"Arafel!" cried Nearachd, leaping to the ground. "Liosliath!"
Then he felt his wound, the cold within his arm, felt the strength ebbing from him with a flow of blood dark as the night about them. He wavered on his feet, and there were friends about him; there was Arafel before him, after so many ages—face to face.
"Stay," came a Voice through the earth itself, soothing and seduc ing. "O stay, Daoine Sidhe. Do not think to go."
"Do not listen," said Nearachd. "The ships are waiting, Aoibheil. And it will never take us. Come. There is nothing more to gain."
"Nothing more," said Liosliath. He looked at her with ages stored up of hope, of waiting, but something came into the stone that dimmed it all at once. She looked sadly faded, streaked with dark ness that was blood; there was sorrow in her eyes and heartbreak in the stone.
"You understand," she said. "You would understand."
"Haste!" cried Nearachd.
"No," said Arafel.
"Hold to this?" Liosliath asked. "O Aoibheil, no more."
"But there are Men," she said. "If we quit this world to safety— we leave them to the Worm. We have weapons. We are not done. —O cousins, have we learned nothing? What happens here matters."
"If we should fall to it," said Gliadrachan, "o Arafel, the risk—"
"It matters," Liosliath said. He still held the broken sword, heard the dragon coming, felt cold steal up his arm. He touched the stone he wore, that all the others lacked. "I remember. I remember Caer Righ before it was Dun Gol. We made both. Myself— I stand with Arafel."
"Not alone," said Gliadrachan, leaping from her horse.
"Not alone," said Nearachd, and others leaped down, setting ar rows to their bows.
So they set themselves and waited, and now they heard its tread, felt the shiver in the air. Arafel stood with them, nocked the last arrow that she had. "Stay back from it," Liosliath said, standing by her. "It aim's most at you."
She said nothing.
Foolish, said the Worm. Why struggle? You have seen the world changed from all it was. Would you have it back again? We can re make it. It can be anything we will
Then was cold and a time that passed measureless, when nothing stirred at all. It was with them, how they had not seen, came glit tering like bronze and gold, moving slowly as in some dream, and it seemed the sun had come into that darksome place, glowing on its scales. Its wings blew away the mist and fire coursed the veins that webbed them. Most of all its eyes—its eyes were no color at all. They drew the eye that tried to see what in truth that color was, and nothing was there at all.
No need of weapons, said Nathair Sgiathach. No need of struggle. The leaves will grow again, the lakes be pure, all things that you desire.
Bows unbent, strings eased. The Sidhe stood mazed and lost.
The last green perished.
Meadhbh held her gift within her hand; it burned, it had warmth when all had failed, when the each-uisge's trembling stilled, as spell bound as the elves. It loomed, this dreadful thing—it wanted them; and the thing she had, that Ceallach had, it spied this now and drew them.
"No," she said, and louder yet: "Not" cried Ceallach.
One Sidhe moved. It was Arafel, who fell to one knee, who bent her bow; it shook and faltered.
The dragon lunged, the arrow sped, into its numbing eye. It wailed, it reared, its wings beat in storm and whirlwind as it rose into the air.
It rose and rose, a shadow now, like a plume of smoke above them; it hovered, plunged—somewhere beyond the hills. The earth shud dered. There was silence.
Then the world began dissolving, blown on winds that blew it all in shreds of light and dark.
There was quiet on Aescbourne's banks, on the sandy hill, quiet in the midst of battle—the enemy fell back, yet another time.
Death was there again. Branwyn had seen him. Rhys had told her who he was, the dark ally who was sometimes here and sometimes not—she saw ghosts; and horrors. There were things horned like stags, clawed like bears, with wolvish eyes, worse even than the en emy. She huddled there behind a wall of shields, of men she loved, of all the world left to her. Weapons flew; arrows struck shields—
And then the silence, as if the world had held its breath. She rose, gazing outward past a sudden gap, for shields had dropped. The air felt strange and cold, the very earth seemed wavering in shadow and in light like light through thickest cloud.
"Where are they?" someone asked. "Where have they gone?"
There were hoofbeats, drawing near. The dark rider had come among them; and suddenly there was nothing else—the hill, their little band, the rider who beckoned.
"Come," Death said. "Your battle now is ended. You must leave this place, and quickly. Trust me now and come."
Branwyn was held then. Her breaths seemed slowed or her life went quicker: she saw—everything, as if the day had come, when yet there was no color. The rider beckoned yet again.
"Traitor," said Beorc. Shields moved slowly; Domhnull brought his up: she saw this, saw Rhys on his feet again, the Boglach shaft still in his side; but he held his sword, left-handed. "There were bargains, and you failed."
"All the world is failing. You have no part in what will be. Lady Branwyn: come to me. Come now. Come first and bring the others."
"No," she said, said it softly, with all her heart; and cried out, for it seemed he tried to reach them. "No!" The world quaked. "Go away! Let my people be!"
"You are mine. These folk belong to me." He came closer; his sword was drawn. It shone with baleful fires. "Rhys, Beorc, and Domhnull—"
"Let be!" Branwyn cried. She was cold coming down the hill. Men moved slowly about her, in the colorless, dreadful light. They wished to stop her, held out their hands, fading like the world. "Let them go, let them all go and I will come."
"Gods, no!" said Beorc. He thrust up his sword, met Death's. The iron parted, left him weaponless. The world swirled about them all.
And color came, pale at first, like mist on meadows, a touch of green and coolness. The mist gave way to sun, to trees about them, silver-leaved, hills folding about them.
"Beorc!" Domhnull cried. But of all of them, only Beorc was not there, and all the ghosts had gone. They stood few and tattered, bewildered in this place. There was silence, but for the wind.
"Welcome," piped a voice. "O welcome, gold lady! O come, come, come!"
It was the Gruagach, perched upon a stone. Three ponies waited near him, and a tall piebald mare.
"Gruagach," said Branwyn, "o Gruagach—Come where?"
"You are there already. Follow, follow now. Some ride, some walk, not far, not far, o my Men, my gold lady, follow as you can."
Rhys thought to walk; he could not. His men caught him in their arms and set him on the horse. So they did for others that were hurt too much to walk, and the ponies bore them gently.
The Gruagach went before them, dancing as he went, up, up the vale while the hills unfolded. They went with all their strength, with hope in what they should find.
The steading lay before them, just as it had been before—if any thing, more rambling.
They came as quickly as they could, some even running at the last, for Caer Wiell folk were streaming down the hill to meet them, and foremost, two red-haired children.
"Meadhbh! Ceallach!" Branwyn cried, and ran to catch them in her arms. Muirne came, and Cein, Cook and Seamaire, Cobhan and Smith and Domhnull's kin—there was no lack of tears; and laughter mingled with them, for all that they had saved.
"The elves brought us," Meadhbh said. "They're here."
Last the steaders came, with the tall, red-haired master and his gold-braided wife.