The Silver Hand (46 page)

Scatha, green eyes level, fair hair gathered and bound beneath her war cap, chose first. Bearing a small round shield on her shoulder and a shirt of leather sewn with overlapping disks of bronze like the scales of a lizard, she raised a white spear with one long, supple arm. She had tied three strips of cloth to the shaft of her spear just below the leaf-shaped blade; two black strips, and one white. These were
meirwon cofeb—
symbols by which to remember her daughters, those for whom she fought this day, and whose deaths and rape she would avenge. Her clear voice called out the names of the warriors who would own the honor of following her in battle.

The Pen-y-Cat, it had been decided, would be the war leader. Supreme in skill, unrivaled in judgment, she was the most formidable of all adversaries, and the most cunning of battle chiefs. Under her training countless warriors had earned their arms, and many had achieved greatness and renown—but none had ever surpassed Scatha. In all, she chose but fifty, and the choice passed on.

Next came Bran Bresal, an oak among oaks, dark hair braided in gleaming plaits, ring of gold glinting on his left arm and torc shining at his throat; he raised his red-painted spear. From out of the massed warriors came the Ravens: Niall, Garanaw, Alun Tringad, Drustwn, and Emyr Lydaw. Like their leader, they wore no cloak, or siarc, or breecs or belt. Like the heroes of song who put off their clothes to fight, the Ravens entered battle naked, their oiled bodies glistening in the sun.

Each man saluted his battle chief as he stepped near—clashing the haft of his spear against Bran's shield, or slapping the raven tattoo on his arm.

Bran also called others to his flock—warriors he had chosen to join the Flight of Ravens. When all were assembled the champion took his place before them, and the choice passed on.

Cynan, blue eyes alight with anticipation, chose next. He stood with his arms upraised, gripping the hilt of a honed sword in his fist. His flame-red hair was cut short and greased to his head; his mustache and beard were brushed full. He called the warriors of his Galanae war band, and others that he knew. Then he turned to his father, King Cynfarch, who nodded sagely. Cynan was war leader for his father, but the king retained the right to approve the choice. This ritual observed, the choice passed on.

King Calbha, torced and ringed with gold, a massive sword on his hip, drove the point of his blue-painted spear into the ground and gripped the shaft with both hands. In a voice that belled like iron, he called out the members of his Cruin war band. He summoned them in ranks of ten, and when he was finished three fifties of men stood behind him.

Llew, garbed simply in breecs and leather belt, rose from the rock on which he sat and stood with a sword in his good hand; a long shield hid his stump from view. He lifted his voice and called the remaining warriors. Not slow to join him were the men he summoned; many ran in their eagerness to serve. Each warrior struck the rim of Llew's shield with his spear shaft as he passed, and the sound was thunderous. When all had gathered, three thirties and three stood with him—in honor of the slain bards of Prydain.

Then Llew raised his sword high, the carynx sounded, and I saw Rhoedd standing on a rock with the great, curved battle horn at his lips. The sound assaulted the air, filling the glen, echoing from the ridge wall. Rhoedd sounded the horn again, and the Flight of Ravens moved forward at the run. Scatha and her war band were next, then Cynan and Calbha, and finally Llew with his triple ranks. Taking up my staff, I followed the war host and began mounting to the top of Druim Vran.

The people had come to see us away. They stood along the track and hailed us as we passed, banking high the warriors' courage. I saw Goewyn in the forefront, waving a birch branch, and Nettles standing beside her with a holly bough; birch and holly, twin emblems of strength and valor in the lore of bards.

In the early morning light, I saw the war bands of our tribe fearless and eager to meet the enemy. I saw brave men running to meet death: the Gwr Gwir, hastening to carry the battle to the enemy. I raised my staff as they passed and called upon the Swift Sure Hand to uphold them through the fight; I invoked the Goodly-Wise to guide their steps; I entreated the Gifting Giver to grant them the victory.

We were woefully outnumbered by Meldron's forces. This we knew. But the war leaders had judged the risks carefully: to have any chance at all against such an overwhelming foe, we must act quickly. Our water stores were dwindling rapidly; we could not allow ourselves to be weakened through thirst. To hold any hope of surviving, we must strike now—before Meldron could establish himself in the valley beyond, and while we were still strong enough to lift our swords.

The council had decided to seek out Meldron and attack him. If we succeeded in killing Meldron and his Wolf Pack, it was thought the rest of the war host would likely abandon the fight: chop off the head and the viper dies. We might then send north to a nearby island for water; for we considered that the taint would not yet have reached beyond the shores of Caledon.

The war bands gained the ridgetop and took their positions. By the time I joined them, the host was ranged along the length of Druim Vran—waiting while the war leaders conferred.

We would not attack until Scatha had determined the enemy's strength and disposition; she wanted to see Meldron and learn how he stood before ordering our own ranks. As to that, any weakness in Meldron's position was more than redressed by numbers. The Great Hound's war host spread across the valley on both sides of the river: thousands . . . and thousands more.

“I never imagined . . .” Llew shook his head slowly as I took my place beside him. Bran stood at his left hand, gazing down into the valley, eyes hard, his mouth a thin, tight line.

“The Hound of Prydain has succeeded beyond his own inflamed ambitions,” I observed. “He has climbed high over the bodies of the murdered and enslaved.”

“Then he will fall the further,” Bran declared. “I will count it an honor to bring about the ruin he so richly deserves.”

We stood on the ridgetop awaiting Scatha's return. Since we could not see Meldron himself, or his Wolf Pack, she and Cynan had gone down for a closer look. When she rejoined us, we would make our final decisions about the ordering of battle.

