the eerie voice of a dead friend or kinsman. Everyone, that is, e~ ~

me. [heard only the wild wind-wail, but that was unnerving er ~

For as night wore on the gale raked more fiercely at the unseen i

and fell shrieking from the heights. We could only cower closer to t

fires and hold our hands over our ears.

And then even the fires were taken from us. The wind sci ~ down between the walls like a rushing waterfall. The campt~r flattened, guttered, and went out. Plunged into a chill dar~ e churning with the gale and the cries of dead friends and loved L~ the men began scrambling for their weapons.

"Tegid!" I shouted, trying to make myself heard above the wi ~ roar. "Someone is going to get hurt if we do not act."

"I fear you are right," agreed Cynan. "It is most uncha the dark."

"What do you suggest?" replied Tegid. "I cannot stop the wind!

"No, but we can stop the men from running amok."

At that, he jumped up onto a nearby rock and raised his stal "Aros! Aros llawrt' he shouted in the buliroar voice of comman "Stay! Stand your ground. It is not the voices of the dead!" he criec "Some treachery is upon us. But do not be deceived. Take courage!"

 

 

 

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SONG OF ALBION

"They are calling us!" someone shouted. "The dead have found We are doomed!"

"No!" I told them. "Listen to our Wise Bard: we have all lost friends and loved ones. Our thoughts are with them, and so you imagine you hear their voices. It is a trick of the wind and storm. Nnthing more."

uj~ you not hear them yourself?" another frightened voice

 

demanded.

"No, I do not. I hear only the wind," I told them sternly. "It is raw and wild, but it is only the wind. Sit down, all of you, and we will wait it out together."

This seemed to calm the men. They drew together, some with weapons at the ready, and crouched shoulder to shoulder to wait. And, gradually, the gale died down and the eerie assault ceased.

We rekindled the fires and slowly relaxed and settled down to sleep, thinking the trouble was ended. Wishful thinking, as it turned out: the ordeal was just beginning.

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Bwgan Bwlch

 

 

We had just settled to our rest when the eerie sounds began again, but not voices alone. This time, the dead also appeared.

As the wind dropped, fog descended from the icy altitudes-a strange, ropy mist that ebbed and flowed in rippling tidewaves. Grey as death and cold, the elusive vapor stole along the bare rockface of the wall and slid over and around the rubble at the roadside, groping and curling like tendrils. The sentries were the first to see it and raised a tentative alarm. They were concerned but uncertain, as there was no clear danger.

"No, no," I told Niall who apologized for waking me, "this night was never meant for sleeping. What is happening?"

His face, deep-shadowed in the fitful light, screwed into a squint as he peered beyond me into the darkness. "A fog has come up," he said, paused, and glanced back to me. "It has an evil feel, lord. I do not like it."

I rose and looked around. The fog had crept thick, forming a solid cover on the ground beyond the ring of light thrown out by our campfires. If it had been a living creature, I would have said it seemed reluctant to come into the light Probably it was just the heat of the flames, creating a margin of space around us. Yet, it seemed almost sentient, the way it snaked and coiled as it thickened.

31

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SONG OF ALBION

"It is watching us," Niall whispered.

He was not the only one to feel that way. Very soon the unnatural vapor had formed a weird landscape almost man-height around us. Queer shapes bulged up from the mass only to melt back into it again. Men began to see things in the grey billows: floating limbs, heads, torsos, ethereal faces with empty eyes.

The horses did not like the fog; they raised such a commotion with their jerking and jigging and whinnying that I ordered them to be blindfolded and brought within the fire-ring. They liked that scarcely better, but allowed themselves to be pacified.

Our fears, however, could not be so easily allayed. I ordered the men to arm themselves and to stand shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield. We took what comfort we could in the heft of our weapons and the nearness of our swordbrothers, watching helpless as the spectral display continued.

Disembodied heads mouthed silent words; detached arms gesticulated, legs twitched, and other body parts melded and separated in monstrous couplings. Grasping hands reached out from the mass and beckoned to us, melted and reformed as toothless sucking mouths. I saw a huge lidless eye split into smiling lips, and then dissolve into a puckered fistula.

"Clanna na cii!" Cynan growled under his breath.

Tegid, hovering near, whispered, "Something is stirring here that has slept for ages. The ancient evil of this land has awakened, and its minions stalk the land once more."

Cynan turned his face, sweating despite the cold. "What could do that?"

"Could it be Paladyr?" I wondered. "Could he have done something to rouse this-this evil power, whatever it is?"

"Perhaps," Tegid allowed. "But I think it is a thing more Powerful than Paladyr alone-a presence, maybe I do not know. I feel it here." He pressed his fist to his chest. "It is a sensation of deep Wickedness. I do not think Paladyr capable of such hatred and malice." He paused, thinking, and added, "This is more like..

The ghostly shapes formed and congealed, altering in subtly

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suggestive ways. Watching this silent, shifting dance of the macabre put me in mind of Lord Nudd's Demon Host at the Battle of Dun na Porth at Findargad. "Lord Nudd," I said aloud. "Prince of Uffern and Annwn."

"From the tale of Ludd and Nudd?" wondered Cynan.

"The same."

At mention of the name, I began to feel an almost hypnotic effect. Whatever hostile power animated the fog, it was beginning to exert a fell authority over us. I was drawn to it, coaxed, beckoned. Fascinated, my spirit yearned towards the billowing panoply of mutating forms.

Come to me, the fog seemed to say. Embrace me, and let me comfort you. Your struggle can be over; your striving can end. Sweet release. Oh, your release ~s near.

 

The sly seduction of this insinuation proved potent indeed to a band of bruised and exhausted warriors. Long on the trail in a harsh and hostile land, there were those among us who had begun to weaken. One young warrior across the circle from me threw down his shield and staggered forth. I called to his companions who hauled him back.

He was no sooner returned to the fold than another warrior, a man named Cadell, gave a cry, dropped his weapons, and made to dash into the fog. Thinking quickly, those on either side of him grabbed him by the arms and restrained him.

Cadell resisted. He dug in his feet and shook off those holding him. Turning, he made to run into the fog. A nearby warrior tripped him with the butt of a spear. His kinsmen were on him in a moment, dragging him back to the line. As if overcome by a gigantic strength, kicking and flailing with his arms, Cadell sent his holders flying. Screaming terribly, he staggered to his feet, turned, and lumbered towards the fog once more.

Calling for Bran's aid, I darted after him. He had reached the fog, which seemed to surge towards him in an embrace, curling around his wrists and ankles. I felt a cold exhalation emanating from the undulating fog as I put my hand on the warrior's shoulder-~--it was

STEPHEN LAWHEAD

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SONG OF ALBION

like touching a damp rock.

Cadell twisted around me, flinging out his arm. His flying elbow caught me on the point of the chin and I was lifted off my feet and thrown back; I thought my head had come off. I rolled onto my knees, black stars spinning in dark circles before my eyes.

I shook my head fiercely. My assailant was once again staggering into the fog. I stood on unsteady legs and launched myself at him. I did not try to turn him again, nor did I try to restrain him; it was too late for that. I simply sprang, raising my silver hand and bringing it sharply down on the nape of his neck.

The warrior stiffened and threw out his arms. He raised his head and screamed, then toppled backwards like a felled tree. He hit the ground and lay still.

Fearing I had killed him, I stooped over Cadell and pressed my fingertips against his throat. The instant I touched the body it began jerking and trembling-all over, head to foot, all at once--as if he were dancing in his sleep. His eyelids snapped open and his mouth gaped wide; his clawed fingers clutched at me,, grasping for my throat.

I swung my silver hand hard against the side of his head. He convulsed and I heard a gurgle low in his throat. The breath rushed out of his lungs and with it something else a transparent, formless shape like a flying shadow. It brushed me as it fled and I felt a sick, slimy chill and an aching, piercing emptiness-as if all the loneliness and misery in all the world were gathered into a swiftly fleeing distillate of woe. In that fleeting touch, I felt the creature's mindless anguish, and knew what it was to be a tortured animal, able to feel pain, but unable to fathom its cause or reason. My heart felt as if it would burst with the utter desolation of that sensation.

And then hands seized me, pulling me to my feet. The despair passed as swiftly as it had come. "I am myself," I told them, and looked down at the body before me. To my surprise, the man opened his eyes and sat up. The warriors hastened us both back to the safety of the circle.

I had no sooner returned to my place beside Tegid and Cynan when the eerie spirit voice beckoned once more:

323

Come to me. Oh, come and cast away your care, Let me hold you and comfort you. Let mefree you from your pain. Come to me... come to me...

"Hold, men! Stand your ground!" I shouted. "DO not listen!"

"It is gaining strength." Tegid said, glancing all around. "Our fear is feeding it, and we are losing the will to resist." He spun away, tugging me with him. "There might be a way .. Help me!"

"Cynan, you and Bran take over," I ordered as I hastened to follow. "Whatever happens, stand firm."

The squat twisted stems of the gorse bushes we burned for ~ warmth were not large enough to serve, but our spear shafts were made of ashwood. Working quickly, we cut the blades from three j shafts and Tegid had me hold them while he dipped into the pouch at his belt for the Nawglan, the Sacred Nine, as he called it.

Taking the specially-blended ashes, he sprinkled a portion into the palm of his right hand and then rubbed it the length of the bladeless shafts, each in turn.

"There," he said when he finished. "Now let us see if they will stand."

It was not possible to drive the wooden shafts into the stone-paved road, of course. But we tried wedging the ends between cracks in the stones. "This would have been easier with the blades still attached," I complained.

"There can be no metal in this rite," the bard replied. "Not even gold."

We persevered, however, and eventually succeeded in wedging the three spear shafts into cracks: one standing upright, two on either side inclined at a slight angle to form a loose arrowhead shape-a gogyrven. Gathering live coals on the inner rim of a shield, we placed a small pile of embers around each standing shaft. Taking up the hem of his cloak, Tegid quickly fanned the embers into a flame that licked slowly up the slender poles.

Holding his staff in both hands over his head, the bard began walking rapidly around the blaze in a sunwise direction. I could hear him muttering something under his breath in the Taran Tafod; I was

 

 

 

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_~~J1~'__, ,jr :~_~

~ot supposed to hear or know what he said.

"Hurry, Tegid!" I urged.

At the completion of the third circuit, the bard stopped, faced the blazing gogyrven and said, "Ddlasair!Dddair!Bladhm do!!"

The words of the Dark Tongue resounded in the pass, echoing up the sheer rock divide. Extending the staff vertically, Tegid began to speak the words of a saining rite.

 

G~fting Giver.1

You whose name is veiy life to them that hear it, hear me now!

Tegid Tathalap Talatyant, Chief Bard of Albion, Jam.

See me established in the sunwise cirde;

hear my entreaty.

 

Earth and sky, rock and wind, bear witness!

By the power of the Swift Sure Hand, Idaim this ground and sam it with a name: Bwgan Bwlck'

 

Power offire I have over it,

Power of wind I have over it,

Power of thunder I have over it,

Power of wrath I have over it,

Power of heavens I have over it,

Power of earth I have over it,

Power of worlds I have over it!

 

As tramples the swan upon the lake,

As tramples the horse upon the plain,

As tramples the ox upon the meadow,

As tramples the boar upon the track,

As trample the forest host of hart and hind,

As trample all quick things upon the earth,

Ido trample and subdue it,

And drive all evil from it!

 

In the name of the Secret One,

In the name of the Living One,

In the name of the All -Encirding One,

In the name of the One True Word, it is Bwgan Bwlch,

Let it so remain as long as men survive

To breathe the name.

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STEPHEN LAWHEAD

So saying, the Chief Bard brought his staff down with a loud crack upon the rocks. He turned to me. "It is done. Let us hope it is enough."

The writhing mist shuddered and drew inward upon itself, as if contracting under a hail of blows; or as if it were a creature cowed by fire, but reluctant to allow its prey to escape. The mutations rippled through the churning mass with ever-increasing frequency.

Returning to my place in the front rank, I lofted my spear and called aloud:

"In the name of the Secret One, In the name of the Living One, In the name of the All-Encircling One, In the name of the One True Word, this place is Bwgan Bwlch!"

Bran, standing next to me, took up the words, calling out in a clear, strong voice. Soon others were shouting them, too, raising a chant against the malignant spirit bubbling like a foul froth all around us. We chanted and the fog churned with ghastly half-formed shapes whose origins could scarcely be guessed.

I saw an eyeless face with a swine's snout and goat's ears; a grasping hand became a five-headed cat before dissolving into the form of a gross, grinning mouth that opened to reveal a huge, bloated toad for a tongue. A pair of emaciated bovine haunches mutated into a coiled snake before disintegrating into a scattering of scuttling cockroaches.

I saw a horse's head on the body of an infant; the infant torso stretched into a pair of thin scabby stork shanks with the long skeletal feet of a rodent. An immense belly swelled and split, spilling out blind lizards before dissipating into a clutch of palpitating reptile eggs which merged to become two slack-jawed haglike heads...

"Louder!" I shouted, taking heart that our chanting seemed to be producing some effect. "Sam the ground! Claim it!"

The men redoubled their efforts. The voices of the warriors, so long pent by Tir Aflan's dismal hush, swelled to fill the troubled pass; their voices raced up the sheer rock walls to strike the icy heights. Indeed, it seemed as if by the vigor of shouting alone we might drive the wicked bwgan spirit from its roost.

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SONG OF ALBION

With blinding swiftness, the ghastly metamorphoses became instantaneous. Bizarre shapes blurred together in a fantastic stream of mutating forms-changing too fast now to be recognized as anything but hazy images of vaguely human and animal shapes.

I heard Tegid's powerful voice lifted above the rest. On his lips a song, the words of the saining rite. Man by man, we added our voices to Tegid's and the song soared up strong and loud, and the bwgan shrank before the sound. We sang:

 

Power offire Ihave over it,

Power of wind Ihave over it,

Power of thunder Ihave over it,

Power of wrath I have over it,

Power of heavens Ihave over it,

Power of earth I have over it,

Power of worlds Ihave over it!

 

 

The bard's saining song drove into the vile spirit like the thrust of a flaming spear, a gogyrven of song. The fog began to fade and dissipate, vanishing as we watched.

 

As tramples the swan upon the lake,

As tramples the horse upon the plain,

As tramples the ox upon the meadow,

As tramples the boar upon the track,

As trample the forest host of hart and hind,

As trample all quick things upon the earth,

Ido trample and subdue it,

And drive oil evil from it!

 

 

At the precise moment of its fading, the bwgan revealed itself as a huge hulking thing, a beast with the immense hairy body of a she-bear, its hind legs those of an ox, and its front legs those of an eagle. Its tail was the long, naked, hairless cauda of a rat, but its head and face were disturbingly human-flat-featured, big-lipped, with huge, pendulous ears, round, staring eyes and a thick protruding tongue.

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STEPHEN LAWHEAD

In the name of the Secret One,

In the name of the Living One,

In the name of the AIl-Encirding One,

In the name of the One True Word, it is Bwgan Bwlch,

Let it so re~nain as long as men survive

To breath the name.

 

 

And then, growing transparent as the mist dissipated, the bwgan vanished.

The mountain pass echoed with the resounding cheers of the warriors, who sent their song spinning up into a night sky suddenly splashed with bright burning stars.

'We have done it!" cried Cynan, happily slapping every back he happened upon. 'We have beaten the bwgan beast!"

"Well done, men!" shouted Bran. "Well done!"

We were all so busy praising one another that we did not at first hear the thin wail coming from the peaks above. But Tegid heard it. "Silence!" he called. "Silence!"

"Silence!" Cynan shouted, trying to quiet the men. "Our bard is speaking!"

"Listen!" Tegid said, lifting a hand towards the darksome peaks.

As the jubilation of the men died away, I heard a bloodless and mournful shriek-like that of a great predatory bird-far away, and receding swiftly, as the unclean spirit passed out of the world of men.

I looked to Tegid. "Bard?"

"That is the bwgan," Tegid explained with satisfaction. "It is searching for a new home among these broken peaks. If it finds no home before sunrise, it will die." Throwing high his hands, he cried, "Behold! A new day is dawning in Tir Aflan."

Turning as one, we saw the sun was rising in the east. We watched it rise-hungry for it, like men too long away from the light. Soon a shaft of clear light touched the narrow pass and filled it, expelling any lingering shadows with the force of its radiance. The rocks blushed red-gold; the peaks glowed, every one a gem.

"That evil spirit will not return here," the bard continued. "This ground is sained now, reclaimed for humankind."

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SONG OF ALBION

"We have conquered indeed!" Bran Bresal shouted.

It was a happy moment, a blessed relief to look upon that new day. Yet even in the midst of such celebration I could feel the deep melancholy despair of the land reasserting itself once more. We might have recovered one mountain pass among a myriad others but, as the inexorable tide of grief flowed back, I understood that no mere saining rite could banish the long ages of torment and misery. It would, I reflected, take something more than a song to redeem Tir Aflan.

