The Silver Hand Read online

  “Canaid Alba,” Nettles said softly.

  I halted again. How much did this small stranger understand? How had he come by such knowledge?

  “The Song of Albion, yes, that is what the Hosts of Darkness wished to destroy. For so long as it remained, they could not prevail. This is why they ravaged Prydain. This is why they attacked the True King in his kingdom—attacked Sovereignty itself.”

  “Aird Righ?” Nettles said.

  I understood the phrase, but he had got it slightly wrong. “No, not the High King,” I told him. “The True King, you see.”

  “Aird Righ!” he said again, more insistently. And I began to wonder if he knew what he was saying.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me think.”

  Sovereignty . . . the presence of a True King . . . who else could uphold the Song but a True King? And might that king also be the High King?

  “But how is it possible that Meldryn Mawr could be the High King without knowing it?” I demanded of my diminutive shadow. “It is not possible. No, the thing is impossible!”

  Nettles said nothing; I could feel his eyes on me, intense, urgent. What did he know?

  “Not the Aird Righ,” I repeated and turned. I took two steps and froze. Perhaps it was not Meldryn Mawr who was ignorant of his kingship. Perhaps the only ignorance was mine! Meldryn Mawr and Ollathir might have had good reason to hide it—as they had hidden the Phantarch deep within Findargad’s mountain heart to protect the Song.

  The realization struck me like the blow of a fist. I swayed on my feet. Nettles reached out to steady me. Blind! I was more than blind, I was ignorant as well—and that was worse.

  “Prydain, Meldryn Mawr, Ollathir,” I said slowly, so that Nettles could follow, “in these three did the essence of Albion reside.”

  And now these three strands met in one person: Llew.

  I felt my heart quicken like that of a hunter when he has sighted his quarry. “Llew is the center,” I said. “Llew is the word already spoken. Llew is the mountain rising in our midst.”

  “Llew,” Nettles said.

  “Yes, my canny friend, it is Llew.” I began walking again; Nettles scrambled to keep up with me. “Llew possesses the Penderwydd’s awen, because he was with Ollathir when he died, and the Chief Bard breathed the awen into Llew with his dying breath. Llew holds the sovereignty of Meldryn Mawr, because I am now Chief Bard of Albion and I gave the kingship to him. And Llew has penetrated the sacred centers of Prydain; he has traversed Môr Cylch in the Heart of the Heart, and he has twice defended the pillar stone of Prydain on the White Rock—and stained it with his blood!”

  My mind sped along this path like a spear flying to its mark. In Llew the three strands came together; Llew, the knot of contention. He was the vessel into which the essence of Albion had been poured.

  Ah, but the vessel was damaged, disfigured. He could not exercise the kingship that had been given him. And that was the heart of the enigma.

  King and not king, bard and not bard, Llew ruled—yet refused to rule—a tribe which was not a tribe but a gathering of separate clans, forming a realm that was not a realm at all. The paradox was complete. If there was a meaning behind it, that meaning was impenetrable.

  Still, thanks to Nettles’s innocent mistake, I now held within me a startling new thought: the kingship of Prydain might indeed be the High Kingship of Albion.

  Enigma and paradox. What did it mean? I did not know, but I would ponder it continually in the days to come.

  I dismissed Nettles then, sending him to his rest so that I might contemplate the revelation I had received. I wandered alone, stalking the glen like a restless beast. My feet struck the path leading to the dead lake. I walked on, reaching the strand, and coming to the water’s edge. The stink of the lake repulsed me, but I forced myself to continue along the shore. I had not walked far when I sensed that someone else had come down to the water.

  “Who is it? Who is there?”

  “Tegid . . .” replied a voice, and I heard a sob.

  “Goewyn?”

  I moved towards the sound of her gentle sobbing. Goewyn came into my arms and, face in hands, she put her head against my chest. “Why do you weep? What is wrong?”

  “Gwenllian . . .” she said, her voice muffled and indistinct. I felt her head move away as she lifted her face. “I have seen her, Tegid. I have seen Gwenllian—in a dream,” she explained quickly. “She came to me in a dream.”

