The Silver Hand (27 page)

The Ravens lashed their horses to speed. They charged headlong toward the invaders. Flying as one, and Llew with them, they swooped over the fresh-plowed ground, dirt thrown high from the horses' hooves. The swiftness of their charge stole the breath away. Like a well-thrown spear they flew, straight and true.

The onrushing enemy gathered itself, like a muscle contracting, bracing for the impact. Spears pricked sharp, gleaming deadly and cruel.

I halted, waiting for the clash.

At the last instant, Bran swerved the Ravens aside: away from those who now braced to receive them, and toward a new target. The advancing enemy saw the Ravens suddenly swing onto a new course and knew that death had caught them, for there was no time to prepare to meet the charge.

There came a keening scream, like that of an eagle diving to the kill. I wondered at the uncanny sound: sharp as a honed blade, piercing the ear and the heart. It was Bran and his warriors, their voices lifted in the terrible war cry of the Ravens.

The advancing line faltered. The invaders scattered. Horses stumbled, throwing their hapless riders. Footmen threw themselves to the ground to escape the onrushing hooves.

The center of the enemy line melted away before the Flight of Ravens. Cynan, who had begun his charge, saw the breech and aimed for it. Men who had barely escaped the Ravens now beheld another terror speeding towards them.

The footmen turned and ran back across the stream. The mounted warriors determined to stand their ground. They wheeled their horses and leveled their spears. They met. The ground seemed to tremble. I heard a crack like a tree trunk splitting.

The enemy disappeared. The force of Cynan's charge swept them away.

“Hoo! Hoo!” Rhoedd cried, lofting his spear. “That has done it!”

The Raven's charge had been a knife slash, Cynan's spear thrust completing the severing cut. With the center of their line gutted, the enemy battle chief sounded the retreat. They must regroup if they hoped to unite the two halves of the line.

But Bran had no intentions of allowing them to reform the line. For even as the battle horn bellowed out its signal, he was circling behind the enemy. Thus they turned to find themselves facing the swift-striking Ravens once more.

Those who stood against them were cut down. Those who ran fell beneath the hooves. The enemy advance halted as the line collapsed, its center shattered. Foemen fled across the stream, running for the shelter of the forest. The enemy battle chief strove to turn the rout. I saw him ordering his war band, vainly trying to gather them as the Ravens prepared for another strike.

The carynx sounded once and again. But it was Cynan who answered the call. The flame-haired firebrand leveled his spear, and the Galanae warriors surged forward like a storm, cloaks flying, shields flashing.

I saw a lone figure ride out from the shelter of the wood on a piebald horse. My heart thudded in my chest like a clenched fist.

A groan escaped my lips. I staggered and clutched my staff to keep from falling. Rhoedd grasped my arm to steady me. “What is it? Are you ill?”

“Stop it!”

“What?”

I seized Rhoedd by the arm. “We must stop it!”

“Stop it—the battle?” he wondered, as I began running toward the stream. “Wait!”

I stumbled as I reached the plowed ground; I could not run fast enough. I shouted as I ran. “Hold! Hold! Llew! Hold!”

Perhaps the sight of a blind bard dashing madly across the field, floundering across the furrows, caught someone's notice. I do not know. But I heard a shout and Llew turned in the saddle; he did not see me, but his eyes scanned the meadow.

“Llew!” I cried.

He saw me running toward him, called something over his shoulder to Bran. I drew a deep breath and shouted with all my might: “Calbha!”

I think he heard me, for he halted and made to turn aside. “It is Calbha!” I shouted, pointing at the lone rider with my staff. “Calbha!” I began running again.

“What is it?” Rhoedd called after me.

“A mistake!” I cried, and together we raced for the stream.

A few swift steps carried us across the water. As we clambered onto dry land on the other side, I heard the long, shimmering blast of Emyr's carynx. Another blast halted the Ravens, who remained poised for attack.

Llew galloped to meet me. “Tegid!” he shouted. “Are you certain?”

“It is Calbha!” I told him, pointing at the approaching rider with my staff. “His horse! Look at his horse! You have attacked a friend!”

He swiveled in the saddle and looked where I pointed.
“Clanna na cù!”
he cried. “What is he doing here?”

“Stop, Cynan!”

Llew jerked the reins so hard his horse reared and nearly fell backward as it wheeled. Llew slapped the beast across the withers and sped to head off Cynan's charge. Bran rode to meet him as he passed. Llew paused in his flight long enough to shout a word to the battle chief and then urged his mount to speed again. Bran shouted to Emyrm who began blowing the battle horn for all he was worth.

I looked to where Cynan's war band was charging after the fleeing enemy. I glimpsed a flash of red hair and my inner vision dissolved into darkness. I was abruptly blind once more, “Rhoedd!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

“Here, lord,” came the reply close behind me.

“Rhoedd, I cannot see! Look and tell me what is happening.”

“But, I thought—”

“Tell me, man! What is happening?” He hesitated. “Is Cynan still advancing?”

“Yes, lord, still advancing. No—wait! They are stopping!”

“Describe it, Rhoedd. Tell me everything as you did before.”

“Cynan has raised himself in the saddle; he turns this way and that. He is shouting something; I see his mouth move. He seems to be ordering the war band. They are listening to him . . . and now . . . Lord Cynan is moving forward alone. He is riding to meet Llew, I think—yes.”

“What of the enemy rider? The one on the piebald stallion—what is he doing?”

“He has stopped. He sits his horse, waiting.”

“What does he look like? Can you see?”

“No, lord, he is too far away.”

“What else?”

“Now Llew and Cynan are coming together. Llew is making a sign of peace with his hand—he is signaling to his war band. The Galanae are halting, and Cynan is riding to meet Llew.”

“What of Bran?”