Chapter 11:

The king was dead.  His father was dead -- if he had still been his father when he was Dylan.  Sometimes it seemed he'd always been Dylan, that Prince Emrys had been but a dream.  He knew it hadn't, but it seemed like it had. 

It might as well have been a dream.  He would never be king now; his uncle, Merfyn, was.  But, how could the God have accepted Merfyn as king?  He had passed him over in favor of Gwaid.  One of Merfyn's sons should have inherited, not Merfyn.  Gruffydd had returned from town with the news.

Llywellyn didn't come that day.  His servant came, telling Dylan that Llywelln had been arrested along with Trista, the king's healer, and all those loyal to the old king.  What had happened to the God?  How could he have allowed this to happen?

"Your mother's been arrested," he told Braith. 

"She's no longer my mother," Braith said.  She repudiated Megan.  It's as much her fault as any that you're not king instead of Merfyn."  Braith didn't believe that.  He blamed himself -- Megan -- but Megan had done what she had because she had loved Emrys. 

Couldn't her mother have understood that?  Megan hadn't been fucking the prince -- not since that first time -- not as Megan, anyway.  She wished now that Megan had explained that to her mother -- told her that she, too, was a wizard; but it was too late for that.  Megan no longer existed; and Braith was no longer a wizard.

"What are we going to do?" asked Braith.

"I don't know," said Dylan.  "I'm going into town.  I want to see if I can find out what's happening."

"I'm going with you," said Braith.

"No," said Dylan, "it's not safe.  I might not be able to protect you."

"But I've protected you in the past," said Braith.

"When you had magic," he said.  "You can no longer do magic.  I'll take Pedr and Tomos.  They've both become good fighters.  I want you to stay here, where it's safe."

"I don't like being separated from you," said Braith.  "I wouldn't know what to do, if you didn't come back."

Dylan took him into his arms, kissing him.  "I'll come back," he said.

* * *

Dylan saw both Llywellyn and Trista on the way to town.  They sat atop poles, set up outside the town gates.  They, along with others -- including the God's priests -- had been impaled.  They still lived, but if Llywellyn recognized Dylan, he gave no indication. 

Anyway, he couldn't have spoken; he had screamed until he no longer had a voice.  He didn't see Dylan.  The world was comprised of pain -- nothing but pain.  A pink fog obscured his vision.  With each breath -- with each movement -- he settled farther onto the sharpened pole, as it inched it's way deeper into his rectum.   He might live until it reached his heart.

The God must be dead, thought Dylan.  His king was dead, and his priests sat on poles.  But what god ruled in Gwynedd?  He soon learned.  Nysrogh.  He heard his name spoken.  Nay -- he heard it proclaimed. 

He, Pedr, and Tomos had come to town naked, believing they would be less noticed, if thought to be slaves.  Each had a pouch tied to a belt around his waist.  In the pouch, each carried a knife. 

But few walked the streets; even the market was almost deserted -- except for soldiers, that is.  They were everywhere.  Dylan heard several of them invoke the name of the Dark Lord.

In the market, they were accosted by four soldiers.  "Take them," one of them said.

"We're on our master's business," said Dylan, "come to the market for surplies."

"Your master has no further use of you," said the guard, "all slaves are now property of the king -- property of Nysrogh.  "The two of you with balls, will lose them tonight and with them, your souls.  The one without balls is more fortunate.  He will continue to be a slave; but for fun, I'll take his cock now."  He pulled a dagger.

When the man went for Tomos, Dylan stepped in front of him, stabbing him with his knife.  Pedr and Tomos attacked two others.  By the time they had killed them, Dylan had killed the fourth. 

Soldiers, the men might have been, but well trained, they weren't.  They must have been recently recruited.

"Come," said Dylan, "we must return home.  The guards are taking everyone.  They might have already gone there."

They had.  The gates to their little fortress were open.  Several soldiers lay outside the gates, arrows protruding from their corpses. 
Inside, were more dead; the bodies of Gruffydd and three of the former market boys lay among a dozen dead guards.  The boys had fought well.  Gruffydd had trained them well; but he would train no more.

Braith wasn't among the dead; neither was he anywhere in the compound.  Blood and overturned furniture littered their bedroom, but Braith wasn't there.

Dylan had to find out where Braith and the others had been taken.  He would have gone for the others, even if Braith hadn't been taken with them.  They were his friends, as well as his soldiers.  He had never thought he could have such feelings for commoners, but he did.  Actually, was Dylan any more than a commoner, anyway?

Looking at the dead soldiers, Dylan noticed that many weren't much older than he, certainly no older than fourteen  Their uniforms would fit the three of them.  One was a man at fourteen, after all.  Dylan was now thirteen.  He was reasonably certain that Pedr was already fourteen.

They took clothes from three of them, knowing it wouldn't be safe to go back to town as slaves.  This time, Dylan carried a sword as well as his knife. 

They pulled their dead friends off to the side, covering them with blankets from the boys' room, then followed the tracks left by the soldier, occasionally seeing the print of a barefoot among the tracks left by their sandals.  At least, some of their friends could still walk.

Once inside the city they fell in behind another group of soldiers they saw going house to house.  "Heil, Nysrogh," one said to them.

"Heil," said Dylan in return.  The soldier didn't seem to notice he hadn't added the Dark Lord's name to the greeting.

The family inside the first house had a son about fourteen or fifteen, a daughter of about twelve and two smaller children, boys of five or six.  The soldiers took the older boy.  "He's my first born," the father said, "my heir."

"No more," said the sergeant, "tonight or tomorrow he loses his cock and balls.  He belongs to Merfyn and Nysrogh now." 

The boy blanched upon hearing his fate, struggling against those holding him.  One hit him with a club, and two dragged him away.

They stopped at each house, taking every boy that had his man hair, no matter his age -- no matter that he was the family's only son.  Whenever someone asked what was to become of the boy, he was told that the boy had been chosen to serve Nysrogh. 
Dylan could only hope that they were taking these boys to the same place Braith and his friends had been taken -- and that they arrived before they were cut.  He had the idea -- that once cut -- they would no longer be their friends, that even their souls were at risk, because even if the God had not wanted a commoner's soul, Nysrogh did.

They took them to the ruins of Dolbadrn, a castle already in ruins before the time of Gwynedd, built by people long forgotten.  Little remained of the castle, itself, but -- other than some gaps now repaired by wooden poles -- the walls were intact. 

They opened the gate and shoved the captured boys inside.  Other boys, hundreds, maybe a thousand or more, all naked, milled around inside.  Dylan looked, hoping to see his friends, but although he saw some who had shaved heads like Braith and the others, he was too far away to be certain that they were his friends.  Somehow, he would have to get inside.  But how? 

He soon had his answer, but not the one he looked for.