For Camelot's Honor (7 page)

Then Urien threw back his head and laughed, and the power of Elen's words crumbled away.

“Very good, little Elen. Very brave. But I too have my friends and protectors. You may not touch me by such means.”

Elen's chest heaved with the force of her breath. The unspent curse surged through her blood, causing her hands and knees to tremble with its force. How could he have have turned her words here and now? What protection did he have? What friend had he who could do so much?

“Now, come here, girl, before I grow angry.”

Yestin stepped between them both. “You will not have her.”

Urien sighed. “It's time you remembered you were a man, Yestin.” He jerked his chin to the man on his left. That man was broad faced and broad shouldered and carried a knife and a club, and grinned as he came forward.

Yestin did not wait for him. He screamed and he charged, the sheer fury of him knocking the man's defence aside to plunge his sword up to its hilts in the other's breast. But the dead man's companions seized Yestin by the shoulders, cursing, wrestling him off, even as he spun to face them, blade dripping gore.

Elen ran too. She ran for the treasure heap. Urien's foot shot out and caught her ankle, sending her sprawling across the floor, skidding obscenely in the fresh blood. He lunged for her, but she rolled and she kicked, and he missed her, and she threw herself forward again. He lunged once more, but she wrapped her hands around the hilt of the gift sword. She could barely lift it, her hands were so weakened by hunger and failure, but she raised its tip to Urien's belly.

Urien threw back his head and laughed at the sight of her, trembling and pitiful with the bright sword in her shaking hands.

He should not have. Elen dove, almost fell, but the long sword was sharp enough to do the work. Its weight drove the blade into his side, through his leather jerkin and planted into his gut.

Urien screamed, his back arched like a bow and he fell, blood oozing from the wound. Before Elen could raise the sword again, Yestin grabbed her by the wrist, causing her to drop the sword.

“Get her out of here!” he screamed.

The wider world came back in a rush of sound — shouts, screams, clashing metal — men and women rushed to fill the hall, some of them allies, other's Urien's men, riding straight in on their foaming, snorting ponies. Elen collided with Madyn, big, grizzled, a wound on his bald scalp pouring blood down his face. He grabbed her arm and hauled her away from the surge and storm of the battle.

She wanted to pull away, to scream at him that she would have Urien's head. She would parade it before his men and hang it from what was left of the walls of her home. But at least one of Urien's men ran behind them, and she saw more of them charging up the hill, two on horse and at least four more afoot, knives and axes out. They came to their chieftain's cries, coming to cut her and Yestin, and all their own down.

And Elen found she was not so ready to die as she thought.

Madyn was running, heading for what the rear of the hall and the ovens. Elen followed at his heels, every muscle straining, her lungs gulping down air. Madyn was shouting, but she could not make out the words. The hoofbeats were getting closer, mingling with the pounding of her heart. They would have to turn, have to face them or be ridden down. She would make sure they let out their blood as the price for hers. She would strike that much of a blow …

Another crowd of men surged forward, and women too, coming from behind the ovens and the ruined storehouses. They screamed as they ran, holding up picks and hammers and improvised pikes as well as knives and clubs. Elen knew them, every one. They ran past her, and the two horsemen were at once surrounded. They flailed out, but the defenders of Pont Cymryd were too many for them, and they were toppled from their saddles. It came to Elen that Yestin had planned this. Her little brother had thought Urien might be waiting waiting for them. Yestin had allowed for the chance of escape.

Elen heard the sick crunch of breaking bones and in the pit of her heart she both wanted to cheer and be violently sick.

Madyn grabbed her wrist again, pulling her into a run behind him. Her feet stumbled. Her body had been too long without food. Her heart had been torn in two. Her strength was all but gone. She could not see clearly. A fog descended over her mind as thick as the one she had been driven through, how long ago? An hour? A lifetime? She didn't know.

They headed up the hills into the deep woods. Bracken dragged at her hems and branches slapped her face and shoulders. Madyn labored to hoist her up the rough slopes. She tried to help him, she truly did, but she had no help left. It was momentum alone that kept her upright. If they stopped, she would fall. She knew that, but she no longer had the strength to care.

