The Silver Hand (26 page)

By the time we reached the forest clearing where the workers had been cutting timber for the crannogs, Alun had managed a fair beginning. He had one large pine tree leaning and about to fall. The onlookers stood in the clearing, shouting their approval at each stroke.

Cynan chose a likely tree, spat on his hands, took up the ax, and with easy, rhythmic stokes began to chop. His followers called encouragement, and the clearing soon rang with the chunk and thunk of axes on tall timber and the sound of cheering voices.

Alun was first to fell his tree—much to the great delight of the onlookers, who raised a clamor of triumph. He wasted not a moment, but leapt to the task of trimming the upper branches of the pine. As soon as he had the largest limbs cleaned away, he cut off the top of the tree and attached one end of a chain to the log and the other end to the iron ring of the yoke.

Then, with a cluck of his tongue, he urged the oxen forward a few steps. The log rolled over, and Alun quickly halted his team; he returned to the tree and finished trimming away the rest of the branches. Hastening to the head of his team, he began dragging the log from the clearing to the acclaim of his supporters.

“Worry not, Cynan,” he called as he passed. “ I will leave you some trees to cut—the small ones.”

“Take no thought for me, Alun Tringad,” Cynan replied through clenched teeth. He swung the ax hard and the blade bit deep. Already there was a goodly pile of woodchips at his feet. “It is Cynan himself that will be awaiting you with a cup in his hand when you finish.”

“Would you care to wager whose hand holds that cup, brother?” Alun paused to inquire.

Cynan swung the ax hard. Another thick chip flew from the cut. “People will call me thief for taking your treasure,” he replied.

“Let them call you what they like.” Alun said. “Two gold armbands for your silver torc—hey?”

Some of those standing near who knew Cynan murmured to one another. Cynan's blue eyes darkened and his smile froze. “Your gold is not worth a tenth of my torc,” he told Alun flatly.

“Three gold armbands then.”

“Seven.” Cynan countered, moustache twitching.

“Four.”

“Five at least,” demanded Cynan. “And two rings!”

“Done!” Alun cried and then turned to his team. “Tch! Tch!” he clucked. The oxen lurched forward, dragging the log with them.

Cynan returned to his work, and if he had labored with determination, now he toiled with a vengeance—as well he would. His face flared and seemed to set his red hair alight; he bristled head to toe.

“I fear Alun has sealed his fate,” observed Llew at this exchange. “Cynan might have allowed Alun to better him, but he will never let that torc go.”

To the sound of Cynan's ringing ax, Llew told me how he and Cynan had become friends at Scatha's school for warriors. “It only happened at all because of that torc,” Llew said. “He valued it higher than his life then, and but little lower now, I think.” He chuckled at the memory. “He was unbearable! Haughty, pompous . . . I tell you the truth, Tegid, the sun never set on his vanity.”

There came a loud crack and a long, low groan as the tree tilted and then crashed to the ground. Cynan was on it instantly, chopping away the limbs and branches. As his supporters shouted encouragement, he hitched the oxen to the trunk, rolled it, and finished cleaning the log, cutting off the treetop even as the oxen began dragging it away.

Alun returned to the clearing while Cynan was away and began chopping at another tree. But very soon the sound of Alun's ax was joined by that of Cynan, who had returned to the clearing on the run. Alun did not know the tempest he had loosed, but he was soon to learn. For the next tree to fall was Cynan's; he had cleaned the bole and topped it before Alun had felled his.

Those supporting Cynan raised a happy shout as the log was dragged away. Alun's supporters began exhorting their champion to speed, and the rhythm of Alun's ax quickened accordingly. The tree groaned under his blade and then fell. Soon he had cleaned and topped it, and the oxen were slowly dragging the log away.

The contest settled into an earnest pattern. First one and then the other felled, cleaned, topped, and dragged a log from the clearing down to the lakeside—stopping only to swallow a few mouthfuls of water before hurrying on. The sun rose higher, spilling light over the treetops and into the clearing. The two rivals, dripping sweat from their exertion, stripped off their siarcs and hewed at the trees, standing to their work like the stalwart warriors they were. Cynan's torc flashed at his throat; the blue raven on Alun's arm appeared to soar as the muscles flexed beneath the flesh.

