The Silver Hand

  Paladyr!

  23

  ESCAPE

  Paladyr!” shouted Llew. “Tegid! It is Paladyr!”

  “I have seen him,” I replied, and with my inner eye saw Meldron turn to his champion. Paladyr wheeled his horse and retreated from the edge of the cliff.

  “Where has he gone?” wondered Llew. “Can you see, Tegid?”

  “No,” I answered, sick fear coiling in the pit of my stomach.

  Cynan, dripping water and blood from a cut on his upper arm, came to stand beside us. “Where are the others?” he asked.

  “Boru is dead,” Llew told him. “And all the warrior-school with him.” He lowered his voice. “Govan is dead too. But I do not think Scatha knows yet.”

  “What of Gwenllian?”

  “I do not know,” Llew answered. “Scatha said they were taken when she refused to join Meldron’s war band. She and Goewyn escaped.”

  “Perhaps Gwenllian escaped as well,” Cynan offered hopefully.

  At Cynan’s words, terror struck me like a blow from behind. I swayed on my feet and put a hand to the rail to steady myself, pressing the other hand to my head.

  Llew saw me and grabbed my arm to keep me from falling. “What is it?” When I did not reply at once, he shook me by the shoulder. “Tegid, what is wrong? What is it? What has happened?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but a groan escaped instead. The groan rose to a wail. I could not stop it, nor did I try.

  “Look!” shouted Bran. Llew and Cynan turned to the clifftop. Paladyr had returned and now stood at the edge of the sea crag with something on his shoulder.

  “What is it? What has he got?” demanded Cynan.

  “No . . .”murmured Llew, his voice cracking with pain.

  Paladyr shifted his burden to the ground and jerked it upright. Though I already knew what he held, my heart sank.

  “Mo anam!” swore Cynan.

  Llew muttered an oath between clenched teeth; Bran cursed Meldron and all who rode with him; Scatha looked on in mute horror: her daughter stood swaying on the cliff edge with Meldron’s champion.

  On the cliff above us, Paladyr seized the neck of the Banfáith’s mantle in his hands and ripped it to the ground. Her hands were bound together at the wrist, and she struggled feebly. Paladyr struck her in the face with his fist. Her head snapped back and her knees gave way. She fell against Paladyr.

  “Gwenllian!” cried Scatha.

  The others might look away, but I could not shut out the vision from my inward eye. Each action passed before that unblinking stare, and I wished for my blindness again.

  Paladyr took Gwenllian in his arms and, with his enormous strength, slowly raised her above his head. She writhed in his grasp and kicked her legs, but he held her high and, stepping to the very edge of the sea cliff, hurled her over.

  Gwenllian’s scream was cut short as her body struck the rocks. Her spine broke on impact, arms and legs splayed wildly. The body, white against the black, sea-slick rocks, paused, rolled, and then slid into the water, leaving behind a gleaming trail of crimson.

  “Gwenllian!” Scatha shrieked, and the cry trailed off in a sob.

  I pressed my hands to my head to keep out the hateful sight, but my inward eye shifted to the clifftop, and I saw Paladyr gazing grimly down into the water. Meldron said something to his champion, and he turned to reply to his lord. Then Paladyr stooped, gathered up his victim’s cloak and held it up for us to see. He let it slip from his hands and fall into the sea. Meldron wheeled his mount and withdrew then, but not Siawn Hy. He sat on his horse gazing down at the ships. And when he saw that we were looking up at him, he smiled and slowly raised his spear in an impudent salute.

  Then he, too, withdrew, and I saw only the image of a woman’s fair-formed body floating lifeless in the sea swell . . . milk-white flesh bruised and broken . . . dusky red hair drifting with the seaweed in the gentle currents . . . wide green eyes faded, lips parted, mouth open and full of water . . .

  The image dissolved in darkness like a black mist and blindness reclaimed me.

  Leaving the enemy to rant and rage on the sea cliffs, we turned the stolen ships and set sail along the western coast of Ynys Sci. Toward dusk we sighted our own ships. At first they made to flee before us, but Meldron’s ships were faster and as we caught them up they knew us.

