being at war with Caer Llion. They bond with a single rider and carry him or her until their end. When a rider dies, the Rhedewyr become stripped of identity and, wallowing in loss, usually die within two moons. Sometimes they bond with another, but more likely die from heartbreak.”
Richard patted Lyrian. The power in the massive Rhedewyr reverberated through the magnificent animal. The knight felt bad his freedom had come at such a high cost.
“You fit in better now,” Deirdre said, noting Bran’s new clothing.
The boy shifted uncomfortably, the new shirt, tunic, pants, and boots Kegan had supplied fitting loose beneath his cloak. If the lord of Caer Llion meant to recapture them, it would be more difficult if they blended in with the surrounding fey.
Out of the foggy woodland, Lugh materialized, leading two dozen more hellyll into the clearing. The defender of Arendig Fawr spoke low as he gestured south toward the plains and Dryvyd Wood, his warriors listening intently. The group separated into three equally sized groups then and faded into the ether, leaving their leader to walk toward Richard alone. He carried Areadbhar, his spear, its long-bladed burnished steel tip glowing like enflamed silver.
“What’s going on?” Richard asked.
“The Nharth have warned the Morrigan of an intruder,” Lugh said, standing solid alongside his spear. “I have dispatched the Long Hand to investigate.”
“What could it be?”
“It is probably a wayward Nordman or a lost banshee, but caution warrants care, especially after your rescue and journey to Arendig Fawr. Whatever it is, it will either be guided back to the plains or killed outright.”
Richard nodded to the dark elf as Kegan and his son Connal emerged from the Cadarn. The Morrigan, Lord Eigion, and Horsemaster Aife followed to stop at the open doorway, speaking in low tones.
“We are prepared to leave now, Knight McAllister,” Kegan said, hiking up a large bag on his back. “Best to leave before others wake.”
“We must make one stop first,” Richard said.
“Where are we going?” Bran asked.
“You’ll see.”
The knight and the boy traveled west out of Arendig Fawr, beyond the outlying homes of its denizens. Birds chirped, heralding the new day, while the fog began to burn off. It would be another hot day. Kegan, Deirdre, Lugh, and the hellyll warriors were left behind to complete the preparations. Soon they would be on their way to the dungeons of Caer Glain and Lord Fafnir, and there was much left to do.
“We go to Mastersmith Govannon,” the knight replied finally. “You cannot go into the heights of the Snowdon weaponless. From what I learned while speaking with the Morrigan, the Mastersmith will have something for you. He always does.”
Eagerness lit Bran’s face. Richard hoped the Queen wasn’t making a mistake.
After ten minutes of walking, smoke tickled his nose. They moved out of the forest into a meadow where the only stone building Richard had seen in Arendig Fawr sat backed up against the cliff, the structure made of finely cut gray-black stone blocks in the shape of a castle turret that seemed to absorb the sunlight. A massive chimney sprouted from its side where pungent smoke exhaled, and at its back, rivulets of water ran down the rock wall directly into the building’s interior.
Fiery light flickered through narrow windows, angry eyes watching.
“What is that stench?” Bran asked.
“Smithing is not a clean art,” Richard said. “The reason Govannon is way out here, on the outskirts of Arendig Fawr.”
Richard entered the building, Bran a step behind. The thick odor of hard work and fermented sweet beer swallowed them. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, the knight saw he was in a large armory filled to bursting. Weapons hung from walls and crammed entire corners—swords of all shapes and sizes, battle and pole-arm axes, spears of varying lengths and design. A table showcased hundreds of daggers and longer knives while beneath shields—some round, others as tall as a man—were stacked neatly. Various pieces of armor dangled from the ceiling and littered any available space, vacant steel clothing waiting to be filled.
There was enough smithy work to outfit an army.
In another corner a distillery sat, surrounded by closed barrels.
From the fire-soaked shadows of the rear, the forceful pounding of a hammer meeting steel and anvil pierced his ears, steady and rhythmic.
“Govannon!” Richard yelled. “Mastersmith!”
The fall of the hammer ended, it’s last strike ringing throughout the room.
“Chyneuwch!“ a deep voice rumbled from the darkness.
Faint marble-sized orbs of milky light came into being, hovering just below the ceiling, growing stronger until they