We struck camp and journeyed on. It was not long before dark clouds gathered to obscure the sun. The day, so brightly begun, sank into gloom once more-a gloom made all the more palpable for the glory of the dawn we had witnessed. I felt it-we all did-as a wound in the chest, a hole through which the soul leaked away like blood.

Five days, two horses and three mountain passes later, we stood together, wind-wracked and wrapped in our tattered cloaks, staring dully at a peculiar dark pall of cloud hanging over the wide bowl of a valley far below us.

"A very odd-looking cloud," I observed.

"It is smoke," replied Tegid. "Smoke and dust and fear."

329

32

I gazed into the valley. The road showed as a narrow scar winding down the mountainside to lose itself in the pall of smoke and dust. My whole body leaned towards the sign in anticipation: direct evidence of human habitation. The end of our journey was near. I felt no fear.

"Why do you say fear?" Cynan asked Tegid.

"See it rising on clouds of smoke and dust," the bard replied, extending his hands and spreading his fingers, "see it casting a shadow over this unhappy land. Great distress lies before us, and great fear." Tegid lowered his hand and his voice. "Our search has ended."

"Goewyn is there?"

"And Tángwen?" Cynan asked with eager impatience. "Mo anam, brothers! Why do we delay? Let us hasten to free them at once." He looked quickly from one to the other of us. "Is there anything to prevent us?"

Had it been left to Cynan we would have raised the battle call of the carynx then and there, and stormed the valley by force. But Bran's cooler head prevailed. "Paladyr is surely awaiting us," he said, harking back to the beacons we had seen. "It is likely he knows our strength, but we do not know his. It would be well to discover our enemy's might before beginning battle."

Strangers

330

SONG OF AL~1ON

"Then come," I told him. "You and I will spy out the land."

"I will go with you," Cynan offered quickly, starting away at once.

I placed my silver hand in the middle of his chest. "Stay, brother. Bran and I will go. Ready the warband and await our return."

"My wife is taken also," he growled. "Or have you forgotten?"

"I have not forgotten. But I need you to prepare the men," I replied, adding, "and to lead them if anything should happen and we do not return." Cynan scowled, but I could see him weakening. "We will not be gone long, and we will hasten back as soon as we have learned what we need to know."

Cynan, still glowering, relented. "Go, then. You will find us ready when you return."

Bran quickly readied two horses and as we mounted Tegid took hold of the reins and stopped me. "You asked me what could rouse the ancient evil of the Foul Land," he said.

"Do you know the answer now?"

"No," he confessed, "but this I know: the answer will be found down there." The bard indicated the smoke-dark valley.

"Then I will go and put an end to this mystery," I told him.

Bran and I started down into the broad valley. The road was lined with enormous boulders all the way. We thought to ride to the level of the smoke haze, then leave the horses where we could reach them at need. We would continue on foot to get as near as we could.

We made our way silently, every sense alert. Bran carried his spear, and I my swordblade naked against my thigh. But we heard nothing save the hollow clop of our horses' hooves on the road, and saw only the smoke gently undulating like a filthy sea swell. Down and down we went, following the sharp switchback of the road as it uncoiled into the valley. I watched the smoke sea surge as we descended to meet it.

In a little while we dismounted and led the horses off the road to tether them behind a rock. A little grass growing at the base of the boulder would keep the animals occupied until we returned. We then

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STEPHEN LAWHEAD

proceeded on foot, all but blind in the haze. The acrid smoke burned our eyes, but we remained watchful and proceeded with all caution, pausing every few paces to listen. Having come this far, we could not allow a moment's carelessness to ruin our cause.

We flitted from rock to rock, scanning the road below before moving on. After a while, I began to hear a drumming sound, deep and low, like an earth heart beating underground. The rhythmic rumble vibrated in the pit of my stomach and up through the soles of my feet.

Bran heard it, too. "What is that?" he asked when we stopped again.

"It is coming from the valley." The smoke pall was thinning as we descended, and I saw that we would soon drop below it. "Down there." I pointed to a large, angular boulder jutting up beside the road. "We should be able to see better from there."

We made for the boulder, pursuing the sinuous path as it slid down and down. The humming, drumming sound grew louder. In a little while we reached the rock and paused to rest and survey the land below.

The smoke cloud formed a ceiling above us, thick and dark. And, spreading below us, a vista of devastation: the entire bowl of the wide valley was a vast, denuded pit rust-red mounds of crushed rock formed precarious mountains teetering over tier upon tier of ragged trenches and holes gouged into a rutile land, deep, angry red, like violent gashes in bruised flesh.

Plumes of foul smoke rose from scores of vents and holes, and from open fires burning on the slopes of slag heaps. And rising with the smoke, the stink of human excrement mingled with that of rotting meat and putrid water. The smell made our throats ache.

Crawling over this hellish landscape, swarming the slag heaps and plying the trenches, were thousands of men and women- thronging like termites, delving like ants, toiling away like tireless worker bees-more insect than human. Half-naked and covered in dust and mud and smoke, the wretches struggled under the enormous burdens upon their backs; scaling rickety ladders and

332

SONG OF ALbJOLN

clinging to ropes, they toiled with dull but single-minded purpose, hoisting leather bags and wicker baskets filled with earth, and then bearing them away. Squalid beyond belief, the valley squirmed with this teeming, palpitating tumult.

Gazing out over the desolate valley, straining to comprehend the methodical, meticulous thoroughness of its devastation, we could only gawk in dismay. I felt sick, disgusted by the horrific extent of the destruction.

"Maggots," muttered Bran under his breath, "feeding on a rotten corpse."

A fresh-running stream had once passed through the center of the vale. But the stream had been dammed at the further end of the valley and the waters backed to make a narrow lake, now choked with scum and rust-hued mud. Beyond the dam a column of orange-brown smoke issued from an enormous chimney in puffing gusts to the rhythm of the deep pounding earthbeat. The smoke rolled slowly, relentlessly from the stack to add to the heavy canopy of filth hanging over the whole vale.

It took me some moments to work out that I was looking at a crude strip mine. The earthmovers and loaders working this mine were human: bemired, befouled and bedraggled men, women and children.

"It is a mine," I lamented.

Bran nodded woodenly. "They are digging for iron, do you think?"

"Probably. But I want a closer look."

We crept from our hiding place and continued picking our way down. The road curved away from the valley, rimming an inner bend in the mountains. At one place the rock wall climbed steeply on the left-hand side of the road and fell sharply on the right. Water from above seeped down the cliff, gathered in a shallow pool and flowed across the road to splash away below. This small stream had washed loose silt and mud from the cliff above to form a bed. As we crossed this stream, I caught sight of something in the mud that stopped me in midstep.

I halted, putting out my hand to Bran. He froze, spear at the

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STEPHEN LAWHEAD

ready, looking quickly around for danger. Seeing nothing, he turned to me. I pointed to the muddy track at my feet. The Raven Chief looked long at it, then bent for a closer inspection.

"Do you know what made this?" he asked.

"I do," I told him. Blood throbbed in my temples, I felt dizzy and sick. "It is a. . ." I paused, searching for words he would understand. "It is a wheel track," I said at last

Kneeling, Bran pressed his fingertips into the intricate lacework in the mud. "It is no wheel track that I have ever seen."

"It was made by a-" Before I could say another word, I heard an oddly familiar rumble. "Hurry! We must get off the road."

Bran heard the sound, but made no move. He frowned, cocking his head to one side as he listened, unaware of the danger. Snatching the Raven Chief by the arm, I yanked him to his feet. "Hurry! We must not be seen!"

We sprinted across the road and flung ourselves down the slope. An instant later, I saw a streak of yellow and the dull glint of dark glass as the vehicle passed directly over our heads with a rush. It slowed as it came to the stream; there came the sound of gears grinding as it downshifted, the engine roared-a gut-clutching, alien sound-and the vehicle cruised on.

We pressed our faces flat to the dirt and held ourselves deathly still. The vehicle drove on. When it had gone, Bran raised his head, a stricken expression on his face.

"It was a kind of wagon," I explained. "It comes from my world. That is what made the tracks."

"An evil thing, certainly," he said.

"It has no place here," I replied, rising. "Come on. We must hurry before it returns."

We climbed back onto the road and hurried on. Bran kept looking back to see if any more of these strange wagons were coming at him. But the road remained empty, and I could see nothing moving on it down below.

The appearance of the vehicle shocked and disturbed me more than I could say. But I had no time to consider the implications. It was

334

SONG OF ALBION

more crucial than ever now to learn the enemy's strength and position. I ran headlong down the road, dodging behind rocks, pausing to catch my breath and lurching on. Bran ran behind me and we entered the valley, staying well out of sight behind the slag heaps and rock piles.

A tainted rain began to fall. It left black-rimmed spots where it splashed onto my skin. The laborers took no notice. The red dust slowly turned to red mud, transforming the valley into a vast cozy quagmire. Yet the workers toiled on.

Bran and I crept under an overhanging boulder and settled down to watch. The first thing that struck me, after the shock of the desolation and the presence of Dyn Dythri, the outworld strangers, was the relentless labor of the miners. They worked as driven slaves, yet I could not see anyone compelling them. There were, as far as I could see, no overseers, no taskmasters. There was no one directing the frenzied toil. Slaves under an invisible lash, then, the mudmen struggled and strove, sinking under their burdens, floundering in a thick stew of ordure and sludge and soot.

The poor, ignorant brutes, I thought, and wondered who, or what, had so enslaved them.

There was a track made of cut logs thrown across the mire on the far side of the valley. I watched as men fought their way up from the pits and trenches to stumble along this track towards the dam. The track crossed the dam and descended out of sight behind it in the direction of the smokestack. This seemed to be the workers' destination.

I considered whether the impetus for the wretches' toil might derive from the object of that labor, rather than any external force or threat. Perhaps they were enslaved by some deep passion within themselves. Maybe they wanted to work like beasts of burden. Lacking any other explanation, I decided they must be prisoners of their own rapacity.

"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

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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 Tángwyn 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."

Bran and I turned away to begin making our long way back to where the warband waited. We had almost gained the cover of the

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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

cw~n 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 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

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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 towards 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~

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?"

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"It is so, Lord Liew," 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 camp. "The wanderer has returned."

Scatha and Tegid hailed the travellers, 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 A~yant 01. 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 travelled 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 the machinery, which indicated a smelting process. Then I related to Tegid and the

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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 resisted, 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.

"LIew?" the professor asked, studying me carefully. 'Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," I replied dully. "Siawn Hy alive-that explains much."

"Afer 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

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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 for us. That night, while the warband 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 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 do not know how I could 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 unravelling, 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

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SONG OF ALBION

and taken to the Foul Land, I feared I had returned too late." Professor Nettleton's voice grew stem and insistent. "They must be stopped, Liew. They are manipulating forces t}~y 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 throug~~e 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 le~ 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 con~e from the pale and powerless sun. I imagined, for a moment, that sunlight penetrating the fog and burning away all the filth and orruption. 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 speartip to the dam and chimney. Cynan, Brar~ Scatha, Tegid and Nettles stood with me; the warband was assemb~cj 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 flo( say we defeated a sleeping foe."

Scatha observed the valley, studying it in detail, green eyes narrowed to attentive slits. "You described it ~rell. But it will be difficult to walk that slope. I think we should ~se the path," she said, indicating the track on the left.hand side0f the lake which the mudmen used to trundle their burdens to the compound behind the dam.

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"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 oluynog 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

 

 

 

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SONG OF ALBION

;urvival. We are few, but we stand between this foe and the ruin of )ur world. If we fail, Albion will fall beneath the shadow of evil and Jesolation that has overcome Tir Aflan.

"We fight today for the freedom of those held captive to the foe:

For Goewyn and T~ngwen, yes, but no less for those who do not yet mow 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 light again."

The warband did not like this. They grumbled against such :owardly tactics, but I held firm. "Cling to pride and we will perish. cherish dignity and we will die."

"We will fight today," I told them, "but we must survive the fight. F'or, 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 towards the sound and saw Bran, eyes level and hard, tapping the shaft of his spear on 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 warband 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!

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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.

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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.

We had divided the warband into three divisions each under the command of a battlechief; Scatha, Cynan and I each led a band on foot. The Raven Flight alone was mounted, leaving Bran to range the battleground at will wherever need was greatest. As for the rest, I judged horses would not help us; without them we could make better use of the cover provided by the holes and heaps of crushed rock. Tegid, Gwion and Nettles had stayed behind to look after the other horses. As in the battle against Meldron, the Chief Bard meant to oversee the fight and uphold us in the bardic way.

Cynan's warband descended to the valley floor and worked its way towards the dam along the shore of the polluted lake; I led those with me on the upper road; Scatha and her warriors approached by

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way of the path on the far side of the lake, doing their best to blend into the pocked and mottled landscape. Bran advanced behind us, out of sight; when I paused to look back I could not see the Raven Flight anywhere.

The first shot came without warning. I heard the whine of a bullet and the dry ricochet on the hillside below us. A moment later the report echoed from below like the crack of a splitting tree trunk. I motioned to the men to lie down on the road. Several more shots dug into the hillside. Over-anxious, undisciplined, our foe could not wait for us to come into range and had opened fire prematurely. This gave us a prime opportunity to fix the enemy's position and assess their numbers without risk to ourselves.

Wisps of white smoke from their guns betrayed the enemy's placement along the top of the dam. I scanned the valley and the far side of the lake to see that Scatha and Cynan had halted and were marking the place as well. The enemy had seen us on the road, as I intended, but had not thought to look elsewhere.

"Such stupidity should be rewarded," I muttered to the man nearest me.

"Then let us be generous, lord," the warrior replied dryly.

The bullets chunked harmlessly into the rock waste below us for a time, and then the shooting tapered off. I signalled to the men to keep low, and we advanced once more, slowly, listening for the bullet's whine and watching for the tell-tale white puff that revealed an enemy gunman. I took heart from the fact that, as yet, the gunmen still concentrated all their attention on us; they had so far failed to notice Scatha and Cynan working their way ever closer below them.

If I could keep the enemy occupied but a little longer, it would allow the others a more protected approach.

Raising my hand, I halted my warriors. We were by now nearly within range of the guns. "Keep down!" I told those with me. "And wait for my command."

Then I stood and, lofting my spear and shield, I began to yell. "Cowards!" I shouted. "Leave your hiding places and let us fight like men!"

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SONG OF ALBIOr~

I knew the enemy would not understand me. It was to encourage ~y own warband that I cried my challenge in Albion's tongue. "Why do you crouch like vermin in your holes?" I taunted. "Come out! Let us do battle together!"

My simple ruse worked. The enemy opened fire. The bullets dug into the slag-covered hillside below me, throwing up dust and splinters-but falling well short of the target. They were using small arms-handguns and light rifles. Larger caliber weapons would have carried further, and with far greater accuracy.

"Where is your battlechief?" I called loudly, my voice echoing back from the blank face of the dam. "Where is your war leader? Let him come and meet me face to face!"

This brought a further heated and wasteful volley from the dam. The warriors with me laughed to see it. I summoned them to rise, now that I knew it was safe to do so. And taking my lead, they too challenged the enemy to come out and fight like true warriors. The gunfire beat like a staccato tattoo, and the white smoke drifted up from behind the dam.

"How many did you count?" I asked the nearest warrior.

"Three fives," he replied.

His tally matched my own. I would have thought that fifteen men with guns could have defeated three score with spears-and we were far fewer than that. But without more battle-cunning than these fifteen had so far demonstrated, their weapons would not win the day.

Scatha, sharp as the blade in her hand, was not slow to turn our diversion to advantage. In two rapid, ground-eating advances, she and her warband reached the dam, crossed it and descended the other side. Cynan followed her lead, disappearing behind the dam while we jeered and danced like madmen, drawing the enemy's fire.

All through this commotion, the mud-covered slaves toiled away, scarcely pausing to raise their dull heads as the bullets streaked above them. Were they so far gone that they no longer knew or cared what was happening around them?

The gunfire eventually ceased. But by then the trap was set.

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"Now we must find a way to draw them out of hiding so that Scatha and Cynan can strike," I said, thinking aloud.

"The battlelust is on them," said the warrior next to me. "They are greedy for the kill."

"Then let us see if their greed will make them foolish. We will form the shield line." I gave the order and the warriors took their places beside me. We formed a line, shoulder-to-shoulder, and began slowly to advance along the road.

"Raise shields!" I called, and we put our shields before us, rims overlapping. We continued walking.

The enemy gunmen held their fire. We had advanced as far as we dared, and still they did not shoot.

"Halt!" I raised my silver hand. The bluff had not worked; we had not drawn the enemy into the open. Any nearer and a well-aimed shot might easily penetrate our oak-and-iron shields.

"Cowards!" I called down to the dam. We were close enough now to see the shallow holes the men had dug along the top of the dam. "False men! Hear me now! We are the Gwr Gu'ir! Leave your hiding holes and we will show you what true warriors can do!"

At this, the warriors began striking their shields and taunting the hidden foe. The clash of spear upon shield became a rattling roar. The gunmen could not resist such obvious targets: they began firing again. The bullets struck the stone flagging at our feet. I ordered the line to move two paces back.

