The Silver Hand

  When we had rested, eaten, and drunk our fill of the sweet, plentiful water, we turned once again to the battleground and the reclaiming of our dead—and there were many: almost half of those who had gone down to fight had not returned. Lord Calbha had suffered the greatest loss; the Cruin war band was decimated. The Galanae warriors also paid a fearful price: Cynfarch was shaken to the core. Llew and Scatha had lost fewer than the others, but even one man dead was too many for them and they were greatly distressed. Only the Raven Flight had emerged intact. Fittingly, Bran and the Ravens led the return to the battlefield to begin burying our dead.

  Each of our fallen swordbrothers was accorded a hero’s burial. As they had died together, we placed them together in one massive grave—shoulder to shoulder, with their spears in their hands and their shields before them. We then covered them with their cloaks and raised the turf house over them.

  While this was being done, workmen hauled great slabs of stone from the ridge. When the mound had been raised, we constructed a worthy dolmen to mark the place.

  It was late when we finished our task and turned to the enemy warriors. The sun had set, and there were stars shining in the darkening sky. “Let them wait,” Cynan suggested. “They were eager enough to gain this ground; let them enjoy the fruits of their labor.”

  But Llew looked out on the massed corpses of the fallen enemy. “No, Cynan,” he said. “It is not right. Most of these were not Meldron’s warriors—”

  “They fought for him. They died for him. Let him take care of them now,” Cynan replied bitterly.

  “Brother,” Llew soothed, “look around you. Look at them. They were farmers; they were untrained boys, plowmen, wood wrights, and sheepherders. They had no place in this fight. The Great Hound used them cruelly and cast them aside. We have suffered much, but they are no less the victims of his brutality. The least we can do is offer them respect in death.”

  Cynan grudgingly accepted this. He rubbed his neck as he gazed out across the swiftly darkening plain. His blue eyes glimmered in the fading light. “What do you suggest?”

  “Let us bury them as we have buried our own,” Llew said.

  “That they do not deserve,” Cynan said flatly.

  “Perhaps not,” allowed Llew. “Still, we will do it for them anyway.”

  “Why?” wondered Cynan.

  “Because we are alive and have a choice, and they do not!” Llew replied with passion. “We do it for them, and we do it for ourselves.”

  Cynan scratched his head. “They will never know the difference.”

  “But we will,” Llew told him.

  “It is a good thing,” I put in quickly. “But the light is gone, and we are spent. Let us rest now and begin again in the morning.”

  Llew would not hear it; he shook his head, and I added quickly, “Tomorrow we will erect a dolmen over their grave too. When we see it, we will remember what a terrible master fear can be, and how easily it can conquer a soul.”

  Llew turned to regard the dusky battleground, himself little more than a dark shape against a twilight landscape. “Go then, both of you. Take your ease and sleep. But I shall not rest until every trace of Meldron’s reign is gone.”

  He moved off alone. Watching him, Cynan said, “Long he will be without sleep then. There is not a hearth or hill in all Albion that does not bear the taint of Meldron’s reign.” He turned to me. “Clanna na cù, Tegid. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  “No,” I confessed, “I never have. But a new order is beginning. I think we will all learn new ways.” I put my hand to Cynan’s shoulder. “Order torches to be brought, and food. We will work through the night.”

  Through the night we labored—and through the long, hot day to follow. The people of Dinas Dwr and their former enemies worked side by side, willingly and ardently. And in the end, two mounds were raised on the plain—one at the foot of Druim Vran where our swordbrothers were buried, and the other beside the river where so many of Meldron’s forces fell. It was a noble deed, and the people understood this even if they did not understand Llew’s urgency in doing it. He had said he could not rest until it was finished, and I think he spoke from his heart. Indeed, there could be no new beginning until the old had been properly buried.

  When the workmen and their teams at last finished putting the capstone on the dolmen, the sun was well down, casting a rich, honeyed light over the turf mound. The shadow of the dolmen stretched long across the green plain. I commanded Gwion to bring my harp, and I gathered the host to sing the “Lament for the Brave.”

