The Silver Hand Page 32

  I struck out again. To my surprise the body collapsed and toppled over me, sending me once more sprawling onto the road. I fought my attacker, swinging my arms and kicking my legs—landing blows by chance.

  “Tegid!” someone cried. I swung my fist toward the sound. A hand seized my wrist in midair and held it. “Tegid! Stop it,Tegid!”

  The voice was Llew’s. And it was Llew who stood over me.

  “Llew! You came back.”

  He released my hand, then sank to his knees beside me, panting. He was so out of breath that it was some time before he could speak normally. I seized and shook him.

  “Llew! What are you doing? Why did you leave?”

  “Here, help me,” Llew said. “Nettles—”

  Only then did I realize what he had done. “Nettles is with you?”

  “Y-yes,” replied Llew, gulping air. “I went—after him . . . I brought him back with me . . .”

  Bran appeared beside me. He caught me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. “What has happened?” he asked, as mystified by Llew’s sudden reappearance as by his equally abrupt departure.

  “He has crossed the sword bridge between the worlds to bring the stranger back.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Where is Twrch?” Bran asked.

  “The dog followed his master,” I replied. “But, unlike Llew, he did not return.”

  “Twrch followed me?” Llew wondered.

  “Yes,” I told him, harshly—for I was angry with him. “I tried to prevent it, but I could not hold him back. Twrch is gone. And I do not think he will find his way back to us.”

  The sound of iron hooves striking the paving stones clattered behind us and, with a shout, Cynan threw himself upon us—as if to disentangle two combatants—seizing us in his hands and pulling us apart.

  “Peace!” Bran cried. “Cynan, peace! It is Llew!”

  “Llew!” Cynan hauled Llew to his feet.

  The sun was well risen now—I could feel the warmth of its rays full on my face. To Cynan I said, “Can you find your way home, do you think?”

  “I found the way here in the dark, did I not?” Cynan sniffed scornfully.

  “Then lead the way. We should be gone from here.”

  Cynan called for Llew’s horse to be brought, and I turned to where Llew stooped over Nettles’s slight body. He was speaking to the small man in their rough tongue, but straightened when I touched him. “He is well. He can ride in one of the chariots.”

  “And you?”

  “I am unharmed,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry, Tegid. I would have warned you, but I thought of it too late.”

  Nettles uttered something in his broken speech and Llew answered him. To me he said, “I had to do it, Tegid. They would have murdered him. Weston would have killed Nettles when they got back. Besides, I think we will need him with us. He knows much that can help us.”

  “Very well,” I said. “No doubt it is for the best. Come—”

  “We will have to teach him the language—you can do that, Tegid. You taught me, after all. And Nettles will be quick to learn—he already knows a very great deal. As I say—”

  “Say no more now,” I urged. “In truth, I am not against you in this. We will talk later. But we should go.”

  The sound of the chariots rumbling over the stones of the sarn made a dull thunder in our ears as they returned—which is why we did not hear the enemy riders until they were almost upon us.

  31

  TRAFFERTH

  Ride! All of you!” Cynan shouted. I heard the grating ring of a sword unsheathed. “Away! I will meet them!”

  “How many are there?” I called.

  “Twenty, I think,” Llew said. “Maybe more. I cannot tell.”

  “Go!” urged Cynan.

  “We stand together,” Llew said. Bran and Alun backed Llew’s decision, and the warriors voiced their acclaim. “But,” Llew added, “it is two of them to every one; of us. What do you suggest?”

  “We have chariots,” Cynan pointed out. “We can do a great deal of damage with those. I will take one, let Bran drive the other.”

  “Right,” Llew said. He spoke a quick command to Bran and then turned to me. “Tegid, take Nettles with you. Remain on the road. We will join you when we can.”

  “I am staying,” I said.

  “You could get away—”

  “I am staying.”

  Llew did not have time to argue. “Stay then,” he said. I heard the slap of leather across a horse’s withers and a confusion of men’s voices shouting orders, hooves clattering on the paving stones, and the cries of the enemy warriors as they drew nearer.