As it happened, we had long to wait. The sun rose higher, growing hotter as it climbed into a dusty brown sky, and the morning passed. We grew weary of waiting, and the men grew restive—and thirsty. We drank our water ration for the day and watched the fierce sun soar higher. Calbha joined us and we sat together, scanning the valley below. The smoke from their cooking fires spread across the distance, gray-white, billowing like waves.

“They are an ocean,” Calbha observed quietly. “And we are but a burn trickling out of the hills.”

The sun neared midday before Scatha appeared at last, and with a disturbing report: warriors were still streaming into the valley in great numbers. “But Meldron is not yet with his war host,” Scatha told us. “He may be among those even now entering the valley, but we did not see him.”

“The war host is not assembled. They are not massing for attack,” Cynan added. “They seem to be waiting.”

“No doubt they are waiting for Meldron,” Llew replied. “If that is the way of it, perhaps we should not wait. Perhaps we should attack.”

Cynan looked doubtful, but shrugged. “I would fight the Great Hound rather than his pups, but we cannot sit here any longer. Let us begin.”

Llew looked at Scatha. “What say you, Pen-y-Cat?”

She, too, rose. “I do not think we will take them unawares, but they are disorderly and unprepared. Without Meldron they may be more easily daunted. Yes, we will attack.”

Bran, Cynan, and Calbha added their agreement, and all took their leave, returning to their waiting war bands. “Well,” Llew said, drawing his wrist stump through the shield straps, “it has come to this. Will you uphold us in battle?”

“Why do you ask? You know that I will.”

“I know.” He leaned his sword against his thigh and gripped my arm with his good hand. “Farewell, Tegid.”

“May it go well with you, brother,” I replied, embracing him tightly.

He turned away then and took his place at the head of his war band. But a moment later, he lifted his sword in a silent signal and the warriors began moving down the ridge to the valley. They soon disappeared among the trees and were lost to my inner sight; I did not see them anymore.

I walked along the top of Druim Vran until I found an outcrop large enough for me to stand on, and high enough for me to be seen from the valley below. I climbed onto my rock perch and squatted on my haunches until the battle began.

A dull, sullen sun poured white heat into the valley, through which the river oozed like a black, noxious smudge. The river—thick and turgid with its scum of corruption—held my attention for a moment. It formed a natural barrier in the valley. Not much of an obstacle, admittedly, but I noticed that the enemy kept well away from its banks. All along its reeking length, the camps on either side gave the river wide respect. No one drank from it, of course, nor did anyone attempt to cross it.

With my quickened inner eye, I scanned the wide valley for sight of bare earth and saw none. The valley swarmed with the horde, and yet warriors streamed through the narrow glen mouth. Was ever such a mighty force seen in Albion?

No; never. I sat upon my rock and gazed at a wonder. Not in the days of Nemed, not even in the days of Nuadha, had such a war host been known. Of horses and men there was no end. The spears of the warriors bristled like an ashwood forest; the glint of their swords in the dire sun flashed with the spiked radiance of the sea, and their shields were more numerous than shells on an endless beach.

Scatha, Wise War Leader, had declined the use of horses—a desperately prudent stroke. Horses would lend us power at the outset, but they would also make it easier for the enemy to identify, surround, and contain us. Our battle plan depended upon penetrating deep into Meldron's forces, finding him and removing him—and that could be accomplished more efficiently by men afoot who, in the chaos of battle, might slip through the ranks unobserved.

I watched the foot of the ridge wall, where the first signs of the attack would come. Scatha had also directed that no carynx should sound the attack. “They will discover our attack soon enough,” she said. “But perhaps we can penetrate to the heart of Meldron's host before those across the river even know the battle has begun.”

That was our one thin hope: take the center and hold it. This would force the enemy to fight inward upon itself to reach us. We would be surrounded, yes; but there were so many warriors we would be soon surrounded whatever we did. At least, by taking the center, we would create a smaller field of battle, and our own war bands would not be separated.

It was, as I say, a desperate tactic. But, as I looked down upon the masses of warriors encamped below, I understood beyond all doubt the utter hopelessness of our position. We could not expect to overpower Meldron. At best, we could only . . . what? Blunt his attack? Delay his inevitable victory?

Calbha was right, we were but a burn trickling out of the hills. The war host of the Great Hound was as wide and deep as the sea. Once battle commenced, that vast sea would whelm us over and we would vanish without a trace.

Even as this thought took root in my mind, I heard the raw croak of a raven taking flight above the ridge. I turned my sightless eyes towards the sky, and was given the vision of black wings against a filthy yellow sky. I recoiled from the sight and turned away.

Gwenllian's voice came light as a sigh in my ear. The Bánfaith had said:

Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face; abomination stalks the land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds.

Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness, and terrify all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will despoil the island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand. The Island of the Mighty will become a tomb.

All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire. Rise up Men of Gwir! Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men in your midst. The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.

Yes, it had all come to pass as she had predicted. But the prophecy finished with a riddle:

Hear, O Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit and with Spirit ever more remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.

Silver Hand was the name given to the Champion who would save Albion. It was Llew's name: Llew Llaw Eraint, of whom marvelous things were foretold.

An accusing voice arose within me:
Fool! What have you done?

I had tried to force the fulfillment of the prophecy by making him king. But I had failed in that. Meldron had shattered any hope that Llew might reign. The Rule of Sovereignty cannot be broken or set aside—not for any reason, not for any man. The Great Hound Meldron had snatched away the kingship when he struck off Llew's hand.

And now, I thought, gazing over the stinking, smoke-filled valley and the enemy spread in deadly array, the Island of the Mighty had become a tomb.

I heard the sound of an approaching footfall soft behind me. Before I could turn, I felt Goewyn's hand on my shoulder. “I mean to stay with you, Tegid,” she said, brooking no denial.

“Stay,” I said. “We will uphold our brave ones together.”