  Long it had been since any among us had heard the spirit-quickening music of the harp and voices lifted in song, and the people wept to hear it—tears of sorrow, yes, but also tears of healing. We sang and the tears flowed from our eyes and from our souls.

  When the lament finished, they called for more. I strummed the harp and thought what I might sing, what gift I might give them. It felt good to have a harp nestled against my shoulder once more, and soon my fingers found their way, and I began to sing the song that I had been given. I sang and the words kindled the vision once more and it began to live in the world of men.

  I sang the steep-sided glen in deep forest, the tall pines straining for the sky . . . I sang the antler throne on a grass-covered mound, adorned with an oxhide of snowy white . . . I sang the bright-burnished shield with a black raven perched on its rim, wings outspread, filling the glen with its severe song . . . I sang the beacon fire burning into the night sky, its signal answered from hilltop to hilltop . . . I sang the rider on his horse of pale yellow, galloping out of the gray mist, the horses’ hooves striking sparks from the rocks . . . I sang the great war band bathing in the mountain lake, and the cold water blushing red from their wounds . . . I sang the woman dressed all in white, standing in a green bower with the light of the sun flaring her hair like golden fire . . . I sang the cairn, the hero’s grave mound . . .

  While I sang, the setting sun spilled red gold into the heavens. Clouds stained with rosy fire spread like fingers across the sky. It was the time-between-times, and I stood before a mounded dolmen, a hallowed place; words spoken at such times become sparks to inflame men’s hearts. And I knew in my bones that the things of which I sang were yet to come; they would be.

  39

  ORAN MÔR

  We rested and recovered our strength the next day. And that day was far spent when Cynfarch and Calbha summoned us to a council. “It is not right that the Great Hound’s war band should live to draw breath among us while our swordbrothers lie cold in the ground,” Cynfarch said firmly. “Justice must be done.”

  “He is right,” added Calbha. “The sooner we finish this, the better. I say we do it now.”

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

  I glanced from one king to the other; they were adamant and would not be appeased until justice had been served. “It is true,” I agreed, “the matter must be settled sooner or later. Let it be sooner.”

  “Very well,” said Llew. “We will assemble at the lakeside.”

  We left the crannog and went to the lakeshore storehouses where the captives had been held under guard since Meldron’s defeat. We sat facing the lake on oxhides spread upon the ground; Bran took his place at Llew’s right hand, and I sat to his left. Scatha settled beside me, and Cynan, Cynfarch, and Calbha completed our number. Many of Dinas Dwr’s inhabitants gathered behind us—among them I noticed the slight figure of Nettles, hovering in the forefront, only just out of sight.

  The Ravens brought the prisoners to stand on the shore before us: fifty warriors of the Wolf Pack and Siawn Hy—all that remained of Meldron’s war band.

  Their hands were bound with rope and their feet with chains. Their amulets containing fragments of the Singing Stones had been removed.

  Cynfarch was first to speak. Gazing coldly at the prisoners, he said, “Is there anyone to speak for them?” When no one answered, he asked, “Who is leader among you?”

&nb
sp; Siawn Hy raised his head. “How dare you pretend to sit in judgment over us. What gives you the right?”

  “By the sovereignty of Caledon it is my right,” Cynfarch told him. “You and those with you have slaughtered the people and violated the land. You have raped and stolen and destroyed—”

  “We followed our king!” Siawn spat. “We served him as your own warriors serve you. Yet you call our loyalty treason, and our fealty an offense against sovereignty.”

  “You are thieves and murderers!” Cynan shouted. “You have destroyed everything!”

  “We have done nothing that you yourselves have not done,” Siawn replied. “Who among you has not lifted sword against another? Who among you had not laid hold of a thing that did not belong to you?”

  Both Cynfarch and Calbha were suddenly abashed. Siawn smiled with sly satisfaction. “You have done all this and more,” he said, with slow insinuation, “and you have justified them to yourselves saying, ‘We are kings; it is our right.’ But when one like Meldron arises, you call him a murderer and thief. Weak men are all alike—they become cowards in the presence of the strong. You are angry and call it righteousness; you are weak and call it virtue. Yet any one of you would have done what Meldron did if you but had the courage. You were content with your small kingdoms, but only because you feared to take more.”