  “Ah,” I soothed, “I understand.”

  She pushed herself away from me. “I saw her. She spoke to me. Gwenllian spoke to me.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  Goewyn paused and drew a long, shaky breath. “I do not understand it.”

  “Tell me.”

  Slipping her hand under my elbow, Goewyn turned me aside and we began walking along the darkly festering lake. After a while, she said, “I thought to wait until the council concluded . . . to hear what would be done. But I grew tired. My head felt heavy, and my eyes would not stay open. I thought to rest for only a moment. I fell asleep as soon as I lay down.

  “As I slept, I heard a strange sound; like the rustling of birds’ wings above my head. The sound woke me . . . I woke—in my dream I woke. Yet, I knew myself to be asleep, and I knew that I dreamed still.”

  “I know this kind of dream,” I told her. “What did you see?”

  “I saw the lake,” she answered, her voice growing distant as she entered her dream once more—in memory this time. “I saw the lake as it is—vile and stinking. I saw the waters thickening with the foulness. And I saw someone standing at the edge of the lake . . . a woman— dressed all in white. As soon as I saw her, I knew that it was Gwenllian. I ran to her. I embraced her, Tegid! She was alive again! I was so happy!”

  I did not reply, so she continued.

  “Then Gwenllian spoke to me. I heard her voice, and she seemed reconciled—and more than that. She was content. She shone with peace and satisfaction; her face glowed.” Goewyn fell silent, awed by the power of the vision.

  “She spoke to you. What did she say?”

  “She told me to remember the prophecy. She said it was very important. She said that the vision had been truly spoken, and that it would be fulfilled.” Goewyn gripped my arm tightly in her excitement. “She said that it is the Day of Strife, but that the Swift Sure Hand was with the Gwr Gwir.”

  “Are you certain? The Gwr Gwir, that is what she said?”

  “Yes, but I do not know what it means,” she replied. “Gwir— truth? Who are the Men of Gwir?”

  “I do not know,” I said, shaking my head slowly. “Unless the Men of Gwir are any who would oppose Meldron.”

  The term was part of the prophecy which Gwenllian had given to Llew after the Hero Feat on Ynys Bàinail; he alone had stood against the Cythrawl, and he alone had been given the prophetic word. I had thought about the prophecy many times, searching its phrases in my mind. Llew and I had often argued over its meaning.

  “Did she say anything else?”

  Goewyn paused, choosing her words carefully. “Yes.” Her voice was but a whisper. “She said . . . Do not be afraid. There is healing in the water.’”

  35

  THE GWR GWIR

  Say it again, Goewyn. What did Gwenllian tell you?”

  “She put out her hand,” Goewyn answered, “and pointed away from me. I looked and saw that she was pointing at the lake. Gwenllian said, ‘Do not be afraid. There is healing in the water.’ And then . . .” Goewyn sniffed.

  “Yes? And then?”

  “I awoke,” she replied. “I came here—I ran all the way—” The tears started again. “I came down to the lake . . . I thought Gwenllian might be here. It seemed so real. I thought that she had come back to us . . . and I would find her here.”

  “Did she say anything else? Think carefully now. Anything at all?”

  Her chin quivering, Goewyn shook her head slowly. “No,” she said softly. “There was nothing else. Oh,
Tegid . . . Tegid, I saw her.”

  I reached out to Goewyn, put my arms around her shoulders, and drew her close. We stood for a moment in silence, and then Goewyn straightened and pulled away. She dried her tears and left me to contemplate the meaning of her dream alone.

  I did not sleep that night. I walked beside the poisoned lake, the stench strong in my nostrils. My head swarmed with thoughts; my talks with Nettles and Goewyn had left me disturbed and uneasy. With every step I could feel a dread purpose quickening just beyond the walls of this worlds-realm—inexorable, unyielding. I could sense it, but I could not comprehend it.

  Before dawn the warriors assembled. Preparations had continued through the night, and with the coming of daylight they gathered. The carynx called them, and with my inner eye I saw them. Arrayed in battle gear, they stood stout and strong like a forest of tall oaks, waiting to be called forth by the battle chiefs ranged before them.

