his right eye, but his left eye was a bright and sparkling silvery gray. His long, gray hair was tangled and

dusty, and he wore a nondescript cloak of gray.

“Who are you?” Havgan asked, his hand going to his dagger. “I am sorry, lord,” the man said, cringing away. “I didn’t

mean to startle you.”

“Who are you? Do not make me ask again.”

“I am called Grim, lord,” the old man said, making a clumsy bow.

“What are you doing here?”

“I am just passing through, young lord. Just passing through.” “On your way to where?”

“To nowhere, young sir. I am just a wanderer. I seek new places and new things. I tell stories and sing songs. I harm no one.”

Havgan hesitated. The man did, indeed, seem harmless, but he was still wary. “What was it you said at
fi
rst?”

“Why, nothing. Merely a greeting.”

“That is not how I remember it,” Havgan said softly, his tone dangerous. “You spoke of Wuotan.”

“Oh, I would never speak of him in a place such as this. I would be afraid to.”

“The Old Gods do not have power anymore,” Havgan said sharply.

“As you say sir,” the old man said, with a half bow. “As you say.” The man turned away, then turned back again. “Oh, by the way, I wouldn’t be too sure that the Old Gods are powerless. Why, just look behind you.”

Havgan whirled, for he had felt a prickling at the nape of his neck, as though someone—or something—was sneaking up behind him. But there was no one there. The wind picked up and began to howl for a moment, then subsided. He turned

around to speak sharply to the old man, but he was gone. Hav- gan glanced around wildly, but he could see no one except his
fi
ve friends, who still stood some distance from him.

He called out to them even as he strode toward them. “Where did he go?”

Sigerric looked at him blankly. “Where did who go?” “The old man!”

“What old man?”

“Didn’t you see him? He was right there, talking to me.” “We didn’t see anyone,” Sigerric said. “Just you, wander-

ing through the ruins.”

Havgan opened his mouth to argue, but abruptly shut it. For at that moment an eagle wheeled high overhead, calling with the voice of the wind. And from far, far away, the sound of hunting horns drifted across the plain.

Tiwdaeg, Sol 24—late morning

T
WO MONTHS LATER
,
Sigerric, riding across the grassy plain beside Havgan, was thinking very hard about his friend.

Havgan was up to something, something devious, something possibly very, very dark, something Sigerric was still not certain he even wanted to know. But it had become evident to Sigerric some years ago that his task was to save his friend if he could. The trouble was that Havgan did not want to be saved, did not even seem to see the danger that Sigerric saw so clearly.

Sigerric had not wanted Havgan to go to Ealh Galdra, for it was a dangerous place. He was of the opinion that the Old Gods were not as powerless as some would like to think. And though he had seen nothing, and Havgan had said very little, Siger- ric had his suspicions that Havgan had encountered something

there. But Havgan had refused to discuss it. Indeed, Havgan always refused to discuss the things that troubled him most.

That was a characteristic of his friend that frightened Siger- ric—for he had never known Havgan to have the slightest incli- nation to face the dark things that lurked inside, to even contem- plate a journey toward the truths that surely lay buried there.

And Sigerric had often thought that some very dark things indeed lay hidden deep inside his friend. Sigerric had heard men mutter that they were surprised that Havgan, the son of a
fi
sherman, could have such a hold over his fellow warriors, the scion of lords of the Empire. Sigerric could have told them all that though he had no idea whose son Havgan really was, he certainly was not the son of a
fi
sherman. But even Havgan himself was not ready to believe that, so Sigerric had held his tongue—so far.

Catha, Baldred, Penda, and Talorcan rode behind Siger- ric and Havgan, their cloaks fanning out behind them, laugh- ing and calling to each other as they raced across the meadow. Overhead the sun shone bright and warm as the heady scent of a summer morning drifted past them in the gentle breeze.

Havgan laughed with them, his hair vying with the sun for brightness, laughter in his amber eyes. He held up his hand, and they all came to a halt.

“So, Havgan,” Catha called, “how in the world did you get Lord Wiglaf to let us go? Blackmail?”

“His winning personality, of course,” Talorcan said. His light green eyes danced with laughter in his thin face. “What else?”

“It was easy,” Havgan replied with a wicked grin. “I prom- ised him that the
fi
ve of you would do midnight guard duty for the next three months.”

Baldred groaned. “You didn’t!”

“Why, Baldred,” Havgan said with mock dismay, “I thought you would be pleased to be part of the advanced welcome for the Prince.”

“But at what price?” Penda asked theatrically. “We are un- done!”

“Truthfully, though, we are very lucky to be chosen,” Bal- dred said, scanning the east horizon.

“And we will be luckier still if he takes any notice of us,” Talorcan added.

Havgan ducked his head in an attempt to hide his smile at Talorcan’s remark. The others did not notice, though Sigerric did. And that was when he got the barest glimmer that some- thing was going to happen today. He suddenly remembered that twice this week he had gone looking for Havgan, and his friend could not be found.

“Well, old Sigerric here is a good friend of Prince Aesc,” Catha said, slapping Sigerric’s shoulder. “I am certain he would be glad to see you.”