The temptation proved too strong-they were drawn from cover at last-all fifteen of them, shouting as they came.

The initial volley tore into the stones a few paces ahead of us. One warrior turned away a glancing shot off the pavement; a slug struck the bottom of my shield. I felt the wood shiver as it ripped through. It was time to retreat.

"Back!" I cried. "Three more paces."

The line fell back and halted; the jeering catcalls continued. Seeing that we would come no closer, the enemy gunmen attacked.

They had no sooner abandoned their hiding holes than Scatha and Cynan materialized out of the drifting smoke behind them. The

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gunmen were neatly trapped.

They whirled in sudden panic, shooting wildly. Two of their number went down-victims of their own incompetence. One of ynan's men took a shot through his shield and fell. The gunman paid for his last act as a streaking spear sank to its shaft in his belly. The man fell to the ground writhing and screaming.

At this single casualty the fight went quickly out of the rest and they began crying surrender and throwing down their weapons.

"It is over!" I shouted. "Let us join our swordbrothers!"

We hastened down the road to the top of the dam. I cast a quick backward glance for the Ravens, but they were still nowhere to be seen. What could be keeping them?

"Splendid, Pen-y-Cat! Well done, Cynan!" I called. Scanning the throng of warriors, I was surprised to see the man who had been shot standing in the forerank once more. His shield had a chunk bitten out )f the upper left quadrant, he was pale and bleeding just below the shoulder, but he was clear-eyed and undaunted.

The wounded gunman was not so fortunate. The spear had done its work. The man lay silent now, and quite still.

I detailed my warband to dispose of the enemy guns. "Gather their weapons," I told the warriors. "Cast them into the lake."

Scatha and Cynan had lined up the twelve remaining gunmen in a row. "Where is Weston?" I demanded, using their own speech.

No one made bold to answer. I nodded to Cynan. He stepped swiftly forward, striking the nearest man in the center of the chest with the butt of his spear. The man dropped like a stone, and lay rolling on the ground, eyes bulging with pain, mouth agape, unable to breathe.

"I ask you again: where is the man called Weston?"

The prisoners glanced anxiously at one another, but made no reply. Cynan moved along the line. He stopped and raised his spear again. The man cringed. "Wait! Wait!" he screamed, waving his hands.

Cynan paused, his spear still hovering.

"Well?" I demanded. "Speak."

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"Weston is at the mill," the man sputtered, gesturing wildly in the direction of the smokestack behind him. "They are guarding the mill."

"How many are with him?" I asked.

"Three or four, I think," the man replied. "That's all."

"Is there anyone else?"

The man grew reticent. Cynan aimed the butt of his spear once more.

"No!" he replied quickly. "No one else. I swear it!"

I looked towards the cluster of buildings below the dam. Weston with three or four gunmen holed up in the mill. Rooting them out could prove a difficult and costly undertaking. I raised my silver hand, summoning four warriors to take the gunmen away. "Bind them fast," I ordered. "Guard them well. See that they do not escape."

I summoned Scatha and Cyrian to join me, and related what I had learned. "What do you suggest?" I asked.

Cynan spoke first. "The lives of these strangers are not worth the risk of noble warriors," he said with arch disdain.

"Even so, we have taken the men: we cannot allow their leader to go free." I turned to Scatha. "What say you, Pen-y-Cat?"

Scatha was gazing thoughtfully at the smoking chimney. "Smoke will cure fish. It may also cure these foemen."

It was a simple matter to scale the chimney and stuff down a few cloaks to block the flue. Before long, smoke was pouring from every crack in the crudely constructed building.

We advanced, crossing the compound warily. As we neared, I heard a door slam and a motor sputter to life, and a moment later a van broke from hiding behind the building and flew past us. The startled warriors stared aghast as the yellow vehicle, wheels churning up dust and gravel, sped away. Some of the closer warriors heaved stones as it passed, breaking two side windows, but the van gained the road, turned, and raced away, climbing from the valley by another route.

"We will never catch them on foot," I observed, watching the vehicle disappear into the hills. Turning to Cynan, I ordered, "Send

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men to bring the horses." To Scatha, I said, "We will follow them. If Nettles is right, they will lead us to Siawn Hy and Paladyr."

We hurried on, following the vehicle's trail. It soon became apparent that it was a well-used track. Wary of ambush, I sent scouts ahead on either side of the advancing warband. We hastened along the ascending track, which soon turned away from Cwm Gwaed and began climbing into the mountains once more.

I called a halt at the crest of a hill near a small stream. "We will rest here and wait for the horses," I told them.

As we made to leave the valley, I turned and looked back one last time. "Where is Bran?" I wondered aloud. "What can have happened to him?"

"You need have no worry for Bran," Scatha said. "He will be where he is most needed."

"You are right, Pen-y-Cat," I agreed. "But I would that my War Leader rode with me."

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when we heard the sound of gunfire coming from the other side of the hill. Flying to the hilltop, we looked down to see the yellow van trapped in a narrow defile and stranded halfway across a shallow rock-filled stream. Circling the stalled vehicle were Bran and the Ravens on horseback, shouting and flourishing their spears. Two men were firing indiscriminately from the broken windows of the vehicle.

We hastened to their aid, calling on the Ravens to retreat. The four in the van would be easy to deal with, and I did not want any of my warriors hit by a stray shot. Leaving the vehicle, they came to where we had taken up position, just outside the rifle's lethal range.

The gunfire continued for a few moments and then stopped.

"I did not see you ride from the valley," I told Bran. "I wondered what had become of you."

"Paladyr attacked the camp as soon as we left," the Raven Chief informed me. "We rode to Tegid's aid and drove the enemy away. We pursued, but lost them in these hills. When we saw the tuthcIg-arrhodau fleeing I thought to prevent their escape."

The van's engine whined, there came the sheering whir of

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grinding gears and the vehicle jounced across the stream, wheels spinning, and fled the valley.

"Follow," I told Bran, "and keep them in sight, but do not try to stop them and do not go too near. Their trail is clear they cannot escape. I have sent men for the horses; we will join you as soon as they arrive."

The Raven Flight flew off in pursuit, and as we made our way back up the hill to await the arrival of our horses, we were greeted by the dull drumming of hoofbeats coming from the other side of the hill. "Tegid is here with the horses," I told Cynan, and a moment later the first rider appeared over the crest of the hill directly above us.

But it was not Tegid who appeared, lofting a spear as he crested the hill; and the warriors mounted on horses behind him were strangers.

We had blundered into a trap.

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Tref-gan-Haint

 

 

"Paladyr!" I shouted, halting in mid-step.

The enemy hesitated, hovering on the crest of the hill. There came the clear call of the battlehorn, loud and strong. And then they plummeted down the hillside in an avalanche of pounding hooves and whirring blades. We had only an instant to raise our weapons and they were on us. Scatha took measure of the situation at once. "We cannot fight them here!" she cried, whirling away. She dashed towards the stream: "Follow me!"

Cynan, spear lofted high, bellowed at his warriors to join him as he followed Scatha's lead. I did the same, and we ran for high ground on the other side of the stream, the battlehorn blaring loud in our ears and the dull thunder of hooves shaking the ground beneath our feet. Two of our warriors were ridden down from behind, and we lost another to an enemy spear. But our feinting flight had not been anticipated and we succeeded in gaining the high ground before Paladyr, over-eager for an easy victory, could stop us.

Though we were on foot against a larger force of mounted warriors, we now held a superior position: the horsemen would have to fight uphill on steep and treacherous terrain. Scatha's unfailing battle sense had not only saved us, but given us a slight advantage.

"They are hungry for it!" shouted Cynan, watching the horses

 

 

struggle up the loose scree of the mountainside. "Come, brother, let us feed our impetuous guests!"

Ducking under his upraised shield, he darted forward, slashing a wide swath before him with the blade of his spear, cutting the legs from under the nearest horse. The beast screamed, plunged, and

spilled its hapless rider on the ground. Cynan struck down swiftly ~ with his spear before the foeman could roll free of his thrashing

mount.

Cynan threw back his head and loosed a wild war whoop of

terrible delight. Two more enemy riders fell to his swift spear before J they could turn aside. I dispatched another using Cynan's trick, and

when I looked around I saw that Scatha had succeeded in unseating three of the foemen in as many swift forays.

The first clash lasted but a few heartbeats. Gaining no clear benefit for his efforts, Paladyr soon signalled his men to break off the attack. They withdrew to the far side of the stream to regroup.

"This Paladyr is no fool," observed Cynan. "He knows when to retreat, at least."

Looking across the stream, I saw Paladyr, naked to the waist, face and chest daubed with blue warpaint, the muscles of his back and arms gleaming with sweat. He clutched a bronze spear and shield, and was shouting at his men, upbraiding them for their carelessness and incompetence. There was no sign of Siawn Hy among them, but this did not surprise me.

"He is not a fool," I agreed, "but he is impulsive. That may prove his undoing."

"Who is with him?" wondered Cynan.

I studied Paladyr's warband. They were a raw-looking crowd, armed with ancient bronze weapons like those we had seen in the ruined tower. Their shields were small and heavy, their spears short, with blunt heads. Some wore helmets, but most did not. And only a few carried swords as well as spears. They moved awkwardly-as if they were unused to riding and uncertain of themselves. No doubt they had expected to overwhelm us in the first rush; and now they faced a more determined adversary than anticipated.

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~Ur'~~ Ut' ALb1Ur~

It came to me that this was not so much a trained warband as a gang of ill-disciplined cutthroats. They were mercenaries, chosen perhaps from among the laborers slogging through the mud in the valley beyond. Though they had horses, it was obvious that they were not accustomed to fighting on horseback: their first disastrous sally proved as much.

"Llew!" shouted Scatha, hastening towards me. "Did you see

 

"No," I replied. "Siawn Hy was not with them. But what do you make of the rest?"

"It seems to me that Paladyr has tried to stitch himself a warband from very poor cloth," she replied.

"That is just what I was thinking," I told her. "And it will soon unravel in his hands."

"A boast? From Llew?" crowed Cynan, scrambling back up the hillside. "Brother, are you feeling well?"

"Never better," I told him.

The blare of the carynx signalled a second attack and the enemy clattered across the stream once more. This time Paladyr ranged his men along a line and they advanced together, hoping to spread our thin defence and separate us.

Scatha had other ideas. She called the warbands together and formed them into a narrow-pointed wedge. Unable to climb the steep mountainside and strike at us from the flank, the horsemen had no choice but to meet the point of the wedge head on.

They rode at us yelling and screaming, trying their best to frighten and scatter us. But we stood firm and hewed them from their saddles as quickly as they came within striking distance. Eight enemy riders went down before they could even wheel their horses to retreat. And Paladyr was forced to break off the attack once more.

As the enemy turned tail and fled back across the stream, I summoned the battlechiefs to me. "It seems they lack the will to press the attack."

"Qanna na cii, what a poor foray," Cynan sneered, thrusting out

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his chin. "I would be shamed to lead such ill-suited warriors."

"Yes, and Paladyr is a better war leader than this-or once was. I do not understand it."

"Their inexperience is against them," I observed. "They dare not challenge us, so they seek to harry us and wear us down."

"Then they will be disappointed," Scatha said, quickly scanning the hillside. "If they offer no better assault than we have seen, we can stand against them all day."

"We would not have to stand here at all if we had our horses," Cynan said.

"Then let us take theirs," Scatha suggested. "We would make better use of them than they do."

Swiftly we devised a plan to liberate as many of the foemen's horses as possible in the next clash. And it might have worked. But, just as Paladyr's warband crossed the stream and started up the hillside to engage us once more, the Ravens arrived. One fleeting glimpse of the Raven Flight swooping in full cry down the mountainside, and the cowardly enemy scattered. They splashed across the stream to disappear around the far side of the slope. Bran would have offered pursuit, but I called him back.

"I would rather you stayed with us," I told him. "What did you find ahead?"

A strange expression flitted across the Chief Raven's face. "There is a settlement, lord," he said. "But unlike any I have seen before."

"Is it safe?" wondered Cynan. "It could be another trap."

"Perhaps," the Raven Chief allowed. "But I think not."

"Why do you say that?" asked Scatha.

By way of reply Bran said, "I will show you. It is not far."

Calling to Drustwn and Garanaw, I commanded, "Tegid and the horses should have been here by now. Ride to meet them, and bring the horses to us at the settlement. We will await you there." To Bran, I said, "Show us this place you have found."

"It is this way," Bran said, wheeling his horse, and began to lead us up the mountainside and along a ridgeway. The remaining Ravens took up a position well behind, guarding the rear, lest

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paladyr and his band return and try to take us unawares. But the enemy did not return.

A short distance along the ridge, the trail turned and began descending towards a steep-sided valley. A muddy river wound its slow way along the floor of the valley, and at the nearer end, hard against the ridge, a crude holding had been erected. The few larger, more substantial structures were made from rough timber the rest appeared cobbled together, a patchwork of bits and pieces. A small distance beyond the settlement, a narrow lake gleamed dully in the foul light.

We descended into the valley and entered the town on the single street of hard-packed earth, passing between the patchedtogether, tumbledown shanties jammed one on top of the other and leaning at all angles. At a wide place before one of the larger dwellings, we halted. A row of rickety stalls had been thrown up along the side of the street facing the building, and a mud-caked stone well stood between them. We stopped here to wait for Tegid and the horses.

We had seen no one since our arrival and, but for the garbage and dung scattered around, I would have thought the place long abandoned. But as soon as it became clear that we meant to stay, the hidden population began to creep forth. Like vermin crawling from the cracks and crevices they emerged, hesitantly at first, but with increasing boldness. Hobbling, scuttling, dragging battered and deformed limbs, they scrambled into the square. In no time at all we were besieged by a tattered rabble of beggars.

They swarmed us with outstretched hands and open mouths, mewing like sick animals for food and cast-offs-though we had none to give. Like the mudmen working the mines, they were dull-looking with dead eyes and slack expressions. More brute than human, they stood splay-legged and slump-shouldered, abject in their misery. Beggars are unknown in Albion, so the warriors did riot understand at first what the grasping mob wanted of them. They shrank from the outstretched hands, or pushed them away, which only increased the clamor.

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Cynan and Bran watched the press warily and with increasing unease, but said nothing. "We should move on," Scatha said, "or there may be trouble."

"When they see we have nothing to give them," I replied, "they will leave us alone."

But I was wrong. The beggars became more insistent and demanding. They grew belligerent. Some of the women swaggered up to the warriors and rubbed themselves against the men. The warriors reacted with predictable revulsion and chagrin. But the whores were persistent as they were blatant. They wheedled in shrill voices, and clutched at the warriors.

"Llew," Scatha pleaded, "let us leave this... this Tref-gan-Haint at once."

"You are right," I relented. "We will go on to the lake and await the horses there."

The beggars began wailing at our departure, shrieking terribly. The women, spurned and roundly rejected, followed, shouting abuse and scorn. One of them, little more than a girl, saw my silver hand and ran to me. She fell on her knees before me, seized my hand, and began caressing it.

I gently tried to disengage my hand from her grasp, but she clung to me, pulling on my arm, dragging me down. She moaned and pouted, and rubbed her lips over my metal hand.

"I have nothing for you," I told her firmly. "Please, stand up. Do not shame yourself this way."

But she made no move to release me. Taking her by the wrist, I peeled her hand from mine and made to step over her. When she saw I meant to leave her, she leapt at me with a raking swipe of her fingernails. I jerked my head away and she fell in the dirt where she lay writhing and pleading. I stepped over her and moved on. She kicked and cursed me, her sharp voice gradually dissolving into the general uproar around us.

I moved through the crowd, leading the warband away. Hands clutched at my arms and legs. Voices whined and cried. I pushed ahead, eyes level, looking neither right nor left. What could I give

 

 

 

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them? What did they want from me?

We entered the cramped, stinking street once more, and continued to the end where the refuse heaps of the shanty town smoldered and burned with a noisome smoke. There were beggars here, too, pawing through the garbage and filth for any overlooked morsels.

Scrawny, long-legged dogs nosed in the filth. One man, naked, his skin black from the smoke, lay half-covered in garbage; he struggled onto an elbow and hailed us obscenely as we passed. His legs were a mangled mess of open sores. The odious dogs hovered around him, dashing in now and then to lick at the man's oozing wounds. Turning away from this ghastly sight, I was met by another. I saw two dogs fighting over a carcass-little more than a shred of putrid flesh clinging to a rotting skeleton. With a sudden sick shock, I realized the remains were human. The gorge rose in my throat and I turned my face away.

Tref-gan-Haint, Scatha had called it, city of pestilence, place of defilement. Diseased and dying, it was a cankerous sight and filled the air with the stench of a rotting wound. This, I reflected, was the fate awaiting the slaves when their usefulness was over. They ended their days as beggars fighting over scraps of garbage. The thought grieved me, but what could I do? Swallowing hard, I walked on.