Wagers were doubled and then tripled—first one way and then the other, as first one challenger and then the other appeared to take the lead. Even the Eothaeli were drawn into the wagering this time, joining in the revel. Llew left my side to join the noisy onlookers, and I withdrew a little apart to sit on a pile of woodchips. I stretched my feet before me and leaned my back against a stump.

The forest clearing rang to the cheers of the crowd. Cheers became chants, as the people thrilled to the efforts of their chosen champions. The shouts of the people filled my ears, growing loud inside my head like the cries of a conquering war band. And in my mind's eye I saw Dinas Dwr, solid and strong, floating on the shining surface of the lake. I saw rich fields spreading across the valley, and wide hunting runs in the forests on the surrounding slopes of Druim Vran. I saw a courageous people rising up to claim a place among the great and powerful of this worlds-realm.

I roused myself from these musings to find myself alone. Sunlight no longer warmed the skin—the clearing was in shadow. I could hear, in the near distance, the voices of the people streaming down the hillside, following Alun and Cynan as they drove their ox teams to the lakeshore where the logs they had cut were stacked. I made to rise and felt someone grip my arm and pull me to my feet.

“I thought you had gone,” Llew said. “Have you been asleep?”

“No,” I replied. “But I have been dreaming.”

“Well, come. The sun will set soon, and the winner will be declared. We do not want to miss that.”

We hastened along the path to the lakeshore where everyone had gathered to await the decision. Bran Bresal had taken it upon himself to address the crowd. “The trial undertaken this day was threefold: plowing, cutting wood, and hauling timber. From sunrise to sunset the trial was performed—” He paused as we came nearer to join the eager onlookers and made to step aside for Llew.

“Please continue,” Llew told him amiably. “You have made a good beginning.”

But Bran would not, saying, “Lord, it is for you to judge between them. That is the agreement.”

“Very well.” Llew took his place, climbing up on the stack of logs. “The sun is going down; the work is ended,” he said, his voice lifted in the dusk. “Two fields were plowed with an equal number of furrows each. Therefore, I judge the plowing to have been equal and even.”

“Even!” Cynan shouted. “My field was all roots and rocks!” he cried in protest. “It was much the more difficult. The decision should go to me!”

“I began last, but finished first,” countered Alun Tringad. “My field was just as difficult as his. The decision should go to me!”

The two men's supporters also raised their voices in protest. But Llew held firm. “The trial entails the amount of labor performed— not its difficulty. The number of furrows is equal between them, therefore the labor was equal. We must look elsewhere for a way to settle the matter.”

“Count the logs!” someone shouted. Immediately, the crowd took up the call: “The logs! The logs! The logs!”

Gradually, the call subsided. “Very well,” Llew said, “the logs will decide the issue. Bran, you will count them.”

Bran stepped to Cynan's log stack first and began to count, touching each log with his hand as he called out the number: “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .” The throng, silent, watched with bated breath as the total was tallied. “Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . Twelve! Cynan Machae has felled and stacked twelve trees!”

Instantly, Cynan's supporters gave out a great roar of approval. Cynan shouted something to Alun, but the words were lost amidst the noise. Llew, still standing on the stack of logs, motioned for silence. When the crowd grew still once more, he said, “Twelve logs for Cynan. Now we will count the timber in Alun's stack.”

Bran moved to the second heap of logs. “One . . . two . . .” he began.

But how many logs Alun felled was not discovered, for even as Bran stooped to the counting, there came the dreadful sound of the carynx—a long, loud blast of the battle horn, falling from the ridgetop like the bellow of a mad bull, resounding across the lake and blaring through the glen.

19
I
NVASION

W
e turned as one to the ridgeway. The battle horn sounded again, coursing through the hushed valley like a shiver of fear. At once my inward sight kindled to the image of a fiery sky, red and gold with the setting sun, and a battle host emerging from the forest—some afoot and some on horseback: a hundred strong with weapons drawn. I saw their shields glint in the dying light. I saw their leader riding at the head of his warriors, surrounded by a mounted bodyguard.

Llew commanded the warriors to their weapons, and everyone else to flee to the crannogs. Although there were yet no timber walls, the people would be safer on the islands than in the houses on the shore. The Ravens flew to arm themselves from the huts, and everyone else surged towards the lake. Cynan ordered his warriors to bring horses, and three heartbeats later all was confusion as warriors rushed here and there, gathering spears and swords and throwing halters on horses. Men ran to launch the boats and women scurried, clutching babies; children bawled, and boats slid into the water.

“We will meet them on the meadow!” Cynan called, leaping into the saddle.

“Where the stream crosses the glen,” Llew answered. “That will give people the time to reach the stronghold.”

Garanaw brought a sword to Llew and began strapping it to his hip. Llew sent him on his way. “Twenty against a hundred,” Llew said as I joined him. “What do you think of our chances, Tegid?”

“I think it would be wise to wait and see who these men are and why they have come here,” I replied.

He stopped jerking at the leather strap. “What have you seen?”

“Only what you have seen: warriors riding into our settlement. But they announce their coming with the carynx,” I pointed out. “A strange thing to do when surprise would assure an easy defeat.”

Llew returned to worrying the strap with his good hand. “It is meant to frighten us. They would rather we surrender without a fight.”

“Perhaps they mean to warn us instead.”

Cynan returned for a final word. “It is a challenge; not a warning,” he advised. “Take the battle to them, I say, before they have a chance to surround us.”

“Fight or talk, it is for you to decide.”

Llew hesitated, weighing the consequences of his decision. Cynan shifted uneasily. “We must take the fight to them,” he insisted. “We are sorely outnumbered. We cannot allow them to surround us.”

“Well? What will you do?” I asked.

“Cynan is right. They come with swords drawn. We must meet them.”

“Yes!” replied Cynan. He jerked the reins hard. “Hie!” He kicked his heels against his mount's flanks. The horse galloped away.

Rhoedd came running, leading a roan stallion. He gave the reins into Llew's hand, cupped his hands for Llew's foot, and boosted him into the saddle; next he held up a shield which Llew took upon his stumped arm; lastly he gave Llew a stout-hafted spear.

Bran Bresal, astride a spirited yellow mare, approached. “Will you ride with us, Lord Llew?”

“I will.”

The battle horn sounded its bull roar across the meadow. The horses stamped, tossing their heads and jigging sideways on the strand.

“Uphold us, Tegid,” Llew said.

I raised my staff to him. “May your blade be swift and light. May your spear fly true.”

Bran wheeled his horse; Llew urged his mount on and the two galloped away. I walked the shore to the place where the last people waited for the boats to return and take them to safety.

I heard rapid footsteps on the rocky strand and turned as Rhoedd, spear in hand, joined me. “I am to remain with you,” he muttered, betraying his disappointment at having to stay behind and look after a blind bard.

“Fret not, Rhoedd,” I said, seeking to soothe. “We will stay here where we can see what is happening.”

He regarded me strangely. But I did not care to explain to him about my inner sight. The boats returned for the last of the passengers then, and one of the men called to us to hurry.

“Tell them to go on. We are staying.”

Rhoedd waved them away, telling them that we would remain on the shore. Then he rejoined me, saying, “What will you do, lord?”

“Follow me.” Taking my staff, I turned my back to the lake and began walking toward the meadow. Rhoedd walked at my right hand, casting furtive sidelong glances at me as he tried to discover how it was that I could see.

Llew, Bran, and the Ravens advanced toward Druim Vran across the meadow. Cynan and the Galanae war band advanced a little south of the Raven Flight. The invaders made for the stream. They advanced slowly, mounted warriors at the fore, weapons at the ready. The last of them had cleared the forest.

“I make it two fifties and ten,” I said.

Rhoedd made a rapid estimation. “Yes,” he replied, glancing at me again.

The yellow glint of sunlight on metal flashed in my mind's eye, and the carynx sounded once more: loud as thunder, raw as a wound.

The foemen rushed forward with a shout. The horses drove across the stream and into the meadow, their hooves pounding the earth like a hollow drum.