At last, they did stop. She heard the trickle of water, saw the play of light and shadow before her that told her they were old heart of the wood. The ground sloped away from her feet, and as she had known would happen, her knees buckled and she fell onto the sweet smelling loam. Hands touched her, rolling her over, checking to see if she had taken any hurt to her body. A cloak was laid across her, and Elen closed her eyes, and slept.

She was surprised when she woke. Her dreams had all been of death and darkness. Her sleeping soul had not believed there could be an end to them, let alone one that brought the slanting yellow sun of afternoon and the scents of earth and herbs. She found she could sit up, and while her limbs were weak, they were under her control. Her throat burned with thirst. Her hunger was a dull, persistent ache below her heart.

A bowl of broth was put into her hands. She looked up to see Corsen, Cate's daughter. Corsen was dishevelled and dirty, and she gave Elen a smile as she straightened up. The steam rising from the broth smelled of meat and sorrel. Elen drank down the broth although it was hot enough to scald her throat and ate the shreds of quail and wood pigeon with her fingers, barely remembering to be careful of the bones.

Corsen took the bowl and refilled it from the iron kettle that hung over the small fire that was more embers than flame, and handed it to Aedden so the blacksmith could eat his share. For a moment, Elen felt ashamed. She should have made sure everyone else had eaten before she took her portion. That was what mother would have done. She pushed that thought aside. She needed food. She needed strength. She needed to be able to see and understand so she could think what to do. She was alive and she must stay that way, for her people, for her revenge.

There were about a dozen survivors huddled around that fire, each one dirty and weary, their torn and mud-spattered clothes hanging limply from their bodies. Saffi was giving her baby suck. Little Tev was leaning against his father's bruised knee. Col and Tori were sitting so close together it looked as if they hoped to meld into one being. Shadows between the tree trunks told Elen there were more of their people standing watch against what the pursuit might come. She looked more closely at those shadows, and she saw, to her joy, one of them was Yestin.

Yestin. Yestin, with a gash on his head, and another down the length of his arm, was standing on the far side of the fire, whispering with Madyn. He looked up and saw her watching him. He put his hand on Madyn's shoulder. Madyn vanished into the trees, and Yestin came around the fire to sit beside her.

“You are well, Elen?” he asked, and there was fear in his voice.

Elen nodded, hoping that would be enough to reassure him. She did not trust herself to speak just yet.

“You did us great service, Elen,” he said, a grim smile on his face. “With a sword cut to the belly, Urien might not last long. If we can hold for a few days, we'll be able to …”

Slowly, regretfully, Elen shook her head. “He's not dead.”

That pronouncement startled Yestin. “He will be,” her brother said carefully. “It saw it. That was no small hurt he took.”

“Nonetheless, he lives and he'll stay alive. I know it.” She did know. The fact of Urien's life itched beneath her skin. Yestin peered closely at her. He cursed softly, but he did not deny her word. She realized he was treating her pronouncement as he would have one of their mother's, and that new truth settled heavily on her.

“Tell me how …” she began.

Yestin sighed and shook his head. He had aged while she had been gone. His eyes had sunken into his head, pushed back by what he had seen. “The men from Camelot stayed two more days. Everyone asked after you, Elen. We were worried, but mother was calm. She said you'd be back when your task was done. She listened fair to Arthur's men. She liked what she heard, and I know they liked what they heard in turn. We gave no firm answer, though, as we planned …” he faltered. “Just sent them away with polite words and promises to exchange more.”

She could picture them doing just that, mother sitting in her great chair, Yestin standing at her right hand, Arthur's men ranged in a half-circle before them, speaking earnestly.

“It seems that even this was too much for Urien.” Yestin's voice hardened. “He came back. He … he stood before our mother in her own house and he ordered her to reject the hand of friendship Arthur offered. She tried to put him off, saying it was too soon to make any such decision, that there must be careful and deliberate thought. But again, he ordered her. She told him to take himself away.