Beyond the settlement a small distance, we came to the shallow lake from which the stream issued, and found it slightly more tolerable. Although the strand was sharp shards of flint, the water was clean enough. No one followed us from the town so we had the lake to ourselves and hunkered down on the hard shore to wait.

I dozed, and fell into a light sleep in which I dreamed that Goewyn had found us and now stood over me. I awoke to find Bran Sitting beside me, and no sign yet of the horses. I rose, and Bran and I walked back along the flinty shore together. A dirty yellow sun was lowering in the western peaks, and stretched our shadows long on the rocky strand.

 

 

 

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"Where is Tegid?" I wondered aloud, gazing towards the blighted town and the ridge beyond. "Do you think he ran into Paladyr?"

"It is possible. But Drustwn and Garanaw know where to find us," Bran pointed out. "If there was any trouble, they would have summoned us."

"Still, I do not like this," I told him. "They should have reached us by now."

"I will go and find out what has happened," Bran offered.

"Take Emyr and Niall with you. Send one of them back with word as soon as you find out anything."

Bran hastened to his horse, mounted, summoned the remaining Ravens, and the three rode away at once. I watched them out of sight, and then called Scatha and Cynan to me. "I have sent Bran to see what has become of Tegid and the others."

"It is growing late," Scatha said. "Perhaps we should try to find better shelter elsewhere."

"Darkness will be our only shelter tonight, I fear." Looking to the ridge, I scanned the heights, but saw no sign of anyone returning. What could have happened to Tegid and Nettles?

The sun sank in an ugly brown haze, and a turgid twilight gathered. As the sun departed, the thin warmth vanished; I felt the mountain chill seeping out of the air and creeping up out of the ground. Mist rose from the lake and night vapors began threading down the mountainsides in snaking rivulets.

The men had foraged for wood on the stony slopes around the lake, and the little they found was kindled and set alight as night fell, making small campfires that sputtered fitfully and gave little light. We were hungry, having had nothing to eat since early morning; we eased the pangs with lake water. It tasted flat and metallic, but it was cold, and it quenched our thirst.

Dusk deepened in the valley. The sky held a faint glimmer of dying light, and the mist off the lake and slopes thickened to a fog. I walked restlessly along the flinty strand, alert to any sound of our returning horses. Apart from the liquid lap and lick of the water and the occasional bark of a dog in the distance, I heard nothing.

 

 

 

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I stood for a long time, waiting, listening. A red moon floated low over the mountains, peering like an eye down through the fog and mist, casting a dismal pall of ruddy light over the lake and slopes.

At length, I turned and walked back to the campfires glowing soft in the fog-haze. I passed the first fire and heard the men talking quietly, their voices a gentle mumble in the mist. But I heard something else as well. I stopped and held my breath...

A thumping sound, low and rhythmic as a heartbeat, sounded in the darkness-thump... thump... thump. Because of the fog and mist, the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. Cynan heard it as well and joined me. "What can it be?" he asked softly.

"Shhh!"

We stood motionless. The sound grew gradually louder, gaining definition. Thump-lump... thump-lump... thump-lump... To resolve itself into the slow, loping gallop of a horse, coursing along the flinty strand.

"We have a visitor," I told Cynan.

The pace quickened as the horse drew near, approaching from the far end of the glen away from Tref-gan-Haint. My pulse quickened with the speed of the horse and my silver hand sent an icy tingle up my arm.

"I will bring a torch," Cynan said, darting away at once.

I walked a few paces further along the shore towards the sound. My metal hand burned with an icy cold. The rider was nearer than I knew. All at once, I saw him: a rider on a horse pale as the fog itself, charging out of the swirling mist, the horse's iron-shod hooves striking sparks from the flint as they came.

The rider was armored head to heel in bronze; it gleamed dully in the ruddy moonlight. His helmet was plumed and high-crested; a strange battleniask covered his face. He carried a long bronze spear a small round bronze shield lay on his thigh. His feet were shod in bronze war shoes, and on his hands were gauntlets covered with bronze fish-scales. The high-cantled saddle was ornamented with round bronze bosses. The horse was armored, too; a bronze warcap

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with long, curving horns was on its head. Bronze breastplates and greaves graced both horse and rider.

Although I had never seen the rider before, I would have recognized him. The Banfáith had warned me long ago, and even in the dead of a foggy night I knew him: it was the Brazen Man.

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36

 

 

Clash By Night

 

 

The Brazen Man drove straight at me. I dodged to the side at the last instant, and he pulled back hard on the reins. The horse reared, its legs fighting the air. The man raised his hand and! made ready to deflect a blow. Instead of a sword, however, I saw he held a knotted sack. He turned his bronze-clad face towards me, blank and staring and though I could not see his eyes behind the burnished mask, I felt the force of his hatred as a heatblast on my flesh. My silver hand burned with frozen fire.

The mysterious rider swung the sack once around his head and loosed it. The bag struck the ground and rolled to my feet. Then, with a wild, triumphant cry, the rider wheeled his horse and galloped back the way he came.

Cynan ran to me with a burning brand he had pulled from the

fire. "Was it Paladyr?"

I shook my head slowly. "No," I told him. "I do not think it was

Paladyr.. ."

"Who then?"

I looked at the knotted sack lying on the strand. Cynan stooped and picked it up. I took it from him. There was something round and bulky but not too heavy in the bottom. I loosened the knot, opened the sack, and peered in, but could not see the contents clearly.

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"Here," I said, lowering the bag to the ground and spreading the opening wide. Cynan held his torch closer. I looked again and instantly wished I had not.

Professor Nettleton's pale, bloodless face stared up at me. His glasses were gone and his white hair was matted with clotted blood. I closed my eyes and shoved the sack away. Cynan took it from me.

Scatha, holding a sword in one hand and a firebrand in the other, hastened to us. "Is it. . .?" Her question faltered.

"It is the white-haired one," Cynan told her. "LIew's friend."

"I am sorry, Liew," she said after a moment. Her voice was grave, but I could tell she was relieved that it was not her daughter.

"What do you wish me to do with it?" asked Cynan.

"Put it with Alun's ashes for now," I told him, sick at heart. "I will not bury it in this place."

"Alun's... the ashes are with Tegid," Scatha reminded me.

I heard her, but made no reply. My mind boiled with questions. Why had this been done? A challenge? A warning? Who would do such a thing? How had he been taken? What did it mean? I stared into the swirling fog willing the answers, like the bronze-clad rider, to appear.

The Brazen Man! The words whizzed like arrows straight to my heart. I heard again the Banfáith's voice speaking out the dire prophecy:

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 battledash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.

"Liew?" Cynan said, touching me gently on the arm. "What is it, brother?"

I turned to him. "Rouse the men. Hurry!"

Scatha stood looking at me, her forehead creased with concern. In the fluttering firelight she looked just like Goewyn. "Arm yourself, ~catha," I told her. "Tonight we fight for our lives."

Cynan alerted the men with a shout and Emyr blew a long,

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withering blast on the carynx. Within two heartbeats the camp was a chaos of men running and shouting, arming themselves to meet the foe already swarming onto the strand. Like phantoms they appeared out of the fog-rank on rank, scores of them, an enemy war host arrayed in bronze battlegear.

A spear was thrust into my hand. I could not fmd a shield, so grabbed a brand from the fire and ran to take my place in the front rank of warriors, Scatha on my right hand, Cynan on my left. We stood with our backs to the lake and leaned into the battle.

They fell upon us in a rush, as if they would drive us into the lake with one great push. But our warriors were battle-hardened men, skilled in close fighting; all had faced the Great Hound Meidron. After the shock of surprise had passed, they fell to with a fierce delight. To a man, they were sick of Tir Aflan, sick of the deprivation and hardship, and eager to lash out at the enemy who had caused them so much misery.

As before, the enemy, though well-armored, were ill-matched to fight real warriors. But there were more of them now than we had faced earlier in the day, a good many more.

Absorbing the initial onslaught, the warriors of Albion leapt like a quick-kindled flame, striking swift and hot, searing into the onrushing foe. The resulting clash threw the attacking enemy back on their heels. Heartened by this early success, Emyr loosed a shattering blast on the battlehorn, and the warriors of Albion answered the call with rousing shout. The battlecry of Albion's warriors echoed along the flint shore, driving into the enemy like a fist.

Scatha, hair streaming, cloak flying, whirled into the enemy line; sword in one hand, firebrand in the other-a Morrigan of battle!- she struck, throwing off sparks and killing with every stroke. The enemy fled before her as before a flaming whirlwind.

Cynan called the cream of Caledon's warriors to him and began hewing a swathe wide enough to drive a chariot through from the water's edge to the top of the strand.

I threw myself into the confused mass between the two battlechiefs,

striking with my spear, slashing, stabbing. The spearhead blushed red

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in the torchlight, and I scanned the churning floodtide of the enemy for the brazen rider. But my silver hand had lost its uncanny chill, and by this I knew he was not near.

Two bronze-clad foemen sprang into my path, brandishing swords above their heads. Their eyes glinted under their horned helmets, and their teeth flashed above the rims of their shields as they shouted a jeering battlecry. Ignoring their blades, I sliced the air in front of their noses with the blade of my spear, and they halted. Spinning the shaft of my spear, I struck aside first one sword, then the other. Then... Crack! Crack! Two sharp raps of the spear butt and both helmets flew off as heads snapped backwards, and the foemen toppled like statues.

Step by step, we hacked our way up the shingle away from the lake, advancing over the bodies of the slain enemy. We fought well. We fought like champions. And the battle settled into a grim and desperate rhythm.

We battled through the night. Sometimes we gained the top of the shingle and made a stand. Sometimes the enemy rallied and we were forced back. Once, we stood in water to our knees, hacking with battle-blunted blades at our armored enemy. But Scatha, moving through the chaos with the grace and poise of a dancer, pierced deep into the heart of the enemy line with a small force of warriors. Rather than face her fearful wrath, the foemen fell back and the advance collapsed.

As the night drew on, the enemy grew disheartened. Fatigue set in. They moved in their heavy bronze armor with a curious lumbering gait Their shields and weapons wavered in shaky arms; unable to lift their feet, they stumbled back and forth over the flinty strand. Desperate, they lurched at us. We struck. They fell before our skill. The bodies of the wounded and slain began to stack like felled timber around us, yet they would not retreat.

"Whatever it is that drives them," Cynan observed, drawing a bloody hand across his sweaty face, "they fear it more than they fear us."

We had stopped to catch our breath, and leaned on our spears,

 

 

 

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shoulders heaving with the effort of drawing air into our lungs. "They fear their lord," I told him.

"Who is that?"

"The Brazen Man."

"Brazen coward if you ask me," Cynan snarled with contempt. "I have not had a glimpse of him since the fight began."

"True. He has not yet taken the field."

"Yet? Yet? His war host is being slaughtered. If he thinks to wear us down, he has waited for nothing."

It was true; the weary foe was everywhere falling to the skill and experience of our vastly superior warriors. Darkness and surprise had done their worst, and we had conquered; now we were conquering their numbers as well, slowly, relentlessly paring them down and down.

It came to me that they had no need of a war leader, because the enemy's only plan had been to overwhelm us. They strove to surround us, engulf and smother us; or, failing that, to drive us into the lake by sheer irresistible press of numbers. We fought against a foe lacking any subtlety or craft, an enemy whose only hope lay in dragging us down by brute force alone.

The Brazen Man did not care how many of his men fell to us, because he did not care about his men at all. They were simply fodder to our scything blades. He sent them into battle in wave after heedless wave, trusting to the grim attrition of battle to wear us down. When finally we were too few to resist, he would swoop down from his hidden perch and claim the victory.

Watching the hapless foemen struggling to raise their weapons, my heart softened towards them. They were blind, ignorant and confused; they were stumbling in the dark, bleeding and dying. And, most cruelly of all, they did not know, would never know, why.

These men were not our true enemies; they were puppets only, pawns in the hands of a pitiless master. Their deaths were meaningless. The slaughter had to be stopped. I lowered my spear, straightened and looked around.

The sky was showing grey in the east; red streaks hinted at a raw

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sunrise. We had fought the whole night to no purpose or advantage. It was insane, and it was time to stop. Turning once more to the battleline, I saw the bronze warriors standing flat-footed, their heads bowed under the weight of the helmets, unable to lift their arms. With long bold strides, I advanced towards them. The blunt spears in their hands struggled up as they stumbled backwards.

"Liew!" shouted Cynan, running after me.

I reached out and seized the nearest spear, and yanked it from the foeman's numb fingers. I threw the spear down on the ground and grabbed another. The third enemy made a clumsy stab at me with a sword. I caught the blade with my silver hand and twisted it easily out of his hand. It was like disarming children.

"Enough!" I shouted. "It is over!"

All along the lakeside, men stopped and turned to gawk at me. I disarmed two more warriors, snatching weapons from limp hands. I brandished my spear and lifted my voice. "Men of Tir Aflan!" I called, my voice carrying along the strand. "Throw down your weapons, and you will not be harmed."

I gazed along the battleline. The fighting had shuddered to a halt and men were gaping stupidly at me. Scores of exhausted foemen swayed on their feet, unable to lift their weapons any more.

"Listen to me! The battle is over. You cannot win. Throw down your weapons and surrender. Stop your fighting-there is nothing to fear."

The enemy stared stupidly at me. "I do not think they understand," said Cynan coming up behind me.

"Perhaps they will understand this," I replied. Raising my own spear, I threw it down on the rocky strand. I motioned for Cynan to 3.rop his weapon as well. He hesitated. "Do it," I urged. "They are watching."

Cynan tossed his spear on top of mine and we stood together unarmed, surrounded by bewildered warriors. I raised my silver hand and said, "Listen to me! You have fought and suffered and many have died. But you cannot win and now the fighting must stop. Throw down your weapons, so that the suffering and dying

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~an end." My voice resounded over the strand. They watched, but no one answered.

"You fight for your lives," I continued. "Men of Tir Aflan! Surrender! Throw down your weapons, and I will give you your lives. You can walk away free men."

This caused a stir. They gaped in wonder, and murmured their amazement to one another. "Is it true?" they asked. "Can it be?"

Extending my hand towards a nearby warrior, I beckoned him. "Come," I told him. "I give you your life."

The man glanced around awkwardly, hesitated, then stumbled forward. He took two steps, but his legs would no longer hold him and he fell forward to lie at my feet. Reaching down, I caught him under the arm and raised him. I took his sword from his hand and tossed it aside. "You are safe," I told him. "No one will harm you now.,'

I heard a clatter on the rocks as a shield slipped from the grasp of one who could not hold it any longer. The man sank to his knees. I strode to him, raised him and said, "You are safe. Stand there beside your kinsman."

The man took his place beside the first and the two stood trembling in the dim dawn light, not quite believing their good fortune.

The onlookers may have expected me to kill the defectors. But seeing I had not harmed the first two, a third decided to risk trusting me. I welcomed him, and two more stepped forward, laying their weapons at my feet. I welcomed them also and told them to stand with the others. Another defector stepped forward, and then three more.

"Cynan! Scatha!" I turned and beckoned them to help me. "Get ready! The flood is upon us!"

Weapons and armor clattered to the stony shingle all along the lake; the battle-weary foemen could not shed it fast enough. After their initial hesitancy, they gave themselves up freely and with great relief. Some were so overcome, they wept at their unimaginable good fortune. Their long nightmare was over; they were rescued and released.

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When we had disarmed the last adversary, I turned to my own warriors standing silent behind me. I looked at their once-fine cloaks, now journey-worn and dirty; I looked at their once-handsome faces, 1 now gaunt and grim, ravaged by want and war. They had given up health and happiness, given up wives, children, kinsmen and friends, ~ given up all comfort and pleasure.

Staunch to the end, they had supported me through all things, and stood ready still to serve, to give their lives if I asked. Battered and bleeding, they stood as one, weapons at the ready, waiting to be summoned once more. Truly, they were the Gwr Gwir, the True Men of Albion.

Raising my silver hand, I touched the back of my hand to my forehead in silent salute. The warriors responded with a shout of triumph that sent echoes rippling across the lake and up into the surrounding hills.

I released them to their rest, whereupon they turned to the lake to drink and to bathe. I stood for a moment watching my ragged warriors lower their exhausted bodies into the water. "Look at them," I said, pride singing through me like a song of exultation. "With such men to support him, any man might be king."

Cynan, leaning on his spear, thrust out his chin, "They would not support just any man. Nor would I," he said, and touched the back of his hand to his forehead.

The lake proved a blessing. We waded into the chill, mist-covered water and bathed our aching limbs. The water revived and refreshed us, washing away the blood and grime of battle. I felt the cold thrill of the water on my flesh and remembered another time when, after my first battle, I had bathed like this and felt reborn.

The good feeling proved short-lived, however. Bran and the Ravens had still not appeared by the time the sun had risen well above the surrounding hills.

"I do not like this at all," I told Cynan and Scatha plainly. "Something has happened to them or they would have returned Long ago."

"I fear you are right," Scatha agreed.

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"We are finished here," Cynan said. "We can go back to Cwm Gwaed to look for them."

