The Silver Hand (42 page)

The chariots slewed around, swinging out behind the turning horses, flinging dust clouds high. The enemy line, divided like a severed snake, curled in upon itself as the two separate halves drew together. It was then that the mounted warriors struck.

Breaking from behind Cynan, the horsemen drove into the churning enemy straight and swift as a thrown spear. The ground trembled under the clash; horses were lifted off their feet and thrown screaming onto their sides. Spears splintered and broke. Swords flashed.

Cynan and Alun drove their chariots into the fray, striking in from the flank. The enemy surged backwards like a retreating wave in their haste to make way for the speeding chariots. Men shrieked and horses collided.

Bran, upright, arm high, hurled a spear into the chaos. With the force of the chariot behind the throw, I saw an attacking foeman lifted clean from the saddle as the spear split his shield and pierced him through.

Cynan sped through the enemy ranks like a mad bull charging through a fog. Warriors howled as they fled before him. Head high, bellowing wildly, spear quick and deadly in his hand, his challenge loud in their ears, he raked them with his spear as he passed. I saw more than one man fall beneath his wheels.

In the space of but a few heartbeats, the enemy line was shattered and their warriors dispersed. Whereupon, the chariots spun as one and charged into the second half of the enemy war band, which had turned and gathered itself for a charge. Again, the speed with which the chariots moved and the ferocity of Cynan and Bran's attack could not be endured.

The chariots struck to the heart of the advancing foe—struck, disappeared in the confusion of rearing horses and striving bodies, and then appeared again on the other side, where they halted, turned, and prepared to strike again. The dust cleared. Five men lay on the ground, three horses thrashed in the dust, and five mounted warriors spun in rattled disorder.

Llew and the others made quick work of them. I saw the sun-glint of slashing blades, and then five horses running riderless along the sarn. I glanced down at Nettles: he was kneeling in the dust with his hands over his eyes, his shoulders trembling.

The remaining enemy gathered for a final charge. Cynan and Alun drew their chariots together side by side. Cynan raised a spear and shouted, lashing his team to speed. The horses reared and plunged forward, eager under his urging. Alun gave a long, whooping cry and his team burst forth as if hurled from a sling. Llew and the others turned and joined the chariots in midflight, spears slicing the air as they came.

This was too much for the enemy. The charge faltered and dissipated as the foemen broke ranks and fled before the onslaught. Away they flew, racing back the way they had come. Of the twenty that had attacked, only six remained. Llew and the warriors gave chase, hurling spears after the fleeing enemy. But the spears fell short and the six got away.

Cynan loosed a whoop of triumph, leapt from his still-moving chariot, and, with a quick chop of his sword, struck the head from the nearest dead foeman. He took up the man's spear, spiked the head upon it, and then planted the spear in the ground.

Overcome with joy and relief, I raised my voice in a victory chant, loud with exaltation—as if to make the distant hills ring with my defiant song. I turned to Nettles. “It is over! We have defeated them!”

He lowered his hands and blinked at me; he did not understand, but no matter. “
Gorfoleddu!
” I told him. “Rejoice!”

The small white-haired man smiled. “Gorfoleddu,” he repeated, saying it twice more to himself and nodding.

Bran and Alun were first to return. Llew and the mounted warriors followed close behind, and Cynan after them, complaining: “We should pursue them,” he said. “They will tell Meldron.”

“We were fortunate this time,” Bran said. “They were not prepared for the chariots. It will not be so again.”

“All the more reason to finish what we started,” Cynan argued.

“Bran is right,” I said. “It may be that Meldron's whole war host is camped just over the hill. We should return to Dun Cruach while we have the chance.”

Cynan remained unconvinced. “Let them summon the Great Hound himself. I am not afraid.”

“There will be other battles,” Llew said. “Let us take the victory we have been given and leave the fighting for another day. There are people waiting for us, brother. Lead us home.”

We remounted, turned our horses, and hastened away. I could follow Llew's lead and, even with Nettles behind me, had no difficulty keeping up. The chariots rumbled over the sarn and we made for Dun Cruach. The day waxed hot and sticky, but Cynan pushed a steady pace over the dry, withered hills, and we arrived at Dun Cruach as the sun dwindled to a dull, white cinder hanging just above the western horizon.