  Scatha, green eyes level, fair hair gathered and bound beneath her war cap, chose first. Bearing a small round shield on her shoulder and a shirt of leather sewn with overlapping disks of bronze like the scales of a lizard, she raised a white spear with one long, supple arm. She had tied three strips of cloth to the shaft of her spear just below the leaf-shaped blade; two black strips, and one white. These were meirwon cofeb—symbols by which to remember her daughters, those for whom she fought this day, and whose deaths and rape she would avenge. Her clear voice called out the names of the warriors who would own the honor of following her in battle.

  The Pen-y-Cat, it had been decided, would be the war leader. Supreme in skill, unrivaled in judgment, she was the most formidable of all adversaries, and the most cunning of battle chiefs. Under her training countless warriors had earned their arms, and many had achieved greatness and renown—but none had ever surpassed Scatha. In all, she chose but fifty, and the choice passed on.

  Next came Bran Bresal, an oak among oaks, dark hair braided in gleaming plaits, ring of gold glinting on his left arm and torc shining at his throat; he raised his red-painted spear. From out of the massed warriors came the Ravens: Niall, Garanaw, Alun Tringad, Drustwn, and Emyr Lydaw. Like their leader, they wore no cloak, or siarc, or breecs or belt. Like the heroes of song who put off their clothes to fight, the Ravens entered battle naked, their oiled bodies glistening in the sun.

  Each man saluted his battle chief as he stepped near—clashing the haft of his spear against Bran’s shield, or slapping the raven tattoo on his arm.

  Bran also called others to his flock—warriors he had chosen to join the Flight of Ravens. When all were assembled the champion took his place before them, and the choice passed on.

  Cynan, blue eyes alight with anticipation, chose next. He stood with his arms upraised, gripping the hilt of a honed sword in his fist. His flame-red hair was cut short and greased to his head; his mustache and beard were brushed full. He called the warriors of his Galanae war band, and others that he knew. Then he turned to his father, King Cynfarch, who nodded sagely. Cynan was war leader for his father, but the king retained the right to approve the choice. This ritual observed, the choice passed on.

  King Calbha, torced and ringed with gold, a massive sword on his hip, drove the point of his blue-painted spear into the ground and gripped the shaft with both hands. In a voice that belled like iron, he called out the members of his Cruin war band. He summoned them in ranks of ten, and when he was finished three fifties of men stood behind him.

  Llew, garbed simply in breecs and leather belt, rose from the rock on which he sat and stood with a sword in his good hand; a long shield hid his stump from view. He lifted his voice and called the remaining warriors. Not slow to join him were the men he summoned; many ran in their eagerness to serve. Each warrior struck the rim of Llew’s shield with his spear shaft as he passed, and the sound was thunderous. When all had gathered, three thirties and three stood with him—in honor of the slain bards of Prydain.

  Then Llew raised his sword high, the carynx sounded, and I saw Rhoedd standing on a rock with the great, curved battle horn at his lips. The sound assaulted the air, filling the glen, echoing from the ridge wall. Rhoedd sounded the horn again, and the Flight of Ravens moved forward at the run. Scatha and her war band were next, then Cynan and Calbha, and finally Llew with his triple ranks. Taking up my staff, I followed the war host and began mounting to the top of Druim Vran.

  The people had come to see us away. They stood along the track and hailed us as we passed, banking high the warriors’ courage. I saw Goewyn in the forefront, waving a birch branch, and Nettles standing beside her with a holly bough; birch and holly, twin emblems of strength and valor in the lore of bards.

  In the early morning light, I saw the war bands of our tribe fearless and eager to meet the enemy. I saw brave men running to meet death: the Gwr Gwir, hastening to carry the battle to the enemy. I raised my staff as they passed and called upon the Swift Sure Hand to uphold them through the fight; I invoked the Goodly-Wise to guide their steps; I entreated the Gifting Giver to grant them the victory.

  We were woefully outnumbered by Meldron’s forces. This we knew. But the war leaders had judged the risks carefully: to have any chance at all against such an overwhelming foe, we must act quickly. Our water stores were dwindling rapidly; we could not allow ourselves to be weakened through thirst. To hold any hope of surviving, we must strike now—before Meldron could establish himself in the valley beyond, and while we were still strong enough to lift our swords.