I surveyed the armored men sitting splay-legged on the strand. "We will talk to some of these." I indicated the huddled men. "Perhaps they can tell us something."

"That I doubt," Cynan replied. "But I will do it if you think best."

I turned to Scatha who, having washed the soot and blood away, now appeared less like the Morrigan and more like Modron, the Comforter. She had plaited her hair and brushed her cloak, and, from the way the surrendered warriors followed her with their eyes, I thought she might more easily succeed than we in loosening reluctant tongues.

"I will entrust this task to you, Pen-y-Cat," I told her. "I am certain they would rather confide in you than in Cynan Two-Torcs here."

So we watched as she moved among the former enemy warriors, stopping now and then, bending near one or kneeling beside another, speaking earnestly, looking into their eyes as they answered. I noticed she put her hand on their shoulders in the way of a wife or mother, addressing them with her touch as much as with her voice.

In a little while, Scatha returned. "There is a caer near here. Some of them have been there. They say that the Brazen Man keeps captives there."

"Are Tángwen and Goewyn there?" asked Cynan eagerly.

Scatha turned to him, her expression grim. "They do not know. But it is known that the Dyn Dythri often go there, and the rhuodimi come from there."

"Roaring things?" wondered Cynan.

The vehicles and machines, I thought. "Then that is where Siawn Hy is waiting, and that is where we will find Goewyn and Tángwen. And," I quickly added, "unless I am far wrong, that is where Tegid and the Ravens are now captive as well."

Scatha agreed. "But there is something else: they say the caer is

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protected by a powerful enchantment. They are terrified of the place."

 

We turned our backs to the lake and marched east, following the directions we had been given. A gap, unseen from the shore, opened in the hills; we passed through to find ourselves on a broad plateau. The sea lay before us, green and restless under a mottled grey sky. And on the cracked summit of a rocky headland jutting out into the wave-worried sea stood a crumbling stone fortress. Much like the high tower we had seen before, the caer stood lonely and forsaken on its bare rock, a relic of a forgotten age.

"The Brazen Man has taken that for his stronghold," Scatha said. We had paused to survey the land beyond the pass and, aside from the ruined fortress and a scattering of stone huts in which the warriors had been housed, the land was empty. The defectors had described the place well.

Nevertheless, we approached the fortress slowly, watching for any sign from the ragged walls. I walked first, with Scatha and Cynan leading the Gwr Gwir; unwilling to be left behind, the defeated foe followed at a distance. As we passed onto the promontory, I saw the tracks of heavy vehicles pressed into the soft turf. Many rhuodimi had passed this way. The entrance to the special gate Professor Nettleton spoke of must lie somewhere near by, but I could not see it.

The sea heaved and sighed around the roots of the headland; the wind moaned over the ruins. Great chunks of fallen stone were sunk deep into the thick green moss below once-soaring battlements. We stood gazing at the toppled walls, searching for any sign of life.

"Arianrhod sleeps in her sea-girt headland," I said, thinking aloud, as I looked at the broken gate, black with age and hanging half off its hinges.

To which Scatha replied, "Only the chaste kiss will restore her to her rightful place."

Cynan cast a sidelong glance at us. "Well?" he demanded impatiently. "Are we to stand here waiting all day?"

STEPHEN LAWHEAD

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"No, but first we must see if there is another entrance to this place," I said.

"It will be done." Cynan gestured to Owyn and three other warriors, who disappeared around the near corner of the stone curtain on the run.

They reappeared on the far side a short while later. "There is no other entrance," Owyn said.

"Did you see anyone?" Scatha asked.

"No one," the Galanae warrior answered.

"Then we will go in." I raised my spear in silent signal and the warband, ranged behind me, moved towards the gate.

As we passed under the shadow of the wall, a voice called out. "Stop! Come no closer!"

My head swivelled to the broken battlement. The Brazen Man stood above and to the left, leering bronze mask in place and spear in hand, gazing down upon us.

"Your war host is defeated!" I shouted. "Throw down your weapons and release your captives. Do this at once or you will certainly die."

The bronze warrior tilted back his head and laughed, an ugly, hateful sound. I had heard it before.

The laughter stopped abruptly. "You do not rule here!" he shouted angrily. Then, softening in almost the same breath, he said, "If you want your bride, come and get her. But come alone."

He vanished from the wall before I could answer.

"I mislike this," Cynan grumbled.

"I do not see that we have any other choice," I pointed out. "I will go alone."

Scatha objected. "It is a foolish risk."

"I know," I told her. "But it is a risk we must take for Goewyn's sake."

She nodded, put her hand beneath her cloak and withdrew a slender knife. She stepped close, reached behind me and tucked it into my belt. "I armed you once, and I do so again, son of mine. Save my daughter."

 

 

 

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"That I will do, Pen-y-Cat," I replied. She embraced and kissed me, then turned away quickly, taking her place at the head of the warband.

I took two steps towards the gate.

"Wait!" Cynan came to stand beside me. "You will not go alone while Two-Torcs draws breath," he said firmly. "My wife is captive, too, and I am going with you."

He took a step towards the door. "We can dispute the matter, or we can rescue our wives."

There would be no dissuading him, so I agreed, and we advanced together through the gate and into the courtyard beyond.

Dry weeds poked up through the cracks of the paved yard; they shifted in the wind like long white whiskers. Fallen stone lay all around. Arched doorways opened off the courtyard, revealing black, empty passages beyond. At the far end of the yard, opposite the gate, stood a steep-peaked building; the roof was collapsed and curved rooftiles littered the yard like dragon scales. A short flight of stone steps led up to a narrow wooden door. The door, twice the height of a man, stood open.

A chill shivered up through my silver hand. "He is near," I whispered to Cynan.

We moved steadily, stealthily, up the steps, paused, then pushed the door open wide. Instantly we were assailed by the stench of rotting meat mingled with urine and excrement. The outside door opened into a dark vestibule thick with filth. The severed heads of two unfortunates were nailed to the lintel above a low inner door. The doorposts were smeared with blood.

Stepping cautiously through the low door, we passed into the hail beyond. "I have been waiting," a voice said. "We have all been waiting."

      376   -

The Hero Feat

Torches illumined the single great room, casting a thin, sullen light that did little to efface the deep-shadowed darkness. In the center of the room stood the Brazen Man. The torchlight flickering over the facets of his bronze mask made it seem as if his features were continually melting and reforming.

Behind him were two doors barred and bound with iron. As I looked, Goewyn's face appeared at the small window of one door, and Tángwen's at the other. Neither woman cried out, but both stood gripping the bars of their prisons and watching us with the astonished yet fearful expressions of captives who have long ago abandoned hope of release, only to learn that hope has not abandoned them.

My first thought was to run to Goewyn and pull that prison apart with my bare hands. I wanted to take her in my arms and carry her away from that stinking hellhole. I stepped towards the Brazen Man. "Let them go," I said.

"You did not come alone," the man said ominously.

"My wife is captive, too," Cynan spat. "If you have harmed her, I will kill you. Let her go."

"Your wife?" the bronze-clad warrior queried. "She might have shared your bed, but Tángwen was never wife to you, Cynan Machae."

 

 

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"Who are you?" Cynan demanded, pushing past me into the room. The sword in his hand trembled in his clenched fist, he gripped it so hard.

"You want them freed?" the Brazen Man shouted suddenly, taking a swift sidestep. "Free them yourselves." He put out his hand and extended a bronze-mailed finger, pointing to a spot on the floor surrounded by torches. "Do what you will."

I looked where he pointed and saw two keys in an iron ring lying on the stone-flagged floor. Glancing quickly at the cell doors, I saw that they had been recently fitted with new brass locks.

With a nod to Cynan, we moved forward cautiously. My silver hand began to throb with cold, sending sharp pains up my arm. I gritted my teeth and stepped closer, spear ready. The keys had been placed in the center of a knotwork design, the figure outlined on the floor in lines of fine black ash and bits of bone-the ash of burnt sacrifice, I supposed. The braziers burned with a bitter smoke.

"What is it?" Cynan wondered. "Do you know?"

The sign was a crude parody of the Mór Cykh, the Life Maze, but it was backwards and broken, the lines haphazard, erratic. All the elegance and beauty of the original had been willfully marred.

"It is a charm of some sort," I told Cynan.

"I am not afraid of a mark on the floor," he sneered.

Before I could stop him, Cynan pushed past me and stooped to grab the keys. Upon entering the circle, however, he was gripped by an instant paralysis, caught and unable to move. "Liew!" he cried, through quick-clenched teeth in a frozen jaw. "Help me!"

I glanced at the bronze-clad man. His eyes glittered hard and black behind the brazen mask. "Oh, help him, yes." The brazen snake almost hissed. "By all means, do help him." Then he laughed.

I knew the laugh. I had heard it too many times before not to recognize it now. He laughed again, and removed every last crumb of doubt, confirmed every suspicion.

"Enough, Simon!" I shouted. "Let him go."

Lifting a bronze gauntlet to his chin, the man lifted the metal mask and took off the helmet. The face was pale, deathly pale, and

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thin, wasted. The flesh seemed almost transparent; blue veins snaked beneath his eyelids and the skin of his throat. He looked like a ghost, a wraith, but there was no mistaking the set of his chin, nor the hatred smoldering in his eyes.

"Siawn Hy," he corrected, and stepped closer. My silver hand throbbed; icy spikes stabbed into my flesh.

"I made that for you," Siawn said, indicating the circle on the floor. "But I like it better this way. Just you and me. Face to face."

He stood before me and drew the bronze-mailed glove from his left hand, then slowly raised it to his forehead, palm outward. It was a bardic gesture-I had seen Tegid do it many times-but as he turned his hand I saw on the palm, carved into the very flesh, the image of an eye.

Siawn loosed a string of words in a tongue I did not know. I could not take my eyes from the symbol carved into the flesh of his palm. The skin was thickly scarred, but the cuts were fresh and a little blood oozed from the wound.

He spoke again, and the muscles in my arms and legs stiffened. My back and shoulders felt like blocks of wood. Locked in this strange seizure, I could not move. The spear fell from my fingers and clattered on the floor; my limbs grew instantly rigid. More words poured from Siawn's mouth, a dizzying torrent to drown all resistance, a dark chant of wicked power. My breath flowed from my mouth and lungs. Cynan, immobile beside me, made a strangled, whimpering noise.

Someone screamed my name-Goewyn, I think. But I could not see her. I could not close my eyes or look away. The evil eye drew all thought and volition to itself; it seemed to burn itself into my mind as Siawn Hy's words swirled around me, now buzzing like insects, now rasping like crows. My breath became labored, halting but my vision grew keen.

The ancient evil of Tir Aflan... this was how Siawn Hy had awakened it, and he now wielded it as a weapon. But there existed a power far more potent than he would ever know.

Goodly- Wise is the Many-Gifted, I thought, who upholds all that

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call upon him. Uphold me now!

In the same moment, I felt the Penderwydd's sacred awen quicken within me. Like the unfurling of a sail, my spirit slipped its constricting bonds. A word, a name formed on my tongue and I spoke it out: "Dagda... Samildanac. . ."

Up from my throat it came, leaping from my tongue in a shout. "Dagda Samildanac!"

Searing bolts of icy fire streaked from my silver hand, up my arm and into my shoulder. Whatever the source of the power Siawn possessed, it could not quench the cold fire aflame in my silver hand:

the smooth silver surface glowed white; the intricate-patterned mazework of the Dance of Life shone with a fiery golden light.

Siawn's voice boomed in my ears as he moved closer, barking the words. I saw the hideous eye carved into the flesh of Siawn's palm as he reached to touch me with it, to mark me with that hideous symboL

"By the power of the Swift Sure Hand, I resist you," I said, and raised my silver hand, pressing my palm flat against his.

He screamed, jerking his palm away from mine. Threads of smoke rose from the wound on his hand. Air flowed back into my lungs, and with it the smell of burning flesh. Siawn Hy staggered backwards moaning, cradling his injured hand. The red wound on his palm had been obliterated, the obscene stigmata cauterized; in place of the evil eye was the branded imprint of the Môr Cylch, the Life Maze.

Suddenly free, I leapt to Cynan's aid, knelt beside him, drew a deep breath and blew the black ash away, breaking the power of the charm. Cynan fell forward onto his arms and sprang quickly to his feet. "Brother, that was well done!"

I grabbed the keys. "Watch him!" I commanded Cynan.

"Gladly!" Cynan raised his sword and advanced on the stricken Siawn, pressing the blade into the base of his throat.

I ran to the iron-bound doors, thrust a key into the first lock and turned. The lock gave grudgingly and I pulled with all my might; the hinges complained, but the door swung open. Goewyn burst from her prison and caught me in a crushing embrace. I kissed her face and

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lips and neck, and felt her lips flitting over my face. She kept repeating my name over and over as she kissed me.

"You are free, my love," I told her. "It is over. You are safe now. You are free."

I held her to me again, and she gave a little cry and pulled away. Her hands went to her stomach, now swelling noticeably beneath her stained and filthy mantle. I put my hand to the softly rounded mound to feel the life within.

"Are you well? Did he hurt you?" I had refused the thought of her suffering for so long that belated concern now overwhelmed me.

Goewyn smiled; her face was pale and drawn, but her eyes were clear and glowing with love and happiness. "No," she said, cupping her hand to my face. "He told me things-terrible things." Tears welled up suddenly in her eyes and splashed down her cheeks. "But he did not hurt me. I think Tángwen is safe, too."

Cynan, holding Siawn Hy at the point of his sword, turned at the mention of his wife's name. The swordpoint wavered as his eyes shifted to the door of her cell. Wrapped in Goewyn's embrace, glancing over her shoulder, I saw the door swing open. Cynan's first response was elation. And then the full significance of the unlocked cell hit him.

The joy on his face turned sickly and died. His eyes grew wide with horror.

"Treachery!" he cried.

The door to Tángwen's cell banged open and armed men charged out of its dark depths and into the room. Cynan was already moving towards them, sword raised. Siawn reacted with blinding speed: his foot snaked out and Cynan pitched forward. He hit the stone floor with a crack; his blade flew from his grasp and skittered across the floor.

A heartbeat later, four men were on his back and four more, with Paladyr chief among them, caine for me. I thrust Goewyn behind me, shielding her with my body and drawing the knife Scatha had given me. But I was too late. They were on me. Paladyr's blade pricked the skin of my throat.

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Two more foemen caught Goewyn and held her by the arms. Just then, Tángwen, smug with victory, emerged from her cell. "One should always be careful who one marries," Siawn said, as Tángwen came to stand beside him.

"What I did, I did for my father and for my brothers," Tángwen exulted. "They rode with Meldron and you cut them down. The blood debt will be satisfied."

Siawn, still cradling his branded hand, stalked forward, laughing. He came to stand before me, his face the terrible, twisted leer of a demon. He spat a command to one of his minions and the man disappeared into the shadows somewhere behind me. "So, you begin to see at last."

"Let the others go, Siawn," I said. "It is me you want. Take me and let the others go."

"I have you, friend," he jeered. "I have you all."

Just then there arose a commotion from the far corner of the room. A door opened behind me-I could not see it, but I heard the hinges grind-and in shuffled Tegid, Gwion, Bran, and the Ravens, handbound all of them, with chains on their feet and a guard for each one. Tegid's face was bruised and his clothing torn in several places; Bran and Drustwn could not stand upright, and Garanaw's arm dangled uselessly at his side. My proud Raven Flight appeared to have been battered into bloody submission. Behind them came Weston and four other strangers, looking frightened and very confused.

Upon seeing me, Bran cried out and struggled forward; the other Ravens shouted and turned on their captors, but all were clubbed with the butts of spears and dragged back into line.

"You see?" Siawn Hy gloated. "You never fully appreciated me, did you? Well, you have underestimated me for the last time, friend." The word was a curse in his mouth.

"Listen to me very carefully," I said, speaking loudly and fighting to keep my voice calm. "My warband is waiting at the gate. They are invincible. If anything happens to any of us, you will die. That is a fact."

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'Jr I%LDI'J~'.

If Siawn Hy cared, he did not show it; my words moved several of his warriors, however. Paladyr's sword relaxed.

"It is true, lord," he said. "We cannot hope to defeat them."

Siawn waved aside the remark. "But I am not interested in defeating them," he replied casually. "I am only interested in defeating Silver Hand."

"Then let the others go," I said again. "Once they are free, I will command the warband to allow you safe passage. Without my word, none of you leave this place alive."

"Listen to him, lord," Paladyr said; an note of uncertainty had come into his voice.

"What is he saying?" demanded Weston, his voice an almost incoherent babble in my ears. He started forward. "I demand to know what is going on! You said there wouldn't be any trouble. You said it was all under control."

"Get back!" Siawn snarled in the stranger's tongue. "I gave you what you wanted. Now it is my turn. That was the agreement."

"Some of my men have been killed," Weston whined. "What am I supposed to do ab-"

"Shut up!" Siawn growled, cutting him off with a chop of his hand. He turned to me once more. "If I let the others walk free, you will give us all safe conduct to leave-is that right?"