  “Silence!” Cynfarch roared.

  But Siawn Hy only laughed. “You see! It is true. You cry silence because you hear the truth and you cannot abide it. You condemn us for what you lacked: the will and heart to do yourselves what Meldron did.”

  Calbha rose to his feet. “Liar!” he raged. “I will not listen to this.”

  Siawn was not cowed. “How not, Calbha?” he demanded. “Have you forgotten your wars with Meldryn Mawr? Over an insult to hunting dogs as I recall. And you used that as an excuse to seize land in Prydain, did you not?”

  Calbha glowered at the smooth-speaking prisoner before him, aghast that Siawn should remember such an old feud and lay it at his feet now. “That was different,” the Cruin king muttered.

  I well remembered the quarrel Siawn Hy so astutely mentioned. Calbha and Meldryn Mawr had fought a series of battles which had begun over a remark about Meldryn’s hounds. The truth of Siawn’s assertion could not be denied. With one masterful stroke he had disarmed Calbha.

  “Calbha and Meldryn settled their dispute long ago,” Cynfarch retorted, coming to the Cruin king’s aid. “It is of no concern to us now. It is Meldron who is under judgment.”

  “And you have settled with Meldron,” Siawn replied. “Why do you now judge us for his offenses?”

  “He could not have done what he did,” Bran said, “if you had not supported him.”

  “Is it now a crime to support one’s king?” demanded Siawn Hy. The Wolf Pack stood easier now, quickly recovering their confidence. “You abandoned your lord, and you think this gives you the right to judge me?”

  Bran regarded Siawn as if watching a snake about to strike. “That is not how it was. You twist the truth to fit your lies.”

  “Do I?” Siawn smirked. “I tell you that if Meldron had won, it would be you standing here answering for your treason. That is the truth. Deny it if you can.”

  Llew leaned close to me. “You see how he is? He is a master of argument. He will have us surrendering to them, next.”

  “What would you do?”

  He frowned. “This was Cynfarch’s idea, not mine,” he said. “I suppose we must wait and see what happens.” He glanced around quickly, as if searching for someone. “Where is Nettles?”

  “He is near. Is it important?”

  “Summon him—I think he should be here for this. We might need him.”

  I rose and went into the crowd behind me. There were now so many more people than when the council had begun that I did not see him at first. But he saw me looking for him and pushed his way forward quickly. “Llew asked for you,” I told him. “He wants you to join us.”

  He made no reply but nodded as if he understood; we returned to where Llew sat, and took our places beside him. Calbha was speaking again, so Llew turned to us and said, “Nettles, you are here—good.

  Listen, there is not much time.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” replied the small, white-haired man.

  “Good. I will try to keep it simple.” He indicated the prisoners ranged on the lakeshore before us, their shadows stretching long in the low-riding sun. “They are being judged—you understand?”

  “War trial,” said Nettles, nodding again. “I understand.”

  “Good,” said Llew, his eyes flicking to me. “Good.”

  Calbha finished, and Scatha, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “You speak well of loyalty and right,” she said. “Yet you attacked Ynys Sci, breaking oaths of fealty that have endured for generations. For this we judge you.”

  “Ah, yes, Scatha, Supreme War Leader, I bow to you—who taught so many warriors the art of slaughter,” Siawn replied, his voice a knife thrust. “So long as your arts were practiced on others, you were content. But as soon as your own realm was invaded, you cry injustice. You taught men to kill, you armed them and sent them out, yet you think it an offense when the skills you encouraged are employed. How petty and absurd you are, Pen-y-Cat.”

  Siawn’s ruthless reason mocked them all and his cunning tongue bettered them. Cynfarch and Calbha had not expected this and were unnerved by it. So certain of their course only moments before, they were far from confident now. The council fell to talking among themselves. Llew turned again to Nettles.

