The Silver Hand Read online

  “Will you do it now?” asked Alun, regarding the Giant’s Stone. “Here?”

  “No,” Llew told him. “The portal—the gate is closed now. We must find another place to send them back.” He indicated the strangers cringing in the shadow of the stone. “Take them to the wagons, Alun.” To Bran, he said, “You take Ffand. Make a comfortable place for her. Tegid and I will follow—we have something to do first.”

  I raised Ffand in my arms and gave her to Bran, who took the unconscious girl on the saddle before him, turned his horse, and started back. Alun, spear in hand, rode to where the strangers stood gawking. A quick gesture with the point of a spear was all it took to get them moving. They started off along Sarn Cathmail; we waited until they were out of sight behind the hill and then proceeded to bury the dead stranger in the shadow of Carreg Cawr.

  Llew cut the turf with his sword and rolled back the grass. He chopped at the earth with his knife; then we scooped out the loose soil with our hands. Twrch helped dig. When we had made a shallow grave, Llew went to where the body lay. He searched in the grass for a moment before finding what he was looking for. He stopped and picked up an odd object: small, square, with a short, protruding shaft; it was blue-black in color, but with a metallic sheen on its surface.

  “It is the weapon—a gun,” he explained. The object did not look large or powerful enough to do any harm, let alone make the shattering sound we had heard. Llew broke the thing open and shook out several tiny seedlike things. He picked them up.

  “Bullets,” he said, and put the tip of one in his mouth. He bit the tip off, spat it out, and poured out a black powder from the bronze husk that remained. He repeated the process with each of the objects, and then tossed the gun into the grave. “There,” he said with grim satisfaction, “that has fired its last shot.”

  We dragged the stranger’s body to the grave and rolled him into it. The man’s throat was savaged; blood soaked the front of his thin siarc. Twrch watched us silently as we replaced the soil and turf.

  We returned to our horses then and started off once more, hastening to the wagons to rejoin our companions. That night we camped in the heather beside Sarn Cathmail. We held vigil over the Dyn Dythri, lest they escape, and the next day we continued on our way. Gradually, the land began to change: the ground, already dry, was cracked and baked hard by the sun; what little grass remained was thin and bleached white. The heather was brown and the sky a filthy yellow with windborne dust.

  The scouts returned with the report that the streams and marsh springs ahead were tainted. A short while later we came to a small, dead lake. The water was putrid, and a black scum floated on the surface. Flies swarmed in clouds along the strand where dead fish bloated in the sun.

  We rode on, passing streams and pools and lakes of various sizes, and at each place the water was black and noxious, the banks rimed with a foul, ocher frost; all the plants on the water marges were withered, brown and dry. Here and there, the bones of poisoned animals glimmered dully in the sun and, nearby, the carcasses of scavenging birds.

  We journeyed through a still land. But its silence was pestilence, and its stillness the quiescence of death. The air stank of sickness, rot, and corruption. The heat and stench combined to assault us cruelly. Our eyes stung and our stomachs churned; we reeled with nausea in our saddles. Even the horses were sickened by the foul air; foam dripped from their mouths, their muscles jerked and twitched, and they would not eat.

  “It is worse,” Rhoedd muttered gloomily. “Worse than when I left. Now the air is bad as well; it did not smell like this when I was here before.”

  “Given time,” Bran observed, “all corpses stink.”

  Rhoedd warned us, but the reality was worse than anything he could have said. For, under that dismal yellow sky the land appeared beyond remedy. And with each step the stain deepened. The mysterious taint had penetrated deep, seeping outward, silently spreading its poison throughout Albion.

  29

  BLIGHT

  The weight of the wagons prevented us from traveling more swiftly, or we might have reached Dun Cruach sooner. As it was, we endured two more days of fierce heat with the stink of death in our nostrils, breathing dust and decay at every step.

  The sun seemed to singe the sky and turn the ground to ash. I was spared the eye-withering light, but the stagnant, unmoving air lay on my lungs like wool, making each breath a lingering misery. We rode without speaking, heads down, disheartened by the pitiless blight.