Upon our arrival, I discovered that Ffand had been buried earlier that day. “It is so hot,” explained the woman who had cared for her, “burial could not wait—and I did not know when you might return. Are you displeased, lord?”

She meant no rebuke, but her words stung me. “No,” I told her, “You have done well. I should have attended her myself.”

She led Llew and me to the burial place; a small square of earth in the shadow of the hall. “It is cooler here,” the woman said. “It is the best place I could find.”

I thanked her and she left us. Llew was silent for a long time, gazing at the fresh-turned earth. “You see how it is,” he said at last. “We strangers do not belong here, Tegid. We cannot stay—we can never stay.”

After an early supper, Cynan recounted the events of the day over cups of water in Cynfarch's hall. Those of our party who had remained at the caer, to oversee preparations for our return journey north, noisily expressed their annoyance at missing the excitement. And we were made to tell and retell the tale so that all could share it anew. In consequence, the night was deep around us before we found opportunity to speak to Cynfarch.

“Lord Cynfarch,” Llew said, standing to address the king. “It is good to sit with you tonight and to recount our victory for you. But I am reminded that we have lost a day already and we still await your decision. Will you go with us to Dinas Dwr?”

The king frowned. “I have decided . . .” he said tersely.

Llew remained silent, awaiting Cynfarch's decision. But the king's word never came. For at that moment we heard the cry of the watchman on the wall. An instant later, the short, sharp blast of the battle horn raised the alarm.

The cry of alarm awakened my inner sight. I saw the timber wall before me . . . warriors tense in the moonlight, edged in silver . . . stars hard and bright in a deep dark sky . . . the door of the hall flung wide, and warriors tumbling out into a pale yellow square of light . . .

I ran with the others to the wall and mounted the rampart. I saw the darkling land . . . empty—but for the faint glimmer of a single campfire in the distance. I turned to the warrior who had sounded the alarm and opened my mouth to speak. But, even as I turned, I caught a winking movement in the dark: another fire.

The warrior raised his arm and pointed across the black distance. I looked where his finger led me, and saw that second glimmering flicker break into a cluster of several lights. Those clusters separated further, becoming a long string of lights.

Bran appeared at my side. “What is it?”

“It is Meldron,” I replied. “He has found us.”

Suddenly, the wall was swarming with warriors. Llew and Cynan stood beside me to watch the silent, glimmering lights forming and spreading across the plain. There were scores of flickering shimmers now, quivering barbs of light, and more with every breath.

“So he thinks to strike at night,” Cynan remarked. “Let him come. We will prepare a welcome for him he will long regret.”

Llew said nothing. He stared into the darkness as if trying to peel it away; his face was rigid with concentration, his eyes, narrowed, brows knit together. His jaw muscles bulged.

I was more distressed by his expression than by the sight of Meldron's gathering host. “Llew?” I touched his arm; it was like touching the exposed root of a tree. The sensation unnerved me. “Llew!”

He turned his face to mine. His eyes glittered strangely in the moonlight—staring at me, but not seeing me.

“Speak to me, Llew,” I said, laying my hand to his unnaturally rigid arm. “What do you see?”

He opened his mouth slowly . . . It was then that I saw the tiny flecks of foam at the corner of his mouth, and knew! My heart quickened within me. I knew what it was that gripped him. I knew—and the knowledge brought both hope and fear. For I had seen it before, and I knew its source.

Cynan, too, had witnessed the change in Llew. “What is happening?” he asked. “Tegid! What is wrong?”

Llew began to shudder. He reached toward me, clawing at me with his good hand. Cynan gripped his arms and struggled to restrain them. “Tegid! Help me! I cannot hold him!”

32
F
IRESTORM

C
ynan threw his arms around Llew's shoulders and held him in a wrestler's grip. Llew's eyes fluttered in his head. From his gaping mouth came a cry—keen and loud and fierce—like that of a hunting wolf or a soaring eagle. He raised his arms and shrugged Cynan aside, flinging him away as if he were no more than a shred of rag clinging to his back.