  “That is Simon,” Llew said. “Remember him?”

  The small man nodded, watching Siawn narrowly. He said something in his own tongue which Llew answered, and then said to me: “Nettles says that Weston and the others—the Dyn Dythri we sent back—were in communication with Simon. They were trying to reach him. Simon has endangered Albion from the beginning. He achieved his place with Meldron in order to exploit each situation for his own purposes.”

  “Meldron’s place is in Uffern now,” I pointed out. “I think it is time Siawn Hy joined his lord.”

  Siawn, smirking openly now, called out in a loud voice. “You have no right to judge us! Let us go!”

  Llew looked at me; I could see him weighing the decision in his mind. “You are the rightful king,” I told him, placing my hand over his hand of silver. He glanced down at the shining silver hand. “Justice is yours to bestow,” I said. “Whatever you decide, I will support you.”

  Siawn Hy challenged the council again, and it was Llew who answered him this time. “You have said we have no right to judge you, but you are wrong. There is one blameless who calls you to account.”

  “Who is the blameless one?” Siawn sneered. “Let him come forward to condemn us. The Wolf Pack followed Siawn’s lead, calling for the blameless accuser to show himself, if he existed.

  Llew stood. “I am blameless,” he said simply. “I have done no wrong, yet I have suffered evil and injustice at your hands. And for this and for every drop of innocent blood that you have shed, I do condemn you.”

  Siawn’s thin smile spread across his face in triumph. “Condemn me all you like, friend. You are not a king, therefore you do not possess the right to judge.”

  “But I am a king,” Llew said. “Sovereignty can be granted by the Chief Bard alone. The kingship of Prydain was given to me by Tegid Tathal in the rite of the Tán n’Righ.”

  Siawn’s laugh was loud and harsh. The spite in his voice when he answered was staggering. “You! A king? You are a cripple, my friend! The maimed man cannot be king.”

  But Llew simply raised his silver hand and flexed the fingers one by one. Everyone—myself included—stared in amazement at this marvel. The hand seemed real!

  “As you see, Simon, I am no longer maimed,” Llew said. He turned so that all could see, and lifted his voice so that all could hear. “With this hand I take back the kingship that was stolen from m
e.”

  “Who owns you king?” retorted Siawn Hy savagely, and I heard desperation creeping into his voice for the first time. “Who follows you?”

  “I own him king,” said Bran quietly. “I follow and serve him.”

  “You refused your king, Bran Bresal. You abandoned him when it suited you. Since you claim that right, I say that we should be given the same choice. Let us swear fealty to a new lord.”

  This caused a discussion in the council. “Perhaps they should be given a choice,” said Calbha, a little uncertainly. “But could we trust them?”

  “What choice did our dead have?” Llew said. “What choice did those whom they raped and murdered enjoy?” He regarded Siawn and the Wolf Pack with flint-hearted resolve. “Every time they drew their sword or lofted spear they had a choice, and each time they chose.”

  “He is right,” said Scatha. “They have chosen many times over whom they serve.”

  “I agree,” said Cynan. “If you want to give them a choice, let it be this: to die by their own hands, or by ours.”

  Cynfarch and Calbha agreed. “Then it is settled,” Llew said and turned to the waiting captives. “For your actions in support of Meldron’s wrongful reign, I do condemn you. And I demand that the blood debt be paid with blood.”

  “Llew,” said Scatha, “allow me to serve you in this. Any who finds his courage lacking will find mine sufficient to the task.”

  “So be it,” Llew replied.

  The prisoners were marched along the lakeside, up across Druim Vran and out to the plain beyond. They were led to the burial mound of their kinsmen and made to stand in ranks before it.

  We stood below the mound, the sun setting at our backs. Many of the people had come out to watch the execution, though many more had seen enough bloodshed and chose to remain at Dinas Dwr. Goewyn and Nettles were among those who accompanied us, however, and stood at the forefront of those looking on as, one after another, the condemned were given the choice: death by their own hand, or by Scatha’s.