  The ride provided by the wagons was too rough and jarring, so we took it in turns to carry Ffand. She weighed nothing and regained awareness infrequently. We gave her to drink and bathed her face and neck with cool cloths to make her comfortable, but her wound was severe, and I did not think she could endure much longer.

  We reached Dun Cruach at dusk—heat-dazed on stumbling horses, and numb with the rigors of the journey. But the sight of the stronghold with its people streaming forth from the gates to welcome us lifted our hearts. They saw the vats and ran to them. Within moments the wagons were aswarm and the still air shivered with squeals of joy and shouts of gladness. Ffand, cradled in the saddle before me, stirred at the sound but did not awaken.

  Cynan’s voice rose above the rest. “Welcome, brothers!” he called, hailing us happily. “Never were guests more welcome in Dun Cruach. All the same, you will get no welcome cup. We drank the last of the ale yesterday.”

  “Greetings, Cynan,” said Llew, climbing down from the saddle. “We came as quickly as we could.”

  “And none too soon,” Cynan replied. I heard a muffled slap as Cynan delivered his customary clap upon Llew’s shoulder, then, as I still sat my horse, I felt him grip my knee. “Thank you, my friends. We will not forget this.”

  “It is but a small repayment for all you have done for us,” Llew told him.

  “Who is with you, Tegid?” Cynan asked. “Do not tell me you have taken a bride.”

  “This is Ffand,” I told him. “We found her on the way.”

  “She is the one who helped us escape from Meldron at Sycharth,” Llew told him.

  “Oh?” Cynan said.

  “And she is wounded,” Llew told him. Before he could say more, Bran and Alun came to where we were standing to ask what should be done with the strangers. “Bring them to me,” Llew ordered.

  “Dyn Dythri among us?” Cynan wondered. He must have turned his gaze to the wagons where Bran and Alun were unloading our prisoners. He paused, taking in their strangeness. “You have seen fit to bind them,” he remarked.

  “It seemed best,” Llew replied. “They are enemies. One of them wounded Ffand—he is dead,” Llew said and told him how we had captured the intruders. “We will send them back to their own world as soon as possible. Until then, we must make certain they do not escape.” He paused and added, “Although the one with hair like lambswool—he is a friend.”

  “An odd way to oblige a friend. Yet, if that is the way—I will have a storeroom readied to receive them. My father has never used a hostage pit.” He called instructions to Bran and Alun, then turned and urged us to join him in the hall. “It is too hot to stand in the sun like this. It is cooler inside.”

  Cynan called to some of his people, commanding them to take Ffand, to dress her wound and make a place for her to rest. “I will attend her soon,” I said, passing her to their care.

  We went into the hall to greet Cynfarch. The king welcomed us stiffly, almost angrily, then turned away and began ordering men to ration out the water.

  “It is hard for him to accept your help,” Cynan explained. “This came upon us so quickly—there was no warning. We have lost many to the poison. We tried digging new wells, but it is so dry—”

  “We have come to take you back to Dinas Dwr,” Llew said. “The water we brought will serve to get us there. How soon can you be ready to travel?”

  Cynan paused. “We can leave at once,” he answered, “but I do not think Cynfarch will go.”

  “We wil
l talk to him.”

  “By all means,” Cynan agreed. “But do not expect to change his mind. It was all I could do to get him to send Rhoedd—and then he would not allow me to ask your aid. My father can be very stubborn.”

  “Perhaps he will change his mind now that we are here,” Llew suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Cynan allowed. “Let me speak to him again after supper.”

  It was a dismal meal we had that night. Cynfarch, embarrassed by his inability to feast us properly, sat frowning and silent in his chair, a grim companion. The people, though glad for the water, could not surmount their lord’s melancholy. In the midst of a wasted land, Dun Cruach had become a cheerless and desperate place.

  “It is worse than I thought,” Llew whispered, when we were at last able to withdraw from the table. We stood outside the hall, but the air was still hot with no breath of wind to freshen it.

  “We should not have come,” I told him.

  “They would have died without the water,” Llew observed sourly.