"I give you my word," I vowed. "But they go free first."

"No, Llew," Goewyn pleaded softly. "I will not leave you."

Siawn chuckled. "Oh, I am enjoying this."

"The warband is waiting," I told him. "They will not wait for ever."

"Do you think I care about any of that?" he mocked. "I will not be ordered about by my own prisoner." He brought his face close to mine, breathing hard. The veins stood out on his neck and forehead. "Your word is nothing to me! You are nothing to me. I have had nothing but grief from you ever since you came here. But that is about to end, old friend."

He backed away from me. "Do it!" he yelled.

"What do you want us to do, lord?" Paladyr asked.

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"Kill him!" Siawn cried. Paladyr hesitated.

"Do it!" Siawn shouted again.

Paladyr's head whipped around; he glared at Siawn. "No." He lowered the blade and stepped aside. "Let the others go free, or they will kill us."

"Paladyr!" The voice was Tegid's; the bard had waited for precisely this moment to speak. "Hear me now! You claimed naud and Liew gave it," he said, reminding Paladyr that he owed his life to me. "He did not lie to you then, he is not lying now. Release us all and you will not be harmed."

"Silence him!" screamed Siawn Hy. I heard a crack and Tegid slumped to the floor.

"I gave you your life, Paladyr," I said.

"He is lying!" insisted Siawn. "Kill him!"

Paladyr shook his head slowly. "No. He is telling the truth."

"Siawn Hy!" I said. "Take me, and let the others go." To show I meant what I said, I turned the knife in my hand, took the blade and offered him the handle.

"Oh, very well," snarled Siawn Hy. He snatched the knife and half-turned away. Then, with a quick, cat-like movement, he lunged into me. The blade came up sharp and caught me in the center of the chest just below the ribs. I did not even feel it go in.

Goewyn screamed and fought free. She ran two steps towards me, but Paladyr turned and caught her by the arm, and held her fast.

I looked down to see the sharp blade biting into my flesh. With a cry of delight, Siawn thrust the knife deeper. I felt a burning sensation under my ribs and then my lung collapsed. Air and blood sputtered from the wound. Siawn forced the blade deeper still and then released it. The three men holding me stepped away.

My legs grew suddenly weak and spongy. I lifted my foot to take a step and the floor crashed up against my knees. My hands found the knife hilt, grasped it and pulled. It felt as if a beacon-fire had been lit in my chest and was now burning outwards. I flung the knife from me.

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Blood, hot and dark, welled from the wound, spilling over my hands. A dark mist gathered at the periphery of my vision, but I was conscious of everything around me: Siawn staring at me with wicked glee; Cynan fighting with all his might, still pinned to the ground by Siawn's men; Paladyr grim and silent, clutching Goewyn's arm.

My throat tickled and I opened my mouth to cough, but could not. My breath rasped in my throat. My mouth was dry-as if the fire in my chest was devouring me from within. I gasped, but could get no air. A strange, sucking sound came from my throat.

I put out my hand to support myself, but my elbow buckled and I rolled onto my side. Goewyn jerked her arm from Paladyr's grasp and ran to me. She gathered me in her arms. "Llew! Oh, Liew!" she wept, her warm tears falling onto my face. "Llew, my soul. . ."

I gazed up at her face. It was all I could see now. Though she wept, she was beautiful. A flood of memory washed over me. It seemed as if all I had endured in her pursuit was nothing-less than nothing-beside her. I loved her so much, I ached to tell it, but could not. The burning stopped, and I felt instead a chill numbness in my chest. I tried to sit up, but my legs would not move. Instead, I raised my hand to Goewyn's face and stroked her cheek with trembling fingertips.

"Goewyn, best beloved," I said; my voice came out as a dry

whisper. "I love you... farewell . .

Goewyn, tears streaming from her eyes, lowered her face to mine.

Her lips, warm and alive, imparting a final sweet caress, was the last sensation I knew.

Darkness descended over me. Though my eyes continued to stare, I could see nothing for the black mist that billowed over and around me, swallowing me down and down. It seemed that I was floating and falling at the same time. I heard Goewyn weeping, saying my name, and then I heard a roaring crash like that of the sea rolling in upon a far-off shore.

The sound grew until I could hear nothing else. It grew so great

that I thought my head would burst with the pressure of the noise. For one terrible instant I feared the sound would consume me,

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obliterate me. I resisted, though how I resisted, I do not know. I could 4 not move, could not speak or see.

But when I thought I could not bear it any more, the sound stopped abruptly and the dark mist cleared. I could see and hear again, more clearly than I ever had before. I could see, but now saw everything from slightly above and outside my normal view. I saw Goewyn bent over me, cradling my still body in her lap, her shoulders heaving as she wept. I saw Siawn and Tángwen looking on, their faces flushed with a hideous gloating pride. I saw Paladyr standing a little apart, subdued, his arms hanging limp at his sides. I saw the Ravens and Tegid, stunned and staggered at the atrocity they were powerless to prevent.

I saw Cynan lying on the floor, enemies kneeling on his back as he raged against my death. I felt sorry for him. His wife had betrayed us all to Siawn, had deceived us from the beginning; he would bear the burden of that shame for the rest of his life, a fate he did not deserve. Through all things he was my good friend; I would have liked to bid him farewell. Peace, brother, I said, but he did not hear me.

Siawn turned and ordered his men to bind Cynan. Then he turned to Paladyr. "Pick up the body and carry it outside," he commanded.

Paladyr stepped forward, but Goewyn clutched me tighter and screamed, "No! No! Do not touch him!"

"I am sony," he mumbled as he bent over her.

"Take her!" shouted Siawn. Two of his minions scurried forward, grabbed Goewyn and tore her from me. Shouting, crying, she fought them, but they held her tight and pulled her away.

Paladyr knelt and gathered my corpse into his arms. Straining, he lifted my limp body and held it.

"Follow me!" Siawn Hy barked. He turned on his heel and started from the room, taking a torch from a nearby sconce as he passed.

At the vestibule, Siawn paused and let Paladyr pass. "They are waiting for their king," he smirked. "They shall have him."

Paladyr carried me out of the hail, across the empty courtyard, and out of the gate to the warband gathered beyond. Behind him

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came Siawn and Tángwen, followed by Cynan and Goewyn, both with a guard on either arm, though the fight had gone out of Cynan, and the guards had to support Goewyn to keep her upright. Tegid and the Ravens marched boldly forth, quickly recovering something of their dignity and mettle. Lastly came Weston and his hirelings, edging their way with fearful and uncertain steps.

The emerging procession provoked a quick outcry among the waiting warriors, but the sight of my lifeless body shocked them to silence. Scatha made to run to her daughter, but Siawn shouted, "Stop! No one move!"

Then Siawn ordered Paladyr to lay my body on the ground.

Brandishing his torch, he stood over me. "Here is your king!" he crowed, his voice raking at the shattered warband.

"Siawn Hy!" Scatha shouted. "You will die for this! You and all

your men."

But Siawn only laughed. "Do you want him? I give him to you.

Come! Take him away!"

Scatha and two warriors stepped forward slowly. Siawn allowed them to approach and, as they neared, he pulled a flask from behind his bronze breastplate and quickly doused me with the contents. And then, as they stooped, their hands reaching for me, Siawn lowered the torch and touched it to the liquid glimmering on my skin.

A ball of bright yellow flame erupted with a whoosh. The heat

was instant and intense. The fire spread swiftly wherever the liquid had penetrated. My clothing burned first and then my flesh.

Goewyn screamed, and fought free of her captors. She would

have thrown herself upon the flames, but they caught her again and hauled her back.

Siawn looked on my burning corpse with an expression of immense satisfaction. He had been planning his revenge for a long time, and he savored the moment to the full. Cynan, mute, immobile, did not look at the flames, but at his treacherous bride standing haughtily beside Siawn.

The layers of cloth burned away from my body. The skin of my

face and neck began to shrivel and smoke as the flames licked over

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them. The fire crackled and fizzed as the fat from my flesh ignited. My hair burned away, and my siarc and breecs. My belt, because it was wound around my waist in several layers, was slower to burn. But as the first two layers of my belt were consumed, there appeared three round lumps.

Siawn, glancing down, saw the lumps and stared more closely. A strange light came into his eyes as he recognized the stones Tegid had given me to carry into Tir Aflan. Singing Stones, three of them, glowing white as miniature moons in the fire. Three Singing Stones within easy reach.

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Bright Fire

 

 

Siawn Hy could not resist them. Despite the flames, he edged close and, quick as a striking snake, snatched up one of the song-bearing stones. He raised it with a wild shout of triumph. "With this stone, I conquer!"

The stone was hot and as he held it high, his cry still ringing in the air, the milk-white rock turned translucent as ice and melted in his hand. Siawn stared as the liquid rock ran through his fingers and down his upraised arm like water.

He bent to retrieve another stone, braving the flames once more. His fingers flicked out and closed on another of the precious stones; but as he made to withdraw it, the liquid rock ignited. Flames engulfed his hand and raced up his arm along the molten trail of the previous stone.

Siawn jerked back, still clenching the second stone. He held the flaming hand before his face. With a blast of pure white light the stone in his fist burst into a thousand pieces, scattering flaming fragments far and wide in a rain of shimmering white fire.

Each fragment melted and began to burn with a wonderful incandescence.

The third stone, still resting on my stomach, melted and the liquid stone began flowing like silver honey, like shining water. it

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covered my burning corpse, and quickly seeped out onto the ground around me. Like a fountain it flowed, increasing outwards of itself~ pouring up from my body, spreading and spreading in bright-shimmering waves. And where the melted stone touched one of the flaming fragments, it burned with flames of shining white.

Men drew back from the fire, and many ran. But there was no escape. The flames were swift as they were bright. They raced before the wind of their burning, gathering greater speed as the fire kindled other fires and mounted, leaping towards the sky. The grass burned and the earth and rocks. The air itself seemed to ignite like touchpaper. Nothing was spared, nothing escaped the all-devouring white fire.

Everyone, friend and enemy alike, fell before the all-engulfing flames. Siawn, standing nearest, was the first to succumb; he crumpled into a writhing heap. Tángwen rushed to him, and was caught as the flames raced towards her, igniting her cloak and mantle; her hair became a fiery curtain. Seeing this, the guards dropped their weapons and ran, but the fire was swifter than their feet.

Cynan and Goewyn fell to the flames. Cynan alight from heel to head, staggered towards Goewyn to protect her, but she slumped to the ground before he could reach her, and after a few steps he expired.

Bran and the Ravens were caught, along with Tegid and Gwion. Their feet chained, they could not run, so turned to face the flames unafraid. Not so the enemy warriors guarding them. They stumbled over one another in their haste to flee. But the fire streaked like lightning along the ground and ignited them. At first they wailed in fear and agony, but their voices were quickly drowned in the roar of the onrushing blaze.

On and on it sped, inundating all of Tir Aflan in a rolling flood of bright silver-white fire, that consumed all it touched with a keen and brilliant flame. The grass and rocks blazed. And as the conflagration spiralled higher and higher, leaping skyward in dazzling plumes, igniting the very air, there came a sound like a crystal chime. It was the voice of the inferno, belting clear and clean. And it rang with a song, the matchless Song of Albion:

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SONG OF ALBION

Glory of sun.1 Star-blaze in jeweled heavens!

light of light, a High and Holy land,

Shining bright and blessed of the Many-Gifted;

A gift for ever to the Race of Albion!

 

Lifted high on the wings of the wind, the cleansing fire streaked through the sky, kindling the clouds and gloom-laden vapors, scouring the heavens. Grey and black turned to glowing blue and then to white. The airy firmament glowed with a light more brilliant 1h~n starlight, brighter and more radiant than the sun. The Song rang through the heights and raced on:

 

Rich with many waters! Blue-welled the deep,

White-waved the strand, hallowed the firmament,

Mighty in the power of the One,

Gentle in the peace of great blessing;

A wealth of wonders for the Kinsmen of Albion!

 

Reaching the shore, the fire sped out across the sea. From wave-top to wave-top, leaping in liquid tongues, spreading over the sea-well. The sea began to boil, and then flashed from turgid green to jade and then the color of white gold in the crucible. The waters became molten flame and the great, glowing sea resounded like a bell to the Song, blending its deep-voiced toll to the high tone of the heavens. And the Song raced on:

 

Dazzling the matchless purity of green!

Fine as the emerald's excellent fire,

Glowing in deep -defted glens,

Gleaming on smooth-tilled fields;

A Gemstone of great value for the Sons of Albion!

 

Down the broad headland the bright fire flew, a towering wall of blistering, shimmering flame, raking the wasted valleys of Tir Aflan, flashing across the wasted expanse of moorland. The filth-crusted settlement exploded at the first touch of flame; the mudmen in the mines saw the flames streaking towards them and threw themselves into their pits. But the cunning flame-fingers searched out the dark,

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small places and set them ablaze, streaking across the mud, scorching the earth, turning every boulder in Cwm Gwaed into a pillar of fire. And the Song raced on:

 

Abounding in white-crowned peaks, vast beyond measure,

the fastness of bold mountains!

Exalted heights-dark-wooded and

Red with running deer-

Prodaim afar the high-vaunted splendor of Albion!

 

The mountaintops round about sprouted crowns of silver.white flame, blazing like titanic beacons. Each mountain became a fiery volcano; rock and snow, moss and ice fed the ravenous fire. Heatwaves flowed out in every direction. The mountains' stone skin turned glassy and their stony hearts glowed white. Sheets of flame danced among the stars. And the Song raced on:

 

Swift horses in wide meadows!

Graceful herds on the gold-flowered water-meo4s,

Strong hooves drumming,

a thunder of praise to the Goodly- Wise,

A boon ofjoy in the heart of Albion!

 

Golden the grain-hoards of the Great Giver,

Generous the bounty offair fields:

Redgold of bright apples,

Sweetness of shining honeycomb,

A miracle of plenty for the tribes of Albion!

 

Silver the net-tribute, teeming the treasure

of happy waters; Dappled brown the hillsides,

seek herds serving

the Lord of the Feast;

A marvel of abundance for the tables of Albion!

 

Following the rivers and streams, setting the myriad waterways alight, stretching across the Foul Lands with fingers of fire, the bright flames flew, striking deep into the heartland of hr Aflan, kindling the fields and meadows. Marshlands steamed and then smoldered, then became lakes of fire. Reeds and grasses, gorse

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thickets and gnarled trunks, whole forests burst into flowering flame. By blade and twig the hungry fire devoured the wasted heartland. And the Song raced on:

 

Wise men, Bards of Truth, boldly dedaring from

Hearts aflame with the Living Word;

Keen of knowledge,

aear of vision,

A glory of verity for the True Men of Aibion!

 

Bright-kindled from heavenly flames, framed

of Love's all -consuming fire,

Ignited of purest passion,

Burning in the Creator King's heart,

A splendor of bliss to illuminate Albion!

 

Silver-white columns of fire danced and leapt-high, high, burning with the intensity of ten-thousand suns, scourging both the land below and the heavenly places above, filling the black void of night with blazing light. And the Song raced on:

 

Noble lords kneeling in rightwise worship,

Undying vows pledged to everlasting,

Embrace the breast of mercy,

Eternal homage to the Chief of chiefs,

Life beyond death granted the Children of Albion!

 

Kingship wrought of infinite Virtue,

Quick-forged by the Swift Sure Hand;

Bold in Righteousness,

Valiant injustice,

A sword of honor to defend the Glans of Albion!

 

Formed of the Mne Sacred &ments,

Framed by the Lord of Love and Light;

Grace of Grace, Truth of Truth,

Summoned in the Day of Strife,

An Aird Righ to reign for ever in Albion.'

 

No one could stand before the ferocity of the fire. The frail human frame vaporized in the heat, flesh and bone dissolved, spilling their

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molecules into the fiery atmosphere. The All-Encompassing Song raced on and on in ever-widening rings of purifying fire.

And everything touched by the holy fire was scoured, consumed, melted, reduced to the very core elements, and then further reduced to atoms. The released atoms ruptured, fused, and recombined in new elements of being. Deep in the white-hot heart of the fire, I saw the Swift Sure Hand moving, gathering unformed matter and molding it into pure new forms.

I alone saw this, and I saw it with the eye of the True Aird Righ, the sacred, eternally self-sacrificing king. I saw it with the unblinking eye of the Everliving One, whose touch quickens the insensate soul, who swallows death in life. Out of the molten heat, I saw the foul land of Tir Aflan recast, reshaped, and in fire reborn.

Nothing escaped the refining fire of his irresistible will: all imperfection, all ugliness, all weakness and deformity, all frailty, infirmity, disease, deficiency and defect, every fault and failing, every blight and every blemish, every flaw effaced, purged, and purified. And when the last scar had been removed, the cleansing flames diminished and faded away. All this might have taken eons; it might have happened in the blink of an eye; I cannot say. But when the fire at last subsided, Tir Allan had been consumed and its elements transmuted in a finer, more noble conception: recreated with a grandeur as far surpassing its former degradation as if an old garment had been stripped away and not merely restored, but replaced with raiment of unrivalled splendor. It was not a change, but a transformation; not a conversion, but a transfiguration.