In the same motion, Llew leapt from the rampart and ran across the yard toward the hall. Cynan rolled to his feet and made to rush after him, but I stayed him, saying, “Wait! Do not prevent him. He cannot hear you, and you might come to harm.”

“What is wrong with him, Tegid?” Cynan demanded as Llew disappeared into the hall. He turned on me. “
Saethu du!
What is it?”

“Watch!” I said and, even as I spoke, Llew burst forth from the hall once more—carrying a firebrand in his good hand, and a leather cask under his other arm. He paused at the gate, pushed against it, and squeezed through.

“Clanna na cù,”
said Cynan.

“Go,” I told him. “Gather your men and make ready to follow him.” Cynan stared at me, aghast.

“Hurry, man!”

Cynan spun away, shouting commands to the warriors standing near. He leapt from the rampart to the yard below and called for his weapons. His words were still resounding in the air when the battle horn sounded. The warriors turned as one and flew from the rampart to the hall. Out of the turmoil emerged the figure of Bran Bresal, spear in hand and shield on his arm.

“Bran!” I cried. “Here!” A moment later the warrior chief stood below me. “Follow Llew, but lay no hand to him. Whatever he tells you to do—do it! Do not prevent him!”

He raised his spear in salute and darted away. I realized I need not have cautioned him. Bran would obey willingly and without question any command Llew would utter.

I turned once more to see Meldron's war host, closer—the light of hundreds of burning torches, flaming bright, spreading across the plain—and Llew, firebrand high, flying to meet the foemen.

The yard below me was a boiling mass of confusion: warriors swarming, voices calling, horses moving in the moon-dim light, weapons gleaming. The gate swung open and Bran dashed out a moment later, torch in hand.

He ran to join Llew, and I watched their twin trails of flame recede until they reached a place well away from the wall, whereupon Llew stopped and drove his torch into the ground. He heaved the leather container to his shoulder and began walking slowly backwards.

Cynan, armed and ready for battle, rejoined me on the wall. “What is he doing?” he asked. “Is he mad?”

“No,” I told him. “Now gather your men and be ready.”

Cynan sprang away again, and I turned back to observe Llew. He stopped pacing and stood for a moment on his measured spot, then he hastened to the place where he had planted his burning brand. Still holding the leather cask on his shoulder, he now began walking backwards in the opposite direction. I watched him, and it came to me what he was doing.

“Cynan!” I shouted, turning from the wall. “Cynan! Bring the king!”

Cynan stood in the center of the yard, ordering his men. Horses had been saddled and stable hands ran to bring them to the warriors. He snatched the reins from a running youth. “Cynan!” I cried. “Where is Cynfarch?”

“He is readying his chariot,” Cynan called. “He will ride before us into battle.”

“Send someone to bring him to the wall. I must speak to him at once. Hurry!”

Cynan laid his hand on the warrior nearest him, nodded, and the man disappeared into the tumult of the yard. “You come too,” I shouted to him.

I felt the presence of someone behind me. I turned to see the stranger Nettles standing with me on the wall. He raised his arm and pointed out upon the plain. Where before there had been hundreds of gleaming torches, a thousand now burned. And I heard a sound like far-off thunder rumbling across the plain as the sparkling lights drew ever nearer.

Llew threw aside the leather cask and ran to snatch up his torch. Bran stood by him, but Llew seemed not to see him; seizing the torch, he held it to the ground. Instantly, flames leapt high and sped away from him on either side, tracing a wide arc through the dry grass.

Cynfarch, gripping an upright sword, called to me from the yard below. At that moment there came a sound like the rush of a roaring wind and the yard shimmered in flickering light. Through the open gate the king saw a curtain of flame leaping high into the night sky. Cynfarch took one look at the spectacle before him and demanded, “What is he doing?”

“He is preparing a way for us,” I replied. “We must make ready our departure.”

“Departure?” The king's mouth writhed, and he drew breath to condemn the suggestion with scorn.

“We are leaving,” I told him. “Behold!” I stretched my hand toward the shimmering flames. “Llew has set a shield before us.”