  Cynan joined us. He saw Llew’s expression and said, “If you are plotting Meldron’s demise, I am your man.”

  “Have you told Cynfarch yet? We dare not linger here any longer than necessary.”

  “I told him,” Cynan replied sullenly. “My father would die before losing his realm.”

  “His realm is lost already!” hissed Llew. “His life is forfeit next.”

  “Do you think he does not know this?”

  Silence intervened for a moment. The two stood looking at one another; I could feel them tense and angry in the heat.

  “Would he do it for the sake of his people?” I asked.

  “For them, aye, but for no other reason.”

  “Then we must make him see that if we stay even one day more, the people will die.”

  “Easy to say, difficult to do,” Cynan retorted. After a moment he added, “My father thinks the rain will come and the blight will end. He is deluded, and I tell him so. But he will not listen.”

  “We should talk to him now,” Llew suggested, “and settle the matter once and for all.”

  “It is late, and he is in no mood to talk,” Cynan said. “Better to leave it till morning.”

  We lapsed into silence once more, uneasy and ill-tempered in one another’s company. The quiet grew strained and awkward; we were all thinking of the task ahead and whether to approach Cynfarch now, or wait until morning. Rhoedd saved us from having to decide—he appeared just then to say that Cynfarch wished to see the intruders. “The king desires them to be brought before him at once,” Rhoedd told us.

  Llew hesitated. “Very well,” he said slowly. I could tell he did not care for the notion of allowing the strangers even a momentary glimpse of freedom. “Bring them.” They turned to go back into the hall. “Coming, Tegid?”

  “In a while,” I answered. “I will see to Ffand first.”

  Cynan called one of the women from the hall to lead me, and I followed her to a nearby dwelling. “She is here,” the woman said, and my inner eye awakened at her voice. I saw Ffand asleep on a soft bed of fleeces; a woman sat beside her, tending a glowing rushlight. As the room was warm, she was bare beneath a thin yellow covering. The women had used precious water to wash her and had bound the wound with clean cloth. They had combed Ffand’s hair and braided it.

  I knelt beside her and spoke her name. “Ffand. It is Tegid. Can you hear me?” I touched her small bare shoulder. “Can you hear me, Ffand?”

  She stirred and her eyelids opened slowly. “This is not Llew’s fortress,” she informed me in a voice thin as spider’s silk.

  “No, it is not. This is Dun Cruach, the settlement of our allies, Cynan Machae and his father, King Cynfarch.”

  “Oh,” she sighed, much relieved.

  “Did you think it was Dinas Dwr?”

  “They say that Dinas Dwr is an enchanted fortress with walls of glass so that it cannot be seen,” she whispered. “That is why Meldron cannot find it. And I did not think that this was Dinas Dwr.” Her disdain was profound. She closed her eyes again as if to shut out an offensive sight.

  “How do you feel, Ffand? Does it hurt?” She shook her head slightly. “Are you hungry?”

  Her eyes flickered open once more. “Was he Nudd’s man?”

  “Who?”

  “The stranger,” she said, her voice growing softer still. “Was that why he was hiding under the Giant’s Stone?”

  I considered this for a moment. “Yes,” I told her. “He was Nudd’s man. That is why he was hiding under the stone.”

  “Then I am glad Twrch killed him.” She swallowed; the muscles of her throat worked, but her mouth was dry. I lifted her head and took up the cup. She drank a mouthful and refused more.

  I rose. “I will look in on her again in a while,” I said. “Bring me word if she wakes again before then.”

  The women nodded and resumed their vigil, and I returned to the hall. My inward eye remained watchful, and so I entered to see the strangers, standing before Cynfarch, each with a warrior gripping his arm. The strangers blinked and gaped at the host gathered around them. I took my place beside Llew, who stood a little to one side watching.

  Cynfarch, a commanding presence on any occasion, sat like proud authority in his chair. He gazed upon the strangers with cold curiosity, then raised his hand and beckoned the tall stranger forward. He swallowed hard and raised his hands in entreaty, whining pitifully in his disgusting tongue. Even without knowing the words, I could see that the wretch was pleading for his miserable life.