  Working the ships close—hull to hull in the rolling swell—we transferred warriors to the lighter vessels and turned toward the mainland.

  Llew settled Scatha and her daughter in the wind shelter before the mast and asked me to tell them what we had seen of Govan’s death. I related the grim facts of her suffering and told of her burial. Goewyn clutched her cloak to her face and wept bitterly. For her part, Scatha bore her loss without tears and with great dignity.

  “Thank you, Tegid Tathal,” Scatha said, and then turned to comfort Goewyn. “Leave us now. Please.”

  The wind remained brisk and steady across the strait, and we reached a protected inlet on the northern coast of Caledon with the dawn. We made landfall to rest and to assess the next part of our plan. When the men had been settled, Bran, Cynan, Llew, and I gathered a little apart on a grassy knoll above the white sand beach. The sough of the tide wash on the beach made a most melancholy song.

  “The blood debt is heavy, and Meldron will pay,” Cynan declared bluntly. “It will be some time before he can leave that island. I say we should attack him now and destroy his support at the root.”

  “I agree,” said Bran. “Strike now while his main strength is elsewhere. We may not have another chance like this again.”

  Cynan and Bran discussed the prudence of this course, and Llew listened to their counsel. Then I felt Llew’s brushing touch on my arm. “Well, Tegid? What do you say?”

  “What is there to say that has not been said? We have delivered Meldron a hurtful blow. By all means let us take the battle to him.”

  Llew heard the disapproval in my reply and asked, “What is the matter, Tegid? What is wrong?”

  “Have I said that anything is wrong?”

  “No, but I can tell.” He nudged my arm with his wrist stump again. “What is it? Do not make us guess.”

  “The Singing Stones—” I began.

  “Oh, yes,” he said irritably. “What about them?”

  “Attack Meldron’s stronghold—well and good,” I replied. “But it is wasted effort it we do not reclaim the stones.”

  “You said he carried them with him everywhere,” Llew pointed out.

  “I said I thought it likely. But since we could not search Sci, I think we should search his stronghold.”

  Bran interrupted this exchange, saying, “These singing stones you are talking about—they must be very valuable. Yet, I have never heard of them.”

  Cynan said, “Tell him, bard. I have heard the tale before, but I would hear it again.”

  I assented, pausing briefly to gather the words.

  “Before the sun and moon and stars were set in their unchanging courses, before living creatures drew breath, from before the beginning of all that is or will be, the Song of Albion was sung. The song upholds this worlds-realm, and by it all that exists is sustained. The Song is the chief treasure of this worlds-realm and not to be despoiled by small-souled creatures or unworthy servants.”

  Having begun, the words formed on my tongue of their own accord and flowed on in the song-style of bards:

  “Meldryn Mawr, the Great King, like Prydain’s mighty kings before him, defended the Song through the long ages of our clan’s supremacy. Deep beneath the mountain fortress of high Findargad, Albion’s Phantarch, High One, slept his enchanted sleep, secure behind the bulwark of a True King.

  “But the Wyrm of fiery breath bit deep and corruption flowed from the bite. The kingship of Prydain sickened with rot and decay. Righteous sovereignty declined; the Defender faltered, and the enemies of the Song seized the day. The Phantarch was killed to silence the Song, but his strength was the strength of the S
ong of Albion itself, and his craft endured. Though the Phantarch, Bard of Bards, went down to death, the Song was saved.”

  Bran professed himself mystified as to how this could be. “That is what I wondered when I heard it too,” Cynan told him. “But just listen.” To me he said, “Go on.”

  “You know the tale,” I told him. “You tell it.”

  “Gladly,” replied Cynan; I heard the zeal in his voice. “This is the way of it,” he said. “With strong enchantments the Phantarch bound the Song to the very stones that killed him. Even as his life sped from him, the Wise One breathed the precious Song to the stones that became his tomb. He did this so that the Song of Albion would not be lost.” He finished, saying, “Have I remembered it right?”

  “Word for word,” I replied.

  “Forgive me,” Bran said, “but there is something I do not understand. If Meldron sought to silence the song, why does he hoard the Singing Stones? Would he not destroy them now that he has the chance?”

