The Endless Knot

  “I want to see what is behind the dam,” I told Bran. Slowly, carefully, we began making our way around the slag heap. We had not crept more than a dozen paces when we came face-to-face with two mudmen digging into the mire with crude wooden shovels. They looked at us with dull eyes, and I thought they would raise a cry at seeing intruders. But they merely bent their backs and proceeded with their work without so much as a backward glance as we pushed past and continued on our way.

  This was the way of it elsewhere too. There were so many slaves about that it was impossible not to be seen by some of them, but when we were seen, our presence went unremarked. On the whole they took no notice of us, or if they did, they appeared not to care. If they showed no fear, neither did they show any interest. Their labor was, apparently, all-absorbing; they gave themselves to it completely.

  “Strange,” concluded Bran, shaking his head slowly. “If they were beasts, I would not work them so.”

  Upon reaching the dam, we skirted the track and kept to an upper path so that we could observe the ground below from a distance. The chimney we had seen was part of an untidy complex of structures. Attached to the largest of these buildings was the spewing smokestack, and from this came the ceaseless dull rumble of heavy machinery. Into this main building trudged an endless succession of miners lugging their burdens in one portal and emerging with empty bags and baskets from another.

  My spirits, already low, sank even further. For, if there had been any uncertainty before, every last particle of doubt crumbled away before the belching smoke and rumble of heavy machinery. There was no sign of Paladyr or any warriors; nor of any place large or secure enough to hold hostages—except the factory, and I doubted we would find them there.

  “Goewyn and Tángwen are not here,” I told Bran. “Let us return to camp.” I saw the question on his face, so before he could ask, I added, “The Dyn Dythri have come in force to plunder Tir Aflan. We will tell the others what we have seen and make our battle plan. There’s no time to lose.”

  Bran and I turned away to begin making our long way back to where the war band waited. We had almost gained the cover of the smoke layer when I heard the hateful rumble of the vehicle returning.

  My mind raced ahead. “That rock!”Whirling, I pointed to a place in the road behind us. A large rock marked the bend: there Bran and I could hide. Upon reaching the place, we flattened ourselves behind the rock and waited for the thing to pass.

  I heard the motor race as the driver downshifted into the bend. The vehicle’s tires squelched on the wet stone a few short paces from where we hid. The sound ground away, dropping rapidly as it receded into the valley. We waited until we could no longer hear it, and then crept back onto the road. We retrieved the horses and stopped to catch our breath. The valley spread far behind and below us, dull red in the sullen rain like a wound oozing blood.

  Bran got to his feet and mounted his horse. “Let us leave this, this cwm gwaed,” the Raven Chief said bleakly. “It sickens me.”

  “Cwm Gwaed,” I muttered, Vale of Blood. “The name is fitting. So be it.” Bran made no reply but turned his horse onto the road and his back to the valley.

  Upon reaching our encampment, we were met by two anxious warriors, Owyn and Rhodri, who ran to greet us with the news, “Strangers are coming!”

  Rhodri added, “Cynan and Garanaw have gone down to meet them.”

  I slid from the saddle, scanning the camp. “Where is Tegid?”

  “The Penderwydd is watching from the road,” Owyn said. “He said to bring you when you returned. I will show you.”

  Rhodri took the horses, and Owyn led us a short distance away from camp to a lookout where we could gaze down upon the road rising to meet the pass where we had made our own camp. Tegid was there, and Scatha with him, watching, as the warriors had said, a group of horsemen approaching in the distance.

  The bard turned his head as we took our places beside him. “Who is it?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “Watch,” was all he said.

  In a moment, I was able to pick out individual riders, two of whom were smaller and slighter than the others. One of these wore a white hat or headpiece. Closer, the white hat proved to be hair. The man raised his face toward the place where we stood, and the sun flared as it caught the lenses at his eyes.

  “Nettles!” I shouted. My feet were already running to meet him.