  “Rhoi taw!” Cynan cautioned. His meaning was clear enough, for the man clamped his mouth shut with a whimper. “Noble Father,” Cynan said, turning back to the king, “I have brought the Dyn Dythri before you as you have commanded. Look upon them, lord, and know that they are not of our kind.”

  “That I can readily see,” Cynfarch replied. “I would know why they have come here.”

  “I will ask them,” Cynan offered, “but I do not think they can speak our tongue.”

  “That may be,” the king replied. “Yet a man must answer for himself if he can. Ask them.”

  With that, Cynan turned to the man called Weston and demanded, “What is your name, stranger? And why have you come here?”

  The stranger stiffened at Cynan’s address. He made a mewing sound and gestured helplessly. Some of those looking on laughed, but it was an uneasy laughter and died as it was given breath. The other stranger cringed, his eyes wide with terror.

  Cynan turned back to his father. “It appears that the stranger does not possess the understanding, lord.”

  “I do not wonder, to look at him,” the king mused. “Still, I would learn why he and those with him have come. Is there anyone who can speak for him?”

  “That I will soon determine,” Cynan said, and stepped to where Llew and I waited. “Well, brother? Do you wish to speak for him?”

  “Nothing good can come of this,” Llew muttered, stepping forward. Ignoring the man Weston, he summoned the small, white-haired stranger to join him.

  “This man is called Nettles,” Llew told the king. “I know him; he is my friend. He is very like a bard and can be trusted to speak the truth. In this he is not like the others.” Llew motioned for the man to move beside him and placed his good hand on the small man’s narrow shoulder. “He is honorable—a man of great wisdom and learning. He has fought to prevent those with him from coming here and will uphold your judgment in this matter.” He paused, regarding the small man with affection. “I am able to understand his speech. Ask him what you will, I am prepared to speak for him.”

  “That is well,” replied the king. “I would know why they have come to our world, and what they intend.”

  To the amazement of those gathered in the hall, the snowy-haired man answered without hesitation in a tongue very like our own, though I could make nothing of it. “What is he saying?” I asked Llew, who was smiling grimly as he watched the small man.

  �
�I have no idea,” he replied. “He is speaking a tongue called Gaelic.”

  “You told him to do this?”

  “No,” he answered, “it was his own idea. He thought it might be useful.”

  Before he could explain further, the king said, “He speaks forthrightly, this one. What did he say?”

  “Allow me to speak with him, noble lord,” Llew said to Cynfarch. Llew turned to the small man beside him and they spoke together. Weston and the other stranger stared at them in amazement.

  Then the small man spoke out in a bold voice. When he had finished, Llew spoke in turn. “Great King,” Llew said, “he says that they have come here from a place beyond this worlds-realm. He says that he is not lying when he tells you that the men with him are not good men. They have long striven to gain entrance to Albion and have at last succeeded, as you see.”

  Llew put his head close to his friend’s, and they spoke together in low voices. Weston strained forward to hear what they said, but the guard beside him gripped his arm and pulled him back.

  Nettles spoke again, and Llew continued, “Do not be deceived. Though they may appear to you weak and insignificant, they bring with them a terrible power and malice to corrupt and defile. They have little knowledge of what they do, and yet that little serves no good intent. It is well that they have been made prisoners, for they are not to be trusted.”

  The king listened to this gravely, and then turned his attention once more to Weston. The stranger trembled under Cynfarch’s stern gaze, sweat trickling down the side of his head and neck. When at last he could abide the king’s stare no longer, he flung out his hands towards Nettles and bleated at him in his odious tongue.

  Llew and Nettles conferred. “This man is called Weston,” Llew said to the king. “He is demanding to know why he is being held prisoner. He says that you have no right to treat him this way and commands you to release him at once.”

  The stranger’s demands infuriated the king, which made up his mind about the Dyn Dythri at once. “The stranger’s ignorance is plain,” Cynfarch said, his voice a menacing rumble. “Does he not know that I am a king? And as justice is my duty, so its exercise is my right. Does he fail to understand this?”