“And he told her she had sealed her own doom, and he left.”

This too Elen could see. Urien swelling with rage until even his hair stood on end. Mother calm as stone, and just as unmoveable. She could hear his final words falling from him, one by one, like pebbles cast in the river, and see him turn on his heel, his cloak spreading out like a crow's wings behind him.

“We were all afraid at that. We … I rallied the men, and we rode out to watch the borders. Mother and … Carys were to get everyone into the hall. We knew, you see, he'd try something. We were determined to be ready.”

Carys. Bright, blithe Carys, who was meant to be her sister come spring …

“We didn't know he had his men already in the woods. We didn't …” Yestin faltered. “They came before we could even harness the horses. They cut us down like straw. I tried to hold him back from the house … I swear before all the gods I tried, Elen …” It was finally too much for him and she saw the tears beginning in his eyes. He could not break, not now. They needed to be strong. She took his hands, holding them tightly.

She could see him, running through the night, father's sword in his hand, shouting. Her brother, her little brother, covered in blood, death on his hands and in his heart.

“I should have died with them, but mother ordered I should get our people away.”

Elen swallowed the fear and bile that bubbled up in her as she looked around at the tiny crowd of weary friends.

“Are these … all?”

“No,” answered Yestin quickly. “Urien's taken many as slaves, and he's already marched them away. Those of us who have managed to stay free, were scattered. Ellis and Win are out in search of the others. We hope to meet up with as many as we can at Olwen's well.”

Olwen's well was a pool in a valley deep back in the hills. It had no visible stream to feed it, and yet it was never dry. It was a place all knew. It had few easy approches, so it could be held by a handful of men, and however long they had to wait there, at least there would be water.

“So we abandon our home?” she whispered.

Yestin looked at her with nothing short of betrayal. “He holds the house, Elen. You saw …. we couldn't even …” he bit back his anger.

Could not even save mother's body from him.
She would have seen her by now if Yestin had been successful. She would be lying here beneath her shroud, waiting for her daughter to do the rites for her. But the living were here alone.

Yestin turned his face away to hide his shame and defeat. “Without help, we can do nothing.”

“I'm sorry, Yestin,” Elen whispered. She pushed both hands through her hair, trying to put her mind in order. The others were watching them. With mother … mother dead … Yestin was chief now, and she was … She was her mother's daughter in this place, at this time, and she was beginning to understand what that meant. She was keenly aware that the others watched her. No, it was more than that. They were looking to her for guidance, as they had looked to her mother, and before her, to father, as their families had looked to hers down the generations. Their people needed them to be strong, to set all in order.

Oh, Mother, help us. What do we do?

“How hard is he likely to be looking for us?”

“Harder now that his trap failed,” said Yestin heavily. “He'll want me dead so our people are without a …” he stumbled. “Chief. You he'll want, dead or married off to one of his men.” He spat. The thought left Elen feeling more dirty than did the blood on her hands.

“I've been talking with Madyn and Aedden.” Yestin huddled in on himself, needing comfort, but trying desperately not to show it. “They … we … think the best thing is to head up the river. Tuder ap Howel is an honorable man. He'll not want Urien lording it over his borders or the bridge.”

And his cantrev is even smaller than ours. Will he be able to raise enough men? And what if we can't … what if we've lost our home … no. No. I won't believe that.

“There's someone else,” she said, lifting her head and turning her face, not west, but east. “Arthur is holding his summer court at Caerleon on the Usk, is he not?”

“So his men said.” Yestin sounded almost wary.

“This high king promised our enemies would be his,” Elen's voice was stone. “Now we will see how he keeps his word.”

“We thought of that Elen, but Caerleon is four days away.”

“Then you must keep our people together and alive until I can return with men and arms.” She stood. “Does Urien think we are defeated and outlanders? We will teach him better.” Around her voices muttered their agreement. Here and there, a fist clenched, imagining a weapon in its clutch.