  “You are perceptive, Bran,” I remarked. “You have struck to the very heart of the matter.”

  “Enlighten me if you can,” the battle chief said.

  I began to make a reply, but Llew answered instead. “All this has come about by Siawn Hy,” he said. “He is not of this world. He is a stranger here, as I am. But unlike me, Simon—that is his name in my world—did not believe in the power of the Song of Albion. He thought that by silencing the Phantarch, he could usurp the power for himself—at least, that is what he persuaded Meldron to do.”

  “Thus, for a time, the Song was silenced,” I said. “Without the Song to prevent its escape, the Cythrawl, Creature of the Pit, was loosed. Chief Bard Ollathir, at the cost of his life, banished the hell spawn—but not before it had summoned Lord Nudd, Prince of Uffern, and his Demon Horde to wreak destruction on the people of Prydain for daring to protect the Song. Through many bitter trials we endured; and the ancient enemy was defeated before the gates of Findargad.”

  Cynan could not keep silent any longer. “Llew performed the Hero Feat upon the wall,” he cried, and told how we had found the Singing Stones and how, by inspiration of the Chief Bard’s awen, Llew had used them to save Albion. “And Nudd and the vile Coranyid were driven back to Annwn.”

  “After the battle, we collected the fragments of the song-bearing stones,” Llew explained. “And Meldron took them.”

  “We did not know what he was planning at the time, or we would not have allowed it,” I said. “But Meldron had seen the power of the stones, and he thinks now to use that power to establish himself Supreme King of Albion.”

  “Not while I live and breathe,” Bran vowed. “I will never see him High King.”

  “Nor I,” added Cynan. “I say we shall not rest until we have freed the Singing Stones from the Great Hound’s grasp.”

  We talked of this and other things, and then Bran and Cynan returned to their men. When they had gone, I said, “You did not say what you think of attacking the Great Hound’s stronghold: Cynan spoke, and Bran, but you withheld your approval. Do you disagree?”

  “No,” he allowed, “the time is right, Meldron is stranded on Ynys Sci—he will have his hands full repairing his ships.”

  “We can reclaim the stones and return to Dinas Dwr before he floats a seaworthy hull,” I said. “Why do you balk at that?”

  “I do not balk, Tegid,” he replied, bristling. “I just think that all this talk about the stones is ill-advised.”

  “How so?”

  “We have enough to worry about without bringing the Singing Stones into it. Anyway, Meldron probably takes them with him wherever he goes—you said so yourself. It is a waste of time and nothing will come of it.”

  “Then why do you fear finding them?”

  “Did I say I feared them?” he snapped. “Go ahead—look all you want if it will make you happy.”

  “Llew,” I said, trying to soothe him. “It must be done. This will not be over until we have regained the Stones of Song and—”

  “Tegid, this will not be over until Simon is back where he came from!”

  He stormed away then, and stayed away from me the rest of the day. That night, as the campfires leapt high and bright, I sang “Pwyll, Prince of Prydain,” a worthy tale. Scatha and her daughter slept in one of the ships, and we slept under the heaven’s light. We rose before dawn, and as the sun began its journey across the blue sky-vault, we began our voyage south to Prydain.

  Maffar, Fairest of Seasons, blessed us with calm seas and steady winds. Our ships flew like gulls, skimming the glassy green seas. We camped in coves along the coast at night, and sailed through the long day following. We observed deserted habitations and unplowed fields along the coast, and occasionally someone would glimpse the flickering form of a wolf loping over the hills. Hawks, foxes, wildfowl, and other creatures were sighted, but of human occupants we had no sign.

  Prydain remained a wasteland. Meldron, instead of doing all in his power to revive the noble land of our people, had only deepened the desolation wrought by Nudd and the Coranyid. For he had spread devastation to the places hateful Nudd had never reached; now Llogres and Caledon bled beneath his cruel rapacity.

  I wondered at this. Indeed, I had considered it long and often. Why had wicked Nudd attacked only Prydain? Why had Caledon and Llogres escaped untouched? Was Prydain somehow more vulnerable than the other two realms?

