I turned to see Lord Nudd’s head and shoulders cresting the level of the walltop. He was immense in his vast, swelling hatred. In a moment he would overwhelm us. I looked to the king; he inclined his head, allowing me to give the order.
“Now!” I cried. And raising the enchanted stone high above my head, I hurled it into the dark lord’s face. With all my might I threw it.
36
THE SONG
All along the wall, stones sailed out into the gale. Spinning, tumbling, careening, smashing, scattering in a thousand sparkling pieces; striking down through the tempest to fall upon the seething enemy masses. And from each splinter and fragment there arose a strain of that matchless melody.
The individual strains twined and melded, swelling full and fair, and striking deep into the ranks of the enemy. Lord Nudd raged to hear it; he raised the black Wyrm’s fang, and the wind-wail became a deafening roar. The wind obliterated the wonderful melody, drowning it beneath its horrific scream. Surely we were undone; nothing, not even the Song of Albion could survive the hate-blast of the Lord of Darkness, Death, and Destruction.
The wind swirled, seizing the sound and lifting it high, as if to drive it away. But the sound was not extinguished in the tempest. It rose and intensified, spreading on the wings of the storm, filling the wind-scoured heights with shimmering melody as the gale gave it strength. And suddenly the sound began forming itself into words. The life-giving words of the Song of Albion:
Glory of sun! Star-blaze in jeweled heavens!
Light of light, a High and Holy land, Shining bright and blessed of the Many-Gifted; A gift forever to the Race of Albion!
Rich with many waters! Blue-welled the deep,
White-waved the strand, hallowed the firmament, Mighty in the power of One, Gentle in the peace of great blessing; A wealth of wonders for the Kinsmen of Albion!
Dazzling the matchless purity of green!
Fine as the emerald’s excellent fire, Glowing in deep-clefted glens, Gleaming on smooth-tilled fields; A Gemstone of great value for the Sons of Albion!
The Coranyid could not stand against the power of the Song. The sound struck them and they fell, choking, retching, gagging, and gasping for breath. As the Song coiled around them, the demon war band began to melt away, seeping back into the ground, dissolving like mud before the driving rain. The hateful hell spawn sank down foot, knee, and thigh, liquefying, dissipating, dwindling, retreating into the cracks opening in the earth to receive them. The hard brilliance of the Song drove them down, raining its glad refrain upon them like a fall of bright-barbed arrows. They fled before it, hastening back to the dismal galleries of their underworld home.
Abounding in white-crowned peaks, vast beyond measure,
The fastness of bold mountains! Exalted heights—dark wooded and Red with running deer— Proclaim afar the high-vaunted splendor of Albion!
Swift horses in wide meadows! Graceful herds
on the gold-flowered water-meads, Strong hooves drumming, a thunder of praise to the Goodly-Wise, A boon of joy in the heart of Albion!
Higher and higher, the Song rose in sweeping arcs into the clouds, piercing the hard Sollen sky. Sunlight bright and dazzling shone forth, scouring the hidden places where the shadows had grown thick, banishing the darkness. Fair golden light touched the Host of the Pit, and they screamed in pain as they ran—hopping like lizards, scrabbling like beetles, slithering like vipers—fleeing for the refuge of their dank, noisome dens.
Meanwhile, the soaring Song echoed in the air. All Albion trembled with the sound, echoing the Song from mountaintop to mountaintop, filling the glens and valleys. Like the waters of a mighty flood bursting through the seawall and inundating the land; like fountains of sweet golden mead bursting forth from a bottomless vat; like a shining river charged from infinite springs, swelling, spreading, overflowing its banks, cascading over the land, sweeping all before it in a deluge, in torrents of sparkling water. And we cupped our hands and drank as much as we could contain, but the waters—the Song—rushed on undiminished.
We caught but the smallest fragment of the whole, yet that little was life to us. The life-giving words burned themselves into our hearts and into our souls. We wept with joy to hear them.
Golden the grain-hoards of the Great Giver,
Generous the bounty of fair fields: Redgold of bright apples, Sweetness of shining honeycomb, A miracle of plenty for the tribes of Albion!
Silver the net-tribute, teeming the treasure
of happy waters; Dappled brown the hillsides, Sleek herds serving the Lord of the Feast; A marvel of abundance for the tables of Albion!
Nudd, standing alone amidst the floodtide of his retreating forces, raised his spear and uttered a great shout of defiance. But the Song, ringing all around him, drowned out his shout. Instead of the hateful voice of Nudd, we heard the Song.
Wise men, Bards of Truth, boldly declaring from
Hearts aflame with the Living Word; Keen of knowledge, Clear of vision, A glory of verity for the True Men of Albion!
Bright-kindled from heavenly flames, framed
of Love’s all-consuming fire, Ignited of purest passion, Burning in the Creator King’s heart, A splendor of bliss to illuminate Albion!
The Foul Lord could no longer stand against the exalted majesty of the Song. Deserted by his legion of the damned, weakened by the Song’s magnificent and merciless onslaught, the Prince of the Pit, Lord of Corruption, Nudd shrank into himself. He bellowed his frustrated rage to the mountaintops, but the Song covered all, permeated all, saturated all.
Noble lords kneeling in rightwise worship,
Undying vows pledged to everlasting, Embrace the breast of mercy, Eternal homage to the Chief of chiefs; Life beyond death granted the Children of Albion!
Kingship wrought of Infinite Virtue,
Quick-forged by the Swift Sure Hand; Bold in Righteousness, Valiant in Justice, A sword of honor to defend the Clans of Albion!
Formed of the Nine Sacred Elements,
Framed by the Lord of Love and Light; Grace of Grace, Truth of Truth, Summoned in the Day of Strife, An Aird Righ to reign forever in Albion!
Defeated, Lord Nudd followed his demon Coranyid down into the netherworld depths. We watched as his black form grew pale and wispy, dispersing like a dirty mist before the blazing radiance of the sun. The wicked enemy simply disappeared before our eyes, fading back into the abyss from which he had been released. Nudd himself was the last to go, and he took the Cauldron of Rebirth with him. For, when he had gone, it was nowhere to be seen.
I looked out on the rocky plateau below: not a single enemy remained. All had vanished. Sunlight shone golden all around us; blue sky, dazzling and radiant, glowed through the gaping rents in the broken clouds. The siege was ended and the battle was over. We were saved.
We stood gazing at one another, and for a moment the world quivered with the afterecho as the Song of Albion sped on and on. And then the stillness was shattered by a tremendous shout. I whirled toward the sound, to see Tegid leap onto the wall to dance there, arms upraised, his cloak flying around him. An instant later, everyone was crying and shouting—tears of gladness, shouts of joy. Others leapt onto the battlements and joined in the dance. Such delight could not be contained and the whole caer rang with the happy sound.
Above the ecstatic tumult, I heard Tegid’s voice, strong and clear, lifted in song. And the song he was singing was the Song of Albion. The words poured forth from his heart, igniting the hearts around him like sparks from a kindling torch. And soon the Song was echoing from the mountaintops round about.
“Listen!” I cried, turning to the king beside me. “The Song of Albion is restored!”
But the king did not answer. His head was bent and his eyes were closed; tears ran down his cheeks, and his shoulders heaved with the sobs breaking soundlessly from his throat. Amidst the great jubilation of victory, King Meldryn Mawr stood and wept.
37
THE KING’S CHAM
PION
The gates of Findargad were thrown open wide, and everyone— men and warriors, women and children, dancing in their joy and rapture— streamed out to prove beyond all doubt that Lord Nudd and the Demon Host of the Coranyid were gone. The enemy had indeed been driven back into the nether realms of the underworld, leaving only the filthy snow behind—and that was rapidly melting under the bright-kindled sun. Gone, too, was the oppressive stink and stench, banished by Gyd’s fresh winds. The Llwyddi rushed here and there beneath the wall, and the scattered fragments of the song-laden stones were gathered by hundreds of eager, happy hands.
Tegid continued to dance along the walltop to where I was standing with the king. “The enemy is defeated! Your kingdom is free of their defilement. Will you put aside your geas and speak to your people now, Great King?” he asked.
But the king raised his tearstained face and beckoned his bard close. Tegid inclined his ear to the king’s mouth, whereupon the bard raised his hands and called out to all gathered on the wall below it. “People of Prydain!” he cried. “Hear the words of your king: This day is our enemy defeated. This night we will celebrate the victory in the king’s hall. Three days we will feast and take our rest; but on the fourth day, we will leave this place and return to our homes in the lowlands.”
Then the king left the wall and returned to his chambers. I watched as he walked alone across the yard. Prince Meldron and Paladyr approached him as he neared the entrance to the hall. The king stopped and turned stiffly to meet them. The three stood together for a moment. I could not hear what was said, but I saw Prince Meldron make a quick, violent gesture toward the open gate. The king stared at his son for a moment, then turned away without reply and proceeded to the hall. The prince and Paladyr then hastened away; they passed from my sight beneath the wall, and I did not see them anymore.
The preparations for the feast continued all through the day. The sun remained bright and the clouds disappeared, and we began to believe that Gyd, the fairest of seasons, had at last returned to Prydain. After bleak Sollen’s endless reign, we had feared the world would never more enjoy the bounty of the sun. Accordingly, we reveled in the warmth as we went about our chores.
I searched for Simon—Siawn Hy—both inside and outside the wall, but could not find him in the general bustle to make ready the celebration. All too soon the sunlight faded to dusk, and the chill of night returned. It was with great reluctance that we kindled the torches in Findargad’s hall at dusk, even though it meant that the feast could begin. As I stood in the throng outside the hall, waiting to enter, I thought I saw Siawn standing among the warriors of the prince’s Wolf Pack. But by the time I had worked my way over to the place, they had gone inside and I lost him again.
Sweet mead shone rich and golden in the countless cups that circled the king’s hall. The hearthfire leapt high and the torches and rushlights burned bright, and we drank to victory and the vanquishing of foes in the shimmering firelight. Everyone—warriors and men, maidens and wives, children and babes—everyone joined in the celebration. We ate and drank and sang. How we sang! The night was transformed into a beautiful praise song, a glittering gem of gladness and thanksgiving to the Swift Sure Hand for our deliverance.
And when we had eaten and drunk enough to make us merry, and sung the songs of liberation, Tegid called for the king’s throne to be brought into the hall. A number of warriors hastened to the king’s chamber, took up the throne, and carried it on their shoulders into the hall. Whereupon the king, looking more like the Meldryn Mawr I had first encountered—all glittering and golden in his finery—with little evidence of his recent illness, took his place at the head of his hall and, with wide sweeps of his arms, motioned for all the people to gather and draw near.
Because of his vow, the king did not speak outright but directed the gathering through the voice of his bard. Tegid relayed the king’s words, saying, “Tonight, while the light of life burns in us, it is right to sing and dance our delight in the victory we have been granted. But let us pause to remember our kinsmen who lost their lives to Nudd.”
At this, Tegid began to sing a lament for the dead. It was a well-known lament, and he was not more than a few words into the song when everyone in the hall joined in. I did not know the song, but it was as beautiful as it was sorrowful, and heartbreakingly sad. I could not have sung; just to hear it, my eyes filled with tears and my throat swelled so that I could hardly breathe.
Others wept, too, their eyes shining with tears in the torchlight as they sang. When the song was finished, silence filled the hall. The last notes lingered long in the empty places. After a time, the king leaned again to his Chief of Songs, and Tegid said, “We have remembered the honorable dead as it is right to do. Now let us pay homage to the living who have earned the hero’s portion with their feats of courage and valor.”
To my amazement, the first name called was my own. “Llyd, come to the throne.”
A way opened before me through the crowd, and I stepped forward hesitantly. I was aware, once again, of the stares my appearance provoked and the hushed exclamations of astonishment. But why? Had I changed so much? The king beckoned me to stand before him; whereupon he removed a gold ring from his finger and held it out to me. I reached out to take it, and he grasped me by the wrist and turned me to face the crowd.
“You, above all men, are to be honored this night,” Tegid said, speaking loudly so that he could be heard by all. “At great danger and sacrifice, you brought the enchanted stones from their hiding place and conceived the plan by which they might be used to defeat our enemy. Without the stones we could never have prevailed against Nudd and his demon brood of Coranyid. Therefore, receive the gratitude of your king.”
The Great King stood and, still holding my wrist, raised my hand high before the close-gathered throng. Taking the ring, he slipped it onto my finger. I saw torchlight glinting in a thousand watching eyes and heard the undercurrent of amazement buzzing through the hall. Again I felt the eerie and unaccountable sensation that people were awed by my appearance.
I had no time to wonder over this. Tegid lifted his hands, palms outward in declamation, and loudly proclaimed, “Let it be known that your king has set a high value upon your skill and courage. From this night you are champion to the king. In recognition of this honor, henceforth are you named Llew. Let all men greet you thus from this time forth: Hail, Llew, Champion to the King!”
“Llew! Llew!” the people cried in fervent reply. Indeed, they seemed eager to respond. “Hail, Llew! King’s Champion!” Their voices filled the hall from hearthstone to rooftree, and I trembled within myself: Llew, the name of Albion’s savior, was now my name. What the Banfáith had predicted was coming to pass.
Had I known what Tegid was contemplating, I would have prevented him—and I was not the only one. For, as I took my place at the king’s right hand, I chanced to see Paladyr standing aloof, clearly furious at the staggering insult that had been paid him. Nor did I blame him. For Paladyr had been deposed as champion without being given the chance to defend his exalted position; he was disgraced before his kinsmen and swordbrothers. A greater humiliation could not have been contrived for him.
Other gifts were given out—brooches and gemstones and armbands of silver and gold. Other names were lauded, other deeds acclaimed. I saw little of it, and heard less. My mind whirled, desperately trying to discover a way to dissuade Paladyr from challenging me to single combat in an attempt at reclaiming his position. He would move heaven and earth to restore his honor—it was worth his life and more. A warrior without honor suffered shame worse than death. Indeed, I entertained no hope at all that he would ignore the slight: his pride was greater than the king’s, and Meldryn Mawr’s held all Albion in its sway.
So I stood beside the king—in Paladyr’s place—frantically searching for a way to disentangle myself from this grim, and likely fatal, predicament. I looked over the throng in the hall, hoping to catch fresh sight of the king’s former champion
; but I could not see him. Still, I imagined I could feel his seething wrath—like a bonfire fanned by a gale, burning wild, out of control.
When the last warrior had been summoned and the last gift given, King Meldryn ordered the celebration to continue. The instant I saw my chance, I grabbed Tegid by the arm. “Why have you done this to me?”
“I did nothing,” he told me flatly. “It is the king’s privilege to choose a new champion and to name him. He has done so. And I find no fault in the choice.”
“Paladyr will kill me! He will have my head on his spear. You must speak to the king.”
“This is a supreme honor. It is your right; you have earned it.”
“I do not want it! Take it back!”
Tegid made a sour face. “I do not understand you, Llew.”
“I am not Llew” I growled. “I want no part of it! Do you understand?” “It is too late,” he said, glancing away.
“Why?”
“Paladyr—he is coming.”
Striding toward us through the slowly dispersing crowd came Paladyr. He wore no expression, but his eyes were alive with anger. I braced myself and turned to meet him. He stopped before me, glowering. Before I could open my mouth to offer a word of conciliation, he placed a hand to my chest and shoved me aside. The people saw this and halted where they stood; no one moved, no one breathed. The hall grew instantly silent.