The mudmen, whores, slaves and prisoners-all the Foul Land's wretched-were gone, and in their places stood men and women of stature and grace. The empty fields and forests were empty no longer; animals of every kind-cleer and sheep, wild pigs, bears, foxes, otters, badgers, rabbits, squirrels, and mice, as well as kine, oxen, and horses-filled the meadows and glens and browsed the forest trails and ran among the hills and watermeads; trout and salmon, pike and perch, sported in the lakes and streams; the shining blue skies were full of birds and the treetops delighted in

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birdsong; the forlorn mountainsides, moors, and blasted heathiands wore a fresh glory all their own in the form of wildflowers of every shade and hue; the rivers ran clean and uncorrupted, the water crystalline and pure.

Tir Allan was no more, Tir Gwyn stood in its place.

 

Tegid Tathal was the first to revive. He opened his eyes, stood up, and looked around. Scatha lay nearby, dressed now in a mantle of holly green with a belt of cornflower blue and a crimson cloak edged in green and gold. Gwion lay at Tegid's feet, and Bran beside him, and around Bran the Raven Flight as Tegid remembered them-but now the Ravens' cloaks were midnight blue and each wore a torc of thick-braided silver. Cynan lay a little distance away, his hand stretching towards Goewyn.

And all of them, Tegid himself included, reclothed in the finest apparel-of such material and craft, such color and quality as had never been known. Tegid, Scatha, the Ravens, every member of the Gwr Gwir and their prisoners-all arrayed in clothes of the most splendid color and craftsmanship.

The warriors' weapons had changed, too. The luminous luster of gold and bright-gleaming silver shone in the light of a dawn as clear and fresh as the first day of creation. The spears, both shaft and head, were gold, and golden too every swordblade and hilt. Shield rims, bosses and rings shone with silvery brightness.

Tegid turned his wondering eyes from the warriors and their weapons. He gazed skyward and saw the radiant heaven, alive with a living light. He saw the Foul Land made fair beyond words, and he began to understand what had happened.

Shaking, trembling in every part, he knelt beside Bran Bresal and touched him gently. The Raven Chief awoke and Tegid helped him to stand. He woke Scatha next, and then Cynan; Bran awakened the Ravens who, with Cynan and Tegid, began to wake the Gwr Gwir.

Scatha, her heart beating fast, ran to her daughter and knelt

down beside her. Goewyn's hair was brushed bright and plaited with tiny white and yellow flowers. She wore a gown of hyacinth

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blue with a mantle of pearly white over it, and a henna.colored cloak sewn with plum purple figures. Cupping a hand to Goewyn's cheek, Scatha gently turned her daughter's head. Goewyn drew a deep breath and awoke.

"Llew?" she asked. Then memory rushed in upon her. "Liew!" She jumped to her feet and ran to me. My body lay where Paladyr

had left it. Arrayed like a king in siarc, belt and breecs of deep-hued scarlet, with scarlet buskins on my feet, I lay wrapped in a scarlet cloak; woven into the cloak in silver thread was the Môr Cyich, the Life Dance.

Goewyn lifted a cool hand to my forehead, then touched my face. Tears welled in her eyes as she felt my cold, lifeless flesh. Scatha came to stand beside her, and Cynan; Bran and the Raven Flight gathered around. As Tegid joined them, Goewyn raised tearful eyes.

"Oh, Tegid, I thought.. ." She began to weep.

"He is dead, Goewyn," Tegid said softly, kneeling beside her. The bard placed his hand upon my still chest. "He will not come back."

"Look," said Bran, "his silver hand is gone."

They raised my right arm and saw that my silver hand was indeed gone, the metal replaced by a hand of flesh. Goewyn took the hand and clasped it to her. She pressed the unfeeling flesh to her warm lips and kissed it, then laid it over my heart.

"Where is Siawn Hy?" asked Cynan suddenly. "Where are Tángwen and Paladyr?"

Until that moment, no one had thought to look for them, nor, now that they did make a search, could they find them. The wicked ones had vanished, but not completely.

"Here!" shouted Cynan, closely scanning the place where Siawn was last seen. "I have found something."

The others joined him as he examined a curious spot on the ground. "What is it?" he asked, pointing at a small pile of powdery residue.

Tegid bent down and examined it. "All that remains of Siawn Hy," the bard announced at length.

It was the same with Paladyr and Weston, and all those who had

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willingly followed Siawn. The refining fire had burned away the dross and, when it had finished its purifying work, there was nothing left. Nothing, that is, save a handful of ashes soft and white as snowflakes.

Cynan wanted to gather the ash and throw it in the sea, but Tegid counselled otherwise. "Leave it," he advised. "Let the wind take it.

There shall be no resting-place for these."

"What has happened?" asked Bran, trying to comprehend the changes that had been wrought in them and in the world around them. He spoke for many-especially the defectors who, in surrendering to me, had escaped the fate of their lord. Remade men, they simply stared in mute wonder at their transformed bodies and the world re-created around them, unable to comprehend it or their own good fortune.

Tegid lifted the rod of gold that now replaced his rowan staff. Raising his other hand over his head, he addressed the bewildered gathering: "The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.

"Hear, 0 Sons of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit, and with Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign."

Lowering the rod, he stretched it over my body. "So it was spoken, so it is accomplished," Tegid said. "The Great Year is ended, the old world has passed away and a new creation is established." Indicating my crimson-clothed body, he said, "The Aird Righ of Albion is dead. The Hero Feat for which he was chosen has been performed. Behold! He has reclaimed Tir Aflan and brought it under his sovereign rule. Thus, all lands are united under one king: from this day, Albion is One. This is the Reign of Silver Hand. The prophecy is fulfilled."

 

Back through the mountains, now remade: glistening, silvercrowned giants bearing the wide, empty skybowl on their handsome

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shoulders. Pure white clouds graced the slopes like regal robes and raiments; sparkling streams sent rippled laughter ringing through the valleys, and mist-shrouded falls filled the heights with rainbows. The road was no longer; instead, a grassy path curved up through the high places and joined them with the lowlands beyond...

Back through the moors, transformed into meadows of vast aspect, dotted with trees and brimming with sparkling spring-fed pools. Herds of deer and wild sheep grazed the grassy expanse; birds passed overhead in chattering flocks, or trilled their songs to a sky so fair and blue it made the heart ache to see it...

Back through the hills and valleys, now made new: gently sculpted mounds rounding to grand crests and descending to shade-sheltered glens of solitude. The greens of the hills and glens were as verdant and various as the shifting hues of golden light that played on the cloud-dappled knolls...

Back through the forest now remade: towering columns of magnificent trunks rising to a vaulted archway of a myriad spreading branches beneath a fine leafy canopy: nature's own sanctuary, illumined by a softly-diffused light. By day the grassy path was lit by an endless succession of falling shafts of sunlight; by night the moon and stars poured silver upon rounded boles and slender branches, favoring every leaf and limb with a delicate tracery

Back along the river, now a noble watercourse, handsome in its generous sweep and broad-bending curves, deep-voiced in the sonorous music of its stately passage. Swans and geese and other waterfowl nested in its reed-fringed banks; fish aplenty lazed in its cool shallows, and leaped in the sun-warmed currents of clean, clear water...

Back through a world reborn: more fair than a loving heart's fondest dream of beauty, more elegant than delight, more graceful than hope. Back through Tir Gwyn they carried my body, back to the place where three swift sleek-hulled ships waited on the strand. And then back across a white-waved sea of startling color and clarity.

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Back across this luminous, ever-changing firmament of liquid light they bore me to Albion. And though it took many days, my corpse showed not the slightest sign of decay or corruption. It was as if I slept; yet no breath stirred in my chest, and my heart was still and cold.

My corpse lay on a bier made from the silver shields of the Gwr Gwir bound to golden spearshafts. My scarlet cloak covered me and Goewyn rode, or walked, or stood ever by me. She would not leave my side for a moment. When the company stopped at night, she even slept beside the bier.

They reached Albion and in procession carried my body through a land familiar, yet transmuted into a higher vision of itself. Albion had been transformed into a wonder that swelled the soul with joy and made the breath catch in the throat, as if its former beauty had been but a reflection compared to the reality. For Albion now wore a splendor purer and finer than harpsong and more exquisite than music, and it made their hearts sing to see it.

The procession bore my body to Caledon, over the hills and across the plain, up Druim Vran to Dinas Dwr, where Lord Calbha and my people waited. Upon learning of my death, the people mourned with a deep, surpassing grief. The bones of Alun Tringad were interred in the dolmen atop the Hero Mound at the foot of Druim Vran. Professor Nettleton's head was buried there, too. My body, however, was placed in the king's hail to await burial, for Tegid had determined that I should be buried in a special tomb that he would build. Meanwhile, I lay on my golden catafalque in the king's hall, and Goewyn, inconsolable, stayed beside me day and night while they prepared the gorsedd.

One evening, Tegid came to the hall and knelt beside Goewyn. She was spending the night, like every other night, sitting in the antler chair beside my lifeless body. "It is time to release him, Goewyn," the bard told her.

"Release him? I never will," she replied, her voice softened by

grief to a whisper.

"I do not mean you should forget him," Tegid soothed. "But it is

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time-and past time-for Liew to begin his journey hence. You hold him here with you."

"I hold him here?" Goewyn wondered. "Then," she said, reaching out to take my cold hand in hers, "I shall always hold him and he shall always remain here with me."

"No," Tegid told her gently. "Let him go. It is wrong to imprison him so."

Taking her by the shoulders, he held her at arm's length, staring into her eyes, willing her to look at him. "Goewyn, listen to me. All is as it should be. LIew was sent to us for a purpose, and that purpose has been accomplished. It is time to release him to continue his journey."

"I cannot," Goewyn wailed, grief overwhelming her afresh. "I shall be alone!"

"Unless you release him, your love will sicken in you: it will steal your life and the life of the child you carry," Tegid replied firmly.

Tears came to her eyes. She put her face in her hands and began to weep. "Oh, Tegid, it hurts," she cried, the tears streaming down her face. "I hurt so much!"

"I know," he said softly. "It is a hurt not soon healed."

"I do not know what to do," she cried, the tears falling freely.

"I will tell you what you must do," the wise bard answered, putting his arms around her. "You will give birth to the child that he has given you, and you will love the child and raise it in his memory." He took her hands in his. "Come with me, Goewyn."

She rose and, after a last loving look, went out with Tegid. Scatha and the Raven Flight were waiting at the hail's entrance. As soon as Goewyn and Tegid emerged, the Ravens entered the hall and came to the bier. They lifted the shield-and-spear litter to their shoulders and carried it outside; they then processed slowly through the crannog to a boat, and rowed the boat across the lake to where Cynan waited on the shore with horses and a wagon. Three horses-a red and a white, with a spirited black to lead them-drew the wagon; the horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels were wrapped in black cloth. Beside Cynan, holding a shield and spear likewise shrouded, stood Lord

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Calbha, and behind them, unlit torches in their hands, thronged the people of Dinas Dwr.

The corpse was placed on the wagon, and the procession slowly made its way along the lakeside to the place where Tegid had erected the Hero Mound inside the sacred grove he had established for his Mabinogi. Mounting the long slope to the grove, the company passed by the mill, completed in my absence by Lord Calbha and Huel, the master-builder. As we passed, I blessed the mill to its good work.

The cortege entered the shadowed grove, dark under a sky of brilliant twilight blue. The gorsedd had been raised in the center of the grove-a hollow stone chamber, mounded with earth and covered over with turf, and surrounded by a ring of slender silver birches. Someone had left a shield beside the cairn, and upon entering the grove, I heard the croak of a raven. A swift shadow passed overhead and a great, black glossy-feathered bird swooped down and settled on the rim of the shield. Alun, I think, had sent a

messenger to say farewell.

The golden bier was laid at the foot of the gravemound before the silent throng. The Chief Bard, standing over the corpse, placed a fold of his cloak over his head.

Raising his golden rod over me, he said, "Tonight we bury our king. Tonight we bid farewell to our brother and friend-a friend who did for us what we could not do for ourselves. He sojourned among us for a while but, like Meidryn Mawr, who held sovereignty before him, Liew served the Song of Albion. His life was the life of the Song, and the Song claimed the life it briefly granted.

"The king is dead, cut down in a most vile and hateful manner. He went willingly to his death to gain the life of his bride, and those of his friends whose release he sought and won. Let it never be said that he grasped after glory; let all men remember that he humbled himself, breaking his geas so that he might lead the raid on Tir Afian.

"And because he did not cling to his high rank, great good has come to this worlds-realm. For in Llew's death, the Song of Albion has been restored. Hear, 0 Albion! The Great Year is ended, a new

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cycle is begun. No longer will the Song be hidden; no longer will it rest with the Phantarchs and kings to preserve it, for now the Song is carried in the heart and soul of every woman and every man, and all men and all women will be its protectors."

Tegid Tathal, Penderwydd of Albion, lowered his hand then, saying, "It is time now to release our brother and send him on his way."

He kindled a small fire and lit a torch. The fire was passed from brand to brand until all the torches glowed like stars in the night-dark grove. Then he directed the Ravens to lift the bier once more. Drustwn, Emyr, Niall and Garanaw, with Bran at my head, began, at Tegid's direction, to carry my body around the gorsedd mound slowly in a sunwise direction. The people, led by Tegid, with Goewyn walking directly behind him, Scatha on at her right hand and Cynan at the left, followed the body-and they all began to sing.

I was there with them in the grove. I saw the torchlight glowing on their faces and glinting in their tears; I heard their voices singing, softly at first, but more strongly as they released their grief and let it flow from them. They sang the Queen's Lament and it pierced my heart to hear it. Goewyn sang, too, head held high, eyes streaming with tears which threaded down her cheeks and throat.

I could feel the weight of sorrow bearing down her spirit, and I drew near to her. Goewyn, best beloved, you will live for ever in my soul, I whispered in her ear; truest of hearts, your grief will ease.

Tegid led the funeral procession once around the mound... and then a second circuit... and a third. At the completion of the third circuit, the people formed a long double line, holding their torches high. They formed the Aryant 01, the Radiant Way by which a king's body is conducted to its rest. And, in the time-between.times, I was carried to my tomb.

The Ravens, tall and grim, shouldered the bier and, with slow, measured steps, began moving towards the gravemound along the Radiant Way. Tegid, with Goewyn and Cynan behind him, lofted his torch and the three followed the Ravens up the Aryant 01 and into the cairn. They placed the bier on a low stone pallet in the

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center of the chamber and, one by one, made their farewells, each kneeling by the body and touching the back of the hand to his forehead in a final salute.

Finally, only Cynan, Goewyn, and Tegid were left. Cynan, tears clinging to his eyelashes, raised his hands to his throat and removed his gold torc. He placed the ornament on my chest and said, "Farewell, my brother. May you find all that you seek-and nothing you do not seek-in the place where you are going." With that, his voice cracked and he turned away, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Goewyn, eyes bright with tears in the flickering torchlight, stooped and kissed me on the forehead. "Farewell, best beloved," she said bravely, her voice quivery and low, "you go, and my heart goes with you."

Tegid handed his torch to Cynan and reached into the leather pouch at his belt. He withdrew a pinch of the Nawglan, the Sacred Nine, which he deposited in the palm of his left hand. Then, taking some of the Nawglan on the tip of his second finger, he drew a vertical line in the center of my forehead. Pressing his fingertip to the Nawglan again, he drew a second and then a third line, one on either side of the first-both inclining towards the center. He drew the gogyrven, the Three Rays of Truth, in the ash of the Sacred Nine on my cold forehead.

"Farewell, LIew Silver Hand. May it go well with you on your journey hence," the bard said. Then, quickly planting his torch at the head of the bier, he turned away to lead Goewyn and Cynan from the tomb.

The Ravens, waiting outside, began to close up the entrance with stones. I watched the cairn opening grow smaller, stone by stone, and I was on the inside, looking out. I saw the faces of those I had loved:

Scatha, Pen-y-Cat, regal, brave and beautiful; Bran Bresal, Chief Raven, dauntless lord of battle; the Raven Flight: Drustwn, Emyr Laidaw, Garanaw Long Arm, and Niall, stalwart companions, men to be trusted through all things; Lord Calbha, generous ally; Cynan, steadfast swordbrother and friend of the heart; Goewyn, fairest of

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the fair, wife and lover, forever part of me; and Tegid, wise Penderwydd, Chief Bard of Albion, truest friend-whose love reached out beyond death to smooth my passage.

I saw the people, my people, passing the stones hand to hand up the Aryant 01 to seal my tomb. And then I heard Tegid's voice, clear and strong, lifted in a song which I recognized as a saining song. Cradling his harp, his fingers playing over the sweet-sounding strings, he sang:

 

In the steep path of our common calling,

Be it easy or uneasy to our flesh,

Be it bright or dark for us to follow,

Be it stony or smooth beneath our feet,

Bestow, 0 Goodly-Wise, your perfect guidance

Upon our kingly friend,

Lest he fail, or into error stray.

