Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [74]
“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 wrong 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