  Perhaps the reason was something to do with the Phantarch and the Song. Or perhaps some other explanation remained to be discovered.

  Nevertheless, the desolate land left me desolate as well. I felt the emptiness of all those empty hearths, and all those abandoned habitations. I felt the weight of sorrow for all Prydain’s dead: unmourned, unburied, and unknown, save to the Dagda alone. As our voyage neared its end, I lapsed into a dolor as bleak as any I have known. The waste, the cruelty, the predation, anguish, and distress could not be faced except through misery.

  Scatha, in her sorrow, longed for some small comfort from me. But I could say nothing to her. How could I ease her loss when all of Prydain cried out to me for a healing word and I knew none to give? Before such terrible travail I stood mute. There was nothing I could say which would redeem the ruin, or lessen the loss.

  Sorrow and be sad, deep grief is granted Albion in triple measure, the Banfáith had said. Ah, Gwenllian, your word was ever true.

  24

  VALE OF MISERY

  Let me do this,” Cynan said. “I welcome it.”

  Llew was about to object yet again, but Bran spoke up. “The risk is great, but Cynan is right, it is just the sort of plan that will work.”

  “And if it fails?” Llew asked.

  Bran shrugged. Cynan said, “Then you can attack the caer. But if it succeeds, we will have saved many lives.”

  Llew turned to me. “What do you think, Tegid?”

  “Why take by force what we might achieve by stealth?” I turned to Cynan. “But do not go alone; take Rhoedd with you.”

  “Very well,” Llew relented, “since there is no one preventing you, you may as well go. We will await you here. If there is trouble, get out. You know the signal.”

  “I know, I know,” Cynan assured him. “We have talked until even the horses know the signal. All will be well, brother. If the stones are there, I will find them.”

  Cynan and Rhoedd armed themselves, and we bade farewell. Llew and Bran watched from hiding as the two made their way up to Caer Modornn. Inner sight was denied me, so I leaned on my staff and waited. The day was warm, the air still. I smelled the potent earth scent of leaf mold, rotting wood, and damp soil. We had hidden ourselves in the shrubby seclusion of the river below Caer Modornn—near enough to see without being seen—ten men only; the rest were camped a short distance away, well out of sight.

  “They are at the gates,” Bran reported in a little while. “The guards have challenged them. There are men on the wall.”

  “Cynan is talking to them,” Llew said. “That
is a good sign. He can talk the legs off a table.”

  “The gates are opening,” Bran added. “There are men coming out—three . . . no, four men. That one—do you see him?” Bran asked Llew. “The dark one speaking to Cynan now—”

  “I see him,” Llew answered.

  “That is Glessi. He is a Rhewtani chieftain—that is, he was once. He seems to have found a home with Meldron. I am not surprised; he was always slippery as an oiled snake.”

  “What is happening now?” I asked.

  “They are still talking,” Llew answered. “The one called Glessi seems to be thinking it over. He crosses his arms over his chest . . . he scratches his beard. He is making up his mind. Cynan is talking—I wish I could hear what he is saying.” He paused and then added, “But whatever it is, it seems to be working. They are going into the caer. There!”

  I heard a light slap of a hand on a shoulder or arm. “He has done it!” Llew said. “He is in.”

  “Now we wait,” Bran replied. “I will take the first watch.”

  Llew rose and led me back to the riverbank to sit with the Ravens. We settled among the hawthorn and willow scrub. Some dozed, others talked quietly. I sank once more into the dull reverie that had held me since coming ashore in Prydain six days ago.

  A somber journey south along the western coast had brought us to Muir Glain, the wide, silver sweeping estuary of ruined Sycharth where Meldryn Mawr had maintained his shipyards. In the time since I had last visited the place, thickets of briar and birch had grown where ships’ hulls had been fashioned of strong oak. Nettlebeds flourished where wood chips once drifted deep as snow.

  We sailed into the estuary and up the river as far as we could, and then anchored the ships where the water became too shallow. We established camp in a wooded glade and left the main body of our war band there. Taking forty with us, we moved deeper into the Vale of Modornn the next morning, leaving the rest behind to guard the ships.