In the shelter of this grove,

& to him his portion and his guide;

AirdRigh, by authority of the Twelve:

The Wind of gusts and gales,

The Thunder of stormy billows,

The Ray of bright sun! ight,

The Bear of seven battles,

The Eagle of the high rock,

The Boar of the forest,

The Salmon of the pool,

The Lake of the glen,

The Flowering of the heathe red hill,

The Craft of the artisan,

The Word of the poet,

The Fire of thought in the wise.

Who upholds the gorsedd, if not You?

Who counts the ages of the world, if not You?

Who commands the Wheel of Heaven, if not You?

Who quickens life in the womb, if not You?

Therefore, God of All Virtue and Power,

Sam him and shield him with your Swift Sure Hand,

Lead him in peace to his journey's end.

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SONG OF ALBION

The opening in the cairn was little more than a chink in the stone now. And then that small hole was filled and I was alone. Tegid's voice as he stood before the sealed gravemound was the last thing I heard. "To die in one world is to be born into another," he called to the people of Dinas Dwr. "Let all hear and remember."

The fire-flutter of the torch filled the tomb, but that faded gradually as the torch burned down. At last the flame died, leaving a red glow which lingered a little while before it went out. And darkness claimed me.

How long I stood in the rich, silent darkness, I do not know. But I heard a sound like the wind in bare branches, clicking, creaking, whispering. I turned and saw behind me, as if through a shadowed doorway, the dim outline of a white hiliscape, violet in a blue-grey dawn. Instinctively, I moved towards it, thinking only to get a better look.

The moment I stepped forward, I heard a rushing sound and it seemed as if I were striding rapidly down a long, narrow passage. And I felt a surge of air, an immense upswelling billow like an ocean of air flowing over me. In the same instant, the pale violet hillside before me faded and then vanished altogether.

Trusting my feet to the dark path before me, I stepped forward. The churning air swelled over and around me with an empty ocean's roar. Emptiness on every side, and below me the abyss, I stretched my foot along the swordbridge and stepped out onto that narrowest of spans. In the windroar I heard the restless echo of unknown powers shifting and colliding in the dark, endless depths. All was darkness-deepest, most profound darkness -and searing silence.

And then arose the most horrendous gale of wind, shrieking out of nowhere, striking me full force, head on. It felt as if my skin were being slowly peeled away, and my flesh shredded and pared to the bone. My head began to throb with pain and I found that I could not breathe. My empty lungs ached and my head pounded with a phantom heartbeat.

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Ignoring the pain, I lifted my foot and took another step. My foot struck the void and I fell. I threw my hands before me to break the blind fall; my palms struck a smooth, solid surface, and I landed on all fours in the snow outside the cairn in the thin grey dawn.

"Llew. . .?" It was Goewyn's voice.

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The Endless Knot

 

 

I raised my head and looked around to find her. The effort released something inside me and cold air gushed into my lungs. The air was raw and sharp; it burned like fire, but I could not stop inhaling it. I gulped it down greedily, as if the next breath would be my last. My eyes watered and my arms and legs began to tremble. My heart pounded in my chest, and my head vibrated with the rhythm. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed my heart to slow.

"Lew..      ." came the voice again, concerned, caring. I felt a light touch on my shoulder, and she was beside me.

"Goewyn?" I lifted my eyes and glimpsed a trailing wisp of reddish hair-not Goewyn, but her sister, the Banfáith of Albion. "Gwenllian!"

"Lew... Lewis?"

My eyes focused slowly and her face came into view. "Gwenllian, I . . ."

"It's Susannah, Lewis. Are you all right?"

From somewhere in my mind a dim memory surfaced.

"Susannah?"

"Here, let me help you." She put her arms around me and helped me stand. "You're freezing," she said. "What happened to your clothes?"

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I looked down to see myself naked, standing in about an inch of light, powdery snow. The wind sighed in the bare branches of trees, and I stood outside the narrow entrance to a hive-shaped cairn, reeling with confusion, despair breaking over me in waves, dragging me under, drowning me.

"Put this on," Susannah was saying, "or you'll catch your death." She draped her long coat across my shoulders. "I've got a car-it's on the road up the hill. We'll have to walk, I'm afraid. Nettles didn't tell me to bring any clothes, but I've got some blankets. Can you make it?"

I opened my mouth, but the words would not come. Very likely, there were no words for what I felt. So I simply nodded instead. Susannah, one arm around my shoulders, put my arm around her neck and began leading me away from the cairn. We walked through long grass up a snow-frosted hill to a gate, which was open. A small green automobile waited on the road, its windows steamed over.

Susannah led me to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. "Just stay there," she said. "Let me get a blanket." I stood staring at the world I had come to, trying to work out what had happened to me, grief powerful as pain aching in my hollow heart.

Spreading one blanket over the seat, she swathed another over me, taking back her coat as she did so. Then Susannah helped me into the car and shut the door. She slid into the driver's seat and started the car. The engine complained, but caught and started purring. Susannah put on the heater and defroster fan full blast. "It'll warm up in a minute," she said.

I nodded, and looked out through the foggy windshield. It took all the concentration I could muster, but I asked, "Where are we?" The words were clumsy and awkward in my mouth, my tongue a lump of wood.

"God knows," she replied above the whir of the fan. "In Scotland somewhere. Not far from Peebles."

The defroster soon cleared a patch of windshield which Susannah enlarged with the side of her hand. She shifted the car into gear and pulled out onto the road. "Don't worry," she said. "Just sit

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back and relax. If you're hungry, I've got sandwiches, and there's coffee in the flask. We're lucky it's a holiday and traffic will be light."

We drove through the day, stopping only a couple of times for fuel. I watched the countryside rush by the windows and said nothing. Susannah kept clearing her throat and glancing at me as if she was afraid I might suddenly disappear-but she held her tongue and did not press me. For that, I was profoundly grateful.

It was late when we reached Oxford, and I was exhausted from the drive. I sat in my blankets and stared numbly at the lights of the city from the ring road and felt utterly devastated. How could this have happened to me? What did it mean?

I did not know where I would go. But Susannah had it all worked out. She eased the car through virtually empty streets and stopped at last somewhere in the rabbit warren of Oxford city center. She helped me from the car and I saw that we stood outside a low door. A brass plaque next to the door read D. M. Campbell, Tutor. Susannah pulled a set of keys from her pocket, put a key in the lock and turned it.

The door swung open and she went before me, snapping on lights. I stepped into the room and recognized it. How many lifetimes had passed since I last stood in this room?

"Professor Nettleton told me to give these to you," Susannah said. She pressed the keys into my hands. "He isn't here-" she began, faltered, and added, "but I suppose you know that."

"Yes," I told her. Nettles, I suspected, would never return. But why had I come back? Why me? Why here?

"Anyway," she said, her keen dark eyes searching my face for the slightest flicker of interest, "there's food in the larder and milk in the fridge. I didn't know who or how many to stock up for, so there's a bit of everything. But if you need anything else, I've left my number by the phone, and-"

"Thanks," I said, cutting her off. "I'm sure it's..   ." Words escaped me. "It's fine."

She gazed at me intently, the questions burning on her tongue. But she turned towards the door instead. "Sure. Umm... well." She

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put her hand on the doorknob and pulled the door open. She hesitated, waiting for me to stop her. "I'll look in on you tomorrow."

"Please, you needn't bother," I said, my mouth resisting the familiar language.

"It's no bother," Susannah replied quickly. "Bye." She was out of the door and gone before I could discourage her further.

How long I stood, wrapped like a cigar-store Indian in my blanket, I could not say. I spent a long time just listening to the sounds of Oxford, a crashing din which the heavy wooden door and thick stone walls of the professor's house did little to shut out. I felt numb inside, empty, scooped hollow. I kept thinking Jam dead and this is hell.

At some point I must have collapsed in one of Nettles' overstuffed wing chairs, because I heard a scratch at the door and opened my eyes to see Susannah bustling into the room, her arms laden with parcels and bags. She was trying to be quiet, thinking me asleep in bed. But she saw me sitting in the chair as she turned to pile the packages on the table.

"Oh! Good morning," she said. Her smile was quick and cheerful. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and she rubbed her hands to warm them. "Tell me you didn't sleep in that chair all night."

"I guess I did," I replied slowly. It was difficult to think of the words, and my tongue still would not move properly.

"I've been up since dawn," she announced proudly. "I bought you some clothes."

"Susannah," I said, "you didn't have to do that. Really, I-"

"No trouble." She breezed past me on the way to the kitchen. "I'll get some breakfast started and then I'll show you what I bought. You can thank me later."

I sat in the chair without the strength of will to get up. Susannah reappeared a few moments later and began shifting parcels around the table. "Okay," she said, pulling a dark blue something out of a bag, "close your eyes."

I stared at her. Why was she doing this? Why didn't she just leave me alone? Couldn't she see I was in pain?

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"What's the matter, Lewis?" she asked.

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"I can't do this, Susannah!" I snapped. "Don't you understand?"

Of course she didn't understand. How could she? How could anyone ever understand even the smallest, most minute part of all I had experienced? I had been a king in Albion! I had fought battles and slain enemies, and had, in turn, been killed. Only, instead of going on to another world, I had been returned to the one I had left. Nothing had changed. It was as if nothing had happened at all. All I had done, all I had experienced meant nothing.

"I'm sorry," Susannah said, with genuine sympathy. "I was only trying to help." She bit her lip.

"It's not your fault," I told her. "It's nothing to do with you."

She came to me and knelt beside the chair. "I want to understand, Lewis. Honestly. I know it must be difficult."

When I did not answer, she said, "Nettles told me a lot about what was happening. I didn't believe him at first. I'm still not sure I believe it. But he told me to look for some things-Signs of the Times, he called them-and if I saw them, I was to go to that place-he even gave me a map-and wait there for someone to show up." She paused, thoughtfully. "I didn't know it would be you."

The silence grew between us. She was waiting for me to say something. "Listen," I said at last, "I appreciate what you've done. But I need. . ." I was almost sweating with the effort, "I just need some time to work things out"

She gave me a wounded look and stood up. "I can understand that. But I want to help." She paused, and looked away. When she looked back, it was with a somewhat forlorn smile. She was trying. "I'll leave you alone now. But call me later, okay? Promise?"

I nodded, sinking back into the all-enfolding chair, back into my grief and pain. She left.

But she was back early the next morning. Susannah took one look at me and one look at the room and, like a rocket blasting off, she lit up. "Get up, Lewis. You're coming with me."

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I had no will of my own any more, and hers seemed powerful enough for any two people, so I obeyed. She rummaged through the untouched packages on the table. "Here," she said, thrusting a pair of boxer shorts into my hand. "Put these on, for starters."

I stood, the blanket still hanging from my shoulders like a cloak. "What are you doing?"

"You've got to get out of here," Susannah replied tartly. "It's Sunday. I'm taking you to church."

"I don't want to go."

She shrugged and shook out a new shirt, cocking her head to one side as she held it up to me. "Put this on," she ordered.

She dressed me with ruthless efficiency: trousers, socks, shoes, and belt-and then professed herself pleased with the result. "You could shave," she said, frowning. "But we'll let that go for now. Ready?"

"I'm not going with you, Susannah."

She smiled with sweet insincerity and took my arm in hers. Her hands were warm. "But you are! I'm not leaving you here to languish all day like a dying vulture. After church I'll let you take me out to lunch."

"I know what you're trying to do, Susannah. But I don't want to go."

 

The church was absolutely packed. In all the time I'd lived in Oxford, I'd never seen so many people at a church service. There were a thousand at least. People were crammed into pews, and lined up in the wide windowsills all around the sanctuary. Extra chairs were crowded into the back in every available space. The kneeling-benches had been pulled out and placed in the aisle to accommodate the overflow. When that did not suffice, they opened the doors so the people standing outside could hear.

"What's going on?" I asked, bewildered by the noise and hubbub. "What's all this?"

"Just church," Susannah said, puzzled by my question.

The service went by me in a fog. I could not concentrate for more

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than a second or two at a time. My mind-my heart, my soul, my life! -was in Albion, and I was dead to that world. I was cut off and could never go back.

Susannah nudged me. I looked around. Everyone was kneeling, and the minister-or priest, or whatever-was holding a loaf of bread and saying, "...This is my body, broken for you.. ."

I heard the words-I'd heard them before, many times; I'd grown up hearing them, and had never given them a thought beyond the church sanctuary.

This is my body, bro ken for you    . . -

Ancient words, words from beyond the creation of the world. Words to explain all that had happened to me. Like a star exploding in the frigid void of space, understanding detonated in my brain. I knew, knew, what it meant!

1 felt weak and dizzy; my head swam. I was seized and taken up by a rapture of joy so strong I feared I might faint. I looked at the faces of those around me: eager in genuine devotion. Yes! Yes! They were not the same; they had changed. Of course they had. How could they not change?

Albion had been transformed-and this world was no longer the same, either. Though not as obviously manifest, the great change had already taken place. And I would find it hidden in a million places:

subtle as yeast, working away quietly, unseen and unknown, yet gently, powerfully, altering everything radically. I knew, as I knew the meaning of the Eucharistic words of Holy Kingship, that the rebirth of Albion and the renewal of this world were one. The Hero Feat had been performed.

The rest of the service passed in a blur. My mind raced ahead; I could not wait to get outside and bolted from the church as soon as the benediction was pronounced. Susannah caught me by the arm and spun me around. "You worm! You could at least have pretended to pay attention."

"Sorry, it's just that I

"I've never been so embarrassed in all my life. Really, Lewis, you-',

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"Susannah!"

That stopped her. I took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me squarely. "Listen, Susannah. I have to talk to you. Now. It's important." Having begun, the words came rolling out of my mouth in a giddy rush. "I didn't understand before. But I do now. It's incredible! I know what happened. I know what it's all about. It's-"

"What what is all about?" she asked, clutching my arm and eyeing me carefully.

"I was a king in Albion!" I shouted. "Do you know what that means, Susannah? Do you have any idea?"

A few nearby heads swivelled in our direction. Susannah regarded me with faint alarm, biting her lower lip.

"Look," I said, trying a different approach, "would you mind if we didn't go out? We could go back to Nettles' place and talk. I have to tell somebody. Would you mind?"

Overcome with relief, she smiled and looped her arm through mine. "I'd love to. I'll fix lunch for us there, and you can tell me everything."

We talked all the way home, and all during lunch. I put food in my mouth, but I did not taste a single bite. I burned with the certainty of the truth I had glimpsed. I had swallowed the sun and now it was leaking out through every pore and follicle. I talked like a crazy man, filling hour after hour with words and words and more words, yet never coming near to describing the merest fragment of what I had experienced.

Susannah listened to it all, and after lunch even suggested that we walk by the river so that she could stay awake and hear some more. We walked until the sun began to sink into a crisp spring twilight. The sky glowed a bright burnished blue, red-gold clouds drifted over emerald hills and fields of glowing green. Couples and families ambled peacefully along the path, and swans plied the river like feathered galleons. Everywhere I looked, I saw tranquility made visible--a true Sabbath rest.

"You were right," she said when I at last ran out of breath. "It is incredible." There was more, much more to say, but my jaw ached

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and my throat was dry. "Simply incredible." She snuggled close and put her head on my shoulder as we turned our steps towards home.

"Yes, it is. But you're the only one who will ever know."

She stopped and turned to me. "But you've got to tell people, Lewis. It's important." I opened my mouth to object and she saw it coming. "I mean it, Lewis," she insisted. "You can't keep something like this to yourself. You must let people know-it's your duty."

Just thinking of the newspapers made me cringe. Reporters thrusting microphones and clicking cameras in my face, television, radio-an endless progression of sceptics, cranks, and hectoring unbelievers.. . Never.

"Who would believe me?" I asked hopelessly. "If I told this to anyone else, it would be a one-way ticket to the loony bin for yours truly."

Maybe," she allowed, "but you wouldn't actually have to tell them."

"No?"

"You could write it down. You know your way around a keyboard," Susannah pointed out, warming to her own idea. "You could live in Nettles' flat and I could help: We could do it together." Her eyebrows arched in challenge and her lips curled with mischief. "C'mon, what do you say?"

Which is how I came to be sitting at Nettles' desk in front of a testy old typewriter with a ream of fresh white paper, with Susannah clattering around in the kitchen making tea and sandwiches. I slipped a sheet of paper under the bail, and stretched my fingers over the keys.

Nothing came. Where does one begin to tell such a tale?

Glancing across the desktop, my eye caught a corner of a scrap of paper with a bit of colored ink on it. I picked up the scrap. It was a Celtic knotwork pattern-the one Professor Nettleton had shown me. I stared at the dizzy, eye-bending design: two lines interwoven, all elements balanced, spinning for ever in perfect harmony. The Endless Knot.

Instantly, the words began to flow and I began to type:

It all began with the aurochs...

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