  33

  RETURN OF THE WANDERER

  Professor Nettleton urged his horse to speed when he saw me running down the slope to meet him. Gaunt and haggard from his journey, his broad smile measured his relief. I reached up and swept him from the saddle in a fierce embrace. “Nettles! Nettles!” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know how to find us?”

  The old man grinned, patting my arm and chuckling. “King Calbha sent three stout warriors with me, and Gwion led the way.”

  At this I glanced at the others, observing them for the first time. Flanked by Cynan and Garanaw were three warriors, looking none the worse for their journey, each leading a packhorse loaded with provisions and, on a fourth, Tegid’s young Mabinog, Gwion Bach.

  “How did you find us?” I asked, shaking my head in amazement. “I cannot believe you are here.”

  “Finding you was simplicity itself,” the professor replied. “We had but to sail east. Once ashore, we simply followed your trail.” He lifted a hand in the young Mabinog’s direction. “Gwion has a special gift in that regard,” he explained. “We would have been lost many times over without his guidance.”

  I turned as the others gathered around us. “Is this true, Gwion? You followed our trail?”

  “It is so, Lord Llew,” the boy replied.

  “Well,” I told them, “however you have fared, your journey is at an end. You have found us. But you will be tired. Come, rest, and tell us what news you bring. We are all eager to hear how you have fared and what brought you here.”

  We returned together, talking eagerly to one another about the rigors of the journey. “See here!” I called as we came into the camp. “The wanderer has returned.”

  Scatha and Tegid hailed the travelers, greeting them with astonished admiration. All the warriors gathered around to acclaim their feat, not least because they had seen the provision-laden packhorses and could almost smell the food awaiting them.

  “Gwion tracked us,” I told Tegid, clapping a hand to the boy’s shoulder.

  The Mabinog drew himself up and answered with an air of immense satisfaction. “Where you have walked,” he replied, “there is a trail of light. Day or night, we merely followed the Aryant Ol. The Radiant Way led us to you.”

  “Well done, lad,” said Tegid proudly. “I will hear more of this later.” Looking to the others, he said, “You have all faced great hardship and danger. The need must be great to have brought you here. Why have you come?”

  Gwion and the warriors looked to Nettles, who answered, “It was at my insistence, Penderwydd. Lord Calbha warned me about Tir Aflan. With every step I feared we would arrive too late.”

  He paused, turning his bespectacled eyes to me. “It is Weston and his men,” he said, licking his lips. He had traveled far with this news burning in him. “They have succeeded in creating a veritable gateway from our world to this. They have learned how to move machinery through the breach, and they have devised systems for exploiting the land—diamonds, or something equally valuable.”

  “Not diamonds,” I corrected. “Some kind of precious metal, I think.” I explained quickly about the chimney and machinery, which indicated a smelting process. Then I related to Tegid and the others what Bran and I had discovered in the valley.

  Nettleton listened, a pained expression on his face. When I had finished, he said, “It is even worse than I thought. I had no idea . . .” He fell silent, considering the enormity of the crisis.

  “Come,” I said, thinking to make it easier for him. “Sit down. Rest yourself, and we will talk.”

  But he res
isted, putting his hand on my arm as if to hold me back. “There is something else, Llew. Siawn Hy is alive.”

  I stared. “What did you say?”

  “Simon is alive, Lewis,” he said, using my former name to help drive the point home. “He and Weston are working together. They have been from the beginning.”

  As he spoke the words, I felt the certainty fall like a dead weight upon me. It was Siawn Hy, not Paladyr, who sought revenge through Goewyn’s abduction. Paladyr might have had a hand in the deed, but Siawn Hy was behind it. Siawn’s poisonous treachery was at work once more in this worlds-realm.

  “Llew?” the professor asked, studying me carefully. “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” I replied dully. “Siawn Hy alive—that explains much.”

  “After their initial contact,” the professor continued, “Weston furnished Simon with information in exchange for funding arranged through Simon’s father. It was Simon’s ambition to set himself up as king—he even boasted about it. But you thwarted him in that. Indeed, you succeeded where he failed,” Nettles stressed. “I do not think he will forgive you that.”