  Someone ran to me. “Hold our horses,” said Alun Tringad, pressing the reins into my hand and racing away again.

  “Follow me!” Cynan shouted. “Hie! Hie-yah!”

  The hammer-sharp ring of iron-shod hooves sounded on the sarn as the warriors swept past. My inward eye awakened instantly at the noise, and I saw before me the level road and two chariots on it. Cynan drove the first, speeding toward a tight-clustered war band of twenty or more enemy warriors. Bran stood in the second chariot to the left of Cynan and Alun drove it, matching Cynan for pace. Llew rode to Cynan’s right, with the remaining warriors around him.

  A voice spoke beside me. “Trafferth?”

  I glanced down to see Nettles looking up at me. He repeated the word again. “Trafferth?”

  He was trying to speak to me in our tongue. Although his utterance was rough, I understood his meaning. “Yes,” I told him, “trouble.”

  I do not know if he understood me, but he nodded and turned his eyes back to the battle. My inner sight shifted, and I saw the two lines hurtling towards one another—but I viewed it from high, high above with the eye of a soaring hawk.

  I saw the sleek necks of the horses straining toward the clash, heads thrusting, nostrils flared, flecks of foam streaming from their mouths. I saw Cynan, red hair like a firebrand above gleaming shoulders, muscles bunched as he drove the chariot, a bundle of spears ready to hand; Llew, sword at his side, spear lofted high; and Bran standing like an oak in the center of the second chariot, three spears in his hand, while Alun, head down, reins gathered in his fists, shouted hearty encouragement to his team. I saw the warriors, fierce in the fight, sword and spear in hand, blades keen, spear points glinting hard and sharp in bright morning light. The legs of the horses blurred with speed, stretching and gathering, hooves pounding—a dull thunder on the earth.

  The enemy swept ever nearer, spreading in a wide arc to surround and contain the battle with their superior numbers. They held spears and long shields; their horses wore chest plates and leggings of bronze, and long-horned headpieces. Several of the warriors wore horned war caps, and one of them carried a carynx curving from waist to shoulder like an enormous serpent. Their faces were hard: fierce determination burned in their narrowed eyes. From the look of them, they were members of Meldron’s Wolf Pack—which meant that the Great Hound must be very close at hand.

  The two battle lines swept closer. I braced myself inwardly for the clash, gritting my teeth.

  Cynan and Alun drove for the center of the enemy line and severed it as enemy warriors scattered on either side—avoiding the chariots and fixing on the mounted warriors instead. But Llew and the others remained well behind, so that the enemy could not take them head-on and blunt the attack.

  The chariots slewed around, swinging out behind the turning horses, flinging dust clouds high. The enemy line, divided like a severed snake, curled in upon itself as the two separate halves drew together. It was then that the mounted warriors struck.

  Breaking from behind Cynan, the horsemen drove into the churning enemy straight and swift as a thrown spear. The ground trembled under the clash; horses were lifted off their feet and thrown screaming onto their sides. Spears splintered and broke. Swords flashed.

  Cynan and Alun drove their chariots into the fray,
striking in from the flank. The enemy surged backwards like a retreating wave in their haste to make way for the speeding chariots. Men shrieked and horses collided.

  Bran, upright, arm high, hurled a spear into the chaos. With the force of the chariot behind the throw, I saw an attacking foeman lifted clean from the saddle as the spear split his shield and pierced him through.

  Cynan sped through the enemy ranks like a mad bull charging through a fog. Warriors howled as they fled before him. Head high, bellowing wildly, spear quick and deadly in his hand, his challenge loud in their ears, he raked them with his spear as he passed. I saw more than one man fall beneath his wheels.

  In the space of but a few heartbeats, the enemy line was shattered and their warriors dispersed. Whereupon, the chariots spun as one and charged into the second half of the enemy war band, which had turned and gathered itself for a charge. Again, the speed with which the chariots moved and the ferocity of Cynan and Bran’s attack could not be endured.

  The chariots struck to the heart of the advancing foe—struck, disappeared in the confusion of rearing horses and striving bodies, and then appeared again on the other side, where they halted, turned, and prepared to strike again. The dust cleared. Five men lay on the ground, three horses thrashed in the dust, and five mounted warriors spun in rattled disorder.