  The council had decided to seek out Meldron and attack him. If we succeeded in killing Meldron and his Wolf Pack, it was thought the rest of the war host would likely abandon the fight: chop off the head and the viper dies. We might then send north to a nearby island for water; for we considered that the taint would not yet have reached beyond the shores of Caledon.

  The war bands gained the ridgetop and took their positions. By the time I joined them, the host was ranged along the length of Druim Vran—waiting while the war leaders conferred.

  We would not attack until Scatha had determined the enemy’s strength and disposition; she wanted to see Meldron and learn how he stood before ordering our own ranks. As to that, any weakness in Meldron’s position was more than redressed by numbers. The Great Hound’s war host spread across the valley on both sides of the river: thousands . . . and thousands more.

  “I never imagined . . .” Llew shook his head slowly as I took my place beside him. Bran stood at his left hand, gazing down into the valley, eyes hard, his mouth a thin, tight line.

  “The Hound of Prydain has succeeded beyond his own inflamed ambitions,” I observed. “He has climbed high over the bodies of the murdered and enslaved.”

  “Then he will fall the further,” Bran declared. “I will count it an honor to bring about the ruin he so richly deserves.”

  We stood on the ridgetop awaiting Scatha’s return. Since we could not see Meldron himself, or his Wolf Pack, she and Cynan had gone down for a closer look. When she rejoined us, we would make our final decisions about the ordering of battle.

  As it happened, we had long to wait. The sun rose higher, growing hotter as it climbed into a dusty brown sky, and the morning passed. We grew weary of waiting, and the men grew restive—and thirsty. We drank our water ration for the day and watched the fierce sun soar higher. Calbha joined us and we sat together, scanning the valley below. The smoke from their cooking fires spread across the distance, gray-white, billowing like waves.

  “They are an ocean,” Calbha observed quietly. “And we are but a burn trickling out of the hills.”

  The sun neared midday before Scatha appeared at last, and with a disturbing report: warriors were still streaming into the valley in great numbers. “But Meldron is not yet with his war host,” Scatha told us. “He may be among those even now entering the valley, but we did not see him.”

  “The war host is not assembled. They are not massing for attack,” Cynan added. “They seem to be waiting.”

  �
�No doubt they are waiting for Meldron,” Llew replied. “If that is the way of it, perhaps we should not wait. Perhaps we should attack.”

  Cynan looked doubtful, but shrugged. “I would fight the Great Hound rather than his pups, but we cannot sit here any longer. Let us begin.”

  Llew looked at Scatha. “What say you, Pen-y-Cat?”

  She, too, rose. “I do not think we will take them unawares, but they are disorderly and unprepared. Without Meldron they may be more easily daunted. Yes, we will attack.”

  Bran, Cynan, and Calbha added their agreement, and all took their leave, returning to their waiting war bands. “Well,” Llew said, drawing his wrist stump through the shield straps, “it has come to this. Will you uphold us in battle?”

  “Why do you ask? You know that I will.”

  “I know.” He leaned his sword against his thigh and gripped my arm with his good hand. “Farewell, Tegid.”

  “May it go well with you, brother,” I replied, embracing him tightly.

  He turned away then and took his place at the head of his war band. But a moment later, he lifted his sword in a silent signal and the warriors began moving down the ridge to the valley. They soon disappeared among the trees and were lost to my inner sight; I did not see them anymore.

  I walked along the top of Druim Vran until I found an outcrop large enough for me to stand on, and high enough for me to be seen from the valley below. I climbed onto my rock perch and squatted on my haunches until the battle began.

  A dull, sullen sun poured white heat into the valley, through which the river oozed like a black, noxious smudge. The river—thick and turgid with its scum of corruption—held my attention for a moment. It formed a natural barrier in the valley. Not much of an obstacle, admittedly, but I noticed that the enemy kept well away from its banks. All along its reeking length, the camps on either side gave the river wide respect. No one drank from it, of course, nor did anyone attempt to cross it.