  “No,” I mused. “I do not think he will.”

  I stepped away from him and, raising my voice, I addressed the warriors. “Unload the provisions and prepare a feast of welcome. Then look to your weapons. Today we ready ourselves and take our ease. Tomorrow we meet the enemy.” As the warriors dispersed to their various tasks, I summoned Cynan, Bran, and Scatha, saying, “We will hold council now and lay our battle plans.”

  Darkness had long claimed the camp by the time we finished; the stars shone down hard flecks of light in the black skybowl of night. We had spent the remainder of the day in deliberation, pausing only to share a most welcome meal of bread, salt beef, and ale, prepared from the provisions brought to us. That night, while the war band slept, I walked the perimeter of the camp, my thoughts returning time and again to the meaning of the professor’s revelation.

  Simon, badly wounded by Bran’s spear, had fallen across the threshold to be rescued by some of Weston’s men. They had rushed him to a hospital, where he had spent a lengthy convalescence. “Immediately upon his release,” Nettles explained when we had a moment together, “Simon disappeared. And shortly after that the activity began in earnest.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I have been keeping an eye on the entire operation. Also, I had help.” He leaned forward. “Do you remember Susannah?”

  At his mention of the name, a face flickered in my memory: a keen-eyed firebrand of a young woman with brains and pluck for any challenge. Yes, I remembered her.

  “Susannah has been a godsend,” Nettles informed me soberly. “I have told her everything. I could not have managed otherwise.”

  He grew grave. After a moment, he said, “It was after Simon disappeared again that I began noticing the signs. I knew something had to be done. The damage is fearful.”

  “Damage?”

  “The damage to the manifest world. There are,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “there are anomalies breaking through. Aberrations appear almost daily. The Knot, the Endless Knot, is unraveling, you see. And the manifest world is diminishing; the effect is . . .”

  His eyes were intense behind his round spectacles, imploring, entreating, willing me to understand. “That is when you decided to come back,” I suggested.

  “Yes, and when Calbha told me that Goewyn had been abducted and taken to the Foul Land, I feared I had returned too late.” Professor Nettleton’s voice grew stern and insistent. “They must be stopped, Llew. They are manipulating forces they do not understand. If their violation continues, they will destroy literally everything. You cannot imagine . . .”

  With this warning reverberating through my mind, tolling like a bell of doom, I stalked the silent camp through the night’s cold. The end was near, I could feel it approaching with the speed of the dawn. Tomorrow I would meet my enemy and, with the aid of the Swift Sure Hand, I would defeat him. Or die.

  The valley appeared as Bran and I had left it, a red gash in the belly of the land. The smoke hung like a sooty ceiling over all, shutting out what little light might have come from the pale and powerless sun. I imagined, for a moment, that sunlight penetrating the fog and burning away all the filth and corruption. Oh, but it would take something stronger than sunlight to reverse the devastation that met our sight.

  The scum-filled lake, lethally still beneath the shroud of smoke, lay like a tarnished mirror. The stench of the lake and from the wounded land hurt our lungs and stung our eyes. The men must accustom themselves to this before going nearer.

  “The Dyn Dythri are there,” I told them, pointing with my spear tip to the dam and chimney. Cynan, Bran, Scatha, Tegid, and Nettles stood with me; the war band was assembled behind us. “I do not know how many strangers have come, but it may be that they know we are here and will be ready for us.”

  “Good,” grunted Cynan. “Then men will not say we defeated a sleeping foe.”

  Scatha observed the valley, studying it in detail, green eyes narrowed to attentive slits. “You described it well. But it will be difficult to walk that slope. I think we should use the path,” she said, indicating the track on the left-hand side of the lake, which the mudmen used to trundle their burdens to the compound behind the dam.

  “The slaves will not hinder us,” I said. “There is no need to avoid them. They will not fight.”

  “I do not see any of the strangers, nor their olwynog tuthógi,” Bran said, and some of the men laughed. But it was nervous laughter; there was no real mirth in it.