  Llew and the others made quick work of them. I saw the sun-glint of slashing blades, and then five horses running riderless along the sarn. I glanced down at Nettles: he was kneeling in the dust with his hands over his eyes, his shoulders trembling.

  The remaining enemy gathered for a final charge. Cynan and Alun drew their chariots together side by side. Cynan raised a spear and shouted, lashing his team to speed. The horses reared and plunged forward, eager under his urging. Alun gave a long, whooping cry and his team burst forth as if hurled from a sling. Llew and the others turned and joined the chariots in midflight, spears slicing the air as they came.

  This was too much for the enemy. The charge faltered and dissipated as the foemen broke ranks and fled before the onslaught. Away they flew, racing back the way they had come. Of the twenty that had attacked, only six remained. Llew and the warriors gave chase, hurling spears after the fleeing enemy. But the spears fell short and the six got away.

  Cynan loosed a whoop of triumph, leapt from his still-moving chariot, and, with a quick chop of his sword, struck the head from the nearest dead foeman. He took up the man’s spear, spiked the head upon it, and then planted the spear in the ground.

  Overcome with joy and relief, I raised my voice in a victory chant, loud with exaltation—as if to make the distant hills ring with my defiant song. I turned to Nettles. “It is over! We have defeated them!”

  He lowered his hands and blinked at me; he did not understand, but no matter. “Gorfoleddu!” I told him. “Rejoice!”

  The small white-haired man smiled. “Gorfoleddu,” he repeated, saying it twice more to himself and nodding.

  Bran and Alun were first to return. Llew and the mounted warriors followed close behind, and Cynan after them, complaining: “We should pursue them,” he said. “They will tell Meldron.”

  “We were fortunate this time,” Bran said. “They were not prepared for the chariots. It will not be so again.”

  “All the more reason to finish what we started,” Cynan argued.

  “Bran is right,” I said. “It may be that Meldron’s whole war host is camped just over the hill. We should return to Dun Cruach while we have the chance.”

  Cynan remained unconvinced. “Let them summon the Great Hound himself. I am not afraid.”

  “There will be other battles,” Llew said. “Let us take the victory we have been given and leave the fighting for another day. There are people waiting for us, brother. Lead us home.”

  We remounted, turned our horses, and hastened away. I could follow Llew’s lead and, even with Nettles behind me, had no difficulty keeping up. The chariots rumbled over the sarn and we made for Dun Cruach. The day waxed hot and sticky, but Cynan pushed a steady pace over the dry, withered hills, and we arrived at Dun Cruach as the sun dwindled to a dull, white cinder hanging just above the western horizon.

  Upon our arrival, I discovered that Ffand had been buried earlier that day. “It is so hot,” explained the woman who had cared for her, “burial could not wait—and I did not know when you might return. Are you displeased, lord?”

  She meant no rebuke, but her words stung me. “No,” I told her, “You have done well. I should have attended her myself.”

  She led Llew and me to the burial place; a small square of earth in the shadow of the hall. “It is cooler here,” the woman said. “It is the best place I could find.”

  I thanked her and she left us. Llew was silent for a long time, gazing at the fresh-turned earth. “You see how it is,” he said at last. “We strangers do not belong here, Tegid. We cannot stay—we can never stay.”

  After an early supper, Cynan recounted the events of the day over cups of water in Cynfarch’s hall. Those of our party who had remained at the caer, to oversee preparations for our return journey north, noisily expressed their annoyance at missing the excitement. And we were made to tell and retell the tale so that all could share it anew. In consequence, the night was deep around us before we found opportunity to speak to Cynfarch.

  “Lord Cynfarch,” Llew said, standing to address the king. “It is good to sit with you tonight and to recount our victory for you. But I am reminded that we have lost a day already and we still await your decision. Will you go with us to Dinas Dwr?”

  The king frowned. “I have decided . . .” he said tersely.

  Llew remained silent, awaiting Cynfarch’s decision. But the king’s word never came. For at that moment we heard the cry of the watchman on the wall. An instant later, the short, sharp blast of the battle horn raised the alarm.

  The cry of alarm awakened my inner sight. I saw the timber wall before me . . . warriors tense in the moonlight, edged in silver . . . stars hard and bright in a deep dark sky . . . the door of the hall flung wide, and warriors tumbling out into a pale yellow square of light . . .

  I ran with the others to the wall and mounted the rampart. I saw the darkling land . . . empty—but for the faint glimmer of a single campfire in the distance. I turned to the warrior who had sounded the alarm and opened my mouth to speak. But, even as I turned, I caught a winking movement in the dark: another fire.

  The warrior raised his arm and pointed across the black distance. I looked where his finger led me, and saw that second glimmering flicker break into a cluster of several lights. Those clusters separated further, becoming a long string of lights.

  Bran appeared at my side. “What is it?”

  “It is Meldron,” I replied. “He has found us.”

  Suddenly, the wall was swarming with warriors. Llew and Cynan stood beside me to watch the silent, glimmering lights forming and spreading across the plain. There were scores of flickering shimmers now, quivering barbs of light, and more with every breath.

  “So he thinks to strike at night,” Cynan remarked. “Let him come. We will prepare a welcome for him he will long regret.”

  Llew said nothing. He stared into the darkness as if trying to peel it away; his face was rigid with concentration, his eyes, narrowed, brows knit together. His jaw muscles bulged.

  I was more distressed by his expression than by the sight of Meldron’s gathering host. “Llew?” I touched his arm; it was like touching the exposed root of a tree. The sensation unnerved me. “Llew!”

  He turned his face to mine. His eyes glittered strangely in the moonlight—staring at me, but not seeing me.

  “Speak to me, Llew,” I said, laying my hand to his unnaturally rigid arm. “What do you see?”

  He opened his mouth slowly . . . It was then that I saw the tiny flecks of foam at the corner of his mouth, and knew! My heart quickened within me. I knew what it was that gripped him. I knew—and the knowledge brought both hope and fear.
For I had seen it before, and I knew its source.

  Cynan, too, had witnessed the change in Llew. “What is happening?” he asked. “Tegid! What is wrong?”

  Llew began to shudder. He reached toward me, clawing at me with his good hand. Cynan gripped his arms and struggled to restrain them. “Tegid! Help me! I cannot hold him!”

  32

  FIRESTORM

  Cynan threw his arms around Llew’s shoulders and held him in a wrestler’s grip. Llew’s eyes fluttered in his head. From his gaping mouth came a cry—keen and loud and fierce—like that of a hunting wolf or a soaring eagle. He raised his arms and shrugged Cynan aside, flinging him away as if he were no more than a shred of rag clinging to his back.

  In the same motion, Llew leapt from the rampart and ran across the yard toward the hall. Cynan rolled to his feet and made to rush after him, but I stayed him, saying, “Wait! Do not prevent him. He cannot hear you, and you might come to harm.”

  “What is wrong with him, Tegid?” Cynan demanded as Llew disappeared into the hall. He turned on me. “Saethu du! What is it?”

  “Watch!” I said and, even as I spoke, Llew burst forth from the hall once more—carrying a firebrand in his good hand, and a leather cask under his other arm. He paused at the gate, pushed against it, and squeezed through.

  “Clanna na cù,” said Cynan.

  “Go,” I told him. “Gather your men and make ready to follow him.” Cynan stared at me, aghast.

  “Hurry, man!”

  Cynan spun away, shouting commands to the warriors standing near. He leapt from the rampart to the yard below and called for his weapons. His words were still resounding in the air when the battle horn sounded. The warriors turned as one and flew from the rampart to the hall. Out of the turmoil emerged the figure of Bran Bresal, spear in hand and shield on his arm.

  “Bran!” I cried. “Here!” A moment later the warrior chief stood below me. “Follow Llew, but lay no hand to him. Whatever he tells you to do—do it! Do not prevent him!”

  He raised his spear in salute and darted away. I realized I need not have cautioned him. Bran would obey willingly and without question any command Llew would utter.