  I turned to address them using the words I had pondered during my long, sleepless night. “Kinsmen and friends, we have journeyed far and endured much that would have daunted lesser men.” There was a general murmur of approval at this.

  “Today,” I continued, “we will face a most deceptive and cunning enemy. Deceptive, for his weapons are those of cowardice and guile. Cunning, for he is shrewd in malice and devious in hostility. He will appear to you a weak and unworthy foe, unlike any you have met in battle. His weapons will appear low and inferior, but do not be deceived. For they can kill at a distance, without warning. You must be wary at all times—for when the foeman stands far off, then is he most dangerous.”

  The men looked at one another in bewilderment, but I went on. “You must understand,” I told them. “Heed me well. The enemy we face today will not stand against you. They will run and they will flee. They will fight from hiding.” This brought sneers of contempt.

  “Hear me now!” I continued. “You must not be deceived. Do not expect skill, neither expect honor. Instead, expect confusion and cowardice—for these are sturdy shields for a foe who understands neither valor nor courage.”

  The warriors acclaimed this outright, raising their voices in hoots of derision.

  “Their strength is not in numbers, but in rapacity and lust for destruction. The enemy will destroy swiftly, without thought or remorse. Pity will not restrain him, nor will mercy stay his hand. He feels no shame.”

  There were calls and shouts of scorn for such a worthless foe, but I raised my silver hand for silence. “Listen to me! We do not fight today for honor; there is no glory to be won. We fight only for survival. We are few, but we stand between this foe and the ruin of our world. If we fail, Albion will fall beneath the shadow of evil and desolation that has overcome Tir Aflan.

  “We fight today for the freedom of those held captive to the foe: for Goewyn and Tángwen, yes, but no less for those who do not yet know their danger.

  “Therefore, let us advance with shrewdness and cunning. We must use stealth where we would take the battleground openly, if by stealth and concealment, even flight, we may save ourselves to fight again.”

  The war band did not like this. They grumbled against such cowardly tactics, but I held firm. “Cling to pride and we will perish. Cherish dignity and we will die.

  “We will fight t
oday,” I told them, “but we must survive the fight. For, if we fail, Albion will fall. And once Albion has fallen, all the pride and dignity in this worlds-realm will not restore it.”

  There were no shouts or grumbles now. My words had found the mark and taken hold.

  I paused before concluding. “Listen, brothers. If I have learned anything in my time among you, it is this: true honor lives not in the skill of weapons or the strength of arms, but in virtue. Skill fades and strength fails; virtue alone remains. Therefore, let us put off all that is false. Let us prefer instead the valor of virtue, and the glory of right.”

  I had spoken my heart, but could they understand? It appeared I had misjudged the moment. The warriors did not understand; I had lost them, and perhaps the battle as well.

  Yet even as doubt began to grow, I heard a small clicking sound. I turned my head toward the sound and saw Bran, eyes level and hard, tapping the shaft of his spear in the rim of his shield. Click, click, click . . .

  The Raven Flight quickly joined him; Scatha and Cynan soon followed. Click! Click! Click! And, by twos and threes, the rest of the war band joined in. Click! Click! Click! The sound became a rattle, and grew to an ominous thunder as the ashwood shafts struck the metal rims. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

  It mounted to a crashing climax and then stopped so abruptly I could hear the final report echoing away across the valley. And then we turned and descended into Cwm Gwaed, the Vale of Blood.

  34

  THE TRAP

  Sinuous as a snake, the road twisted down into the valley. Though I had entered it before, I felt the shock afresh—like a fist in the throat. It was still early morning, but the mudmen were already teeming like maggots over the slag heaps and swarming the trenches. The high chimney spewed its noxious emissions into the air beyond the dam to the dull thunder of hidden machinery.

  Those with me gazed glass-eyed and dumbstruck at the enmired misery around them. Unable to comprehend the mindless ardor of the toiling wretches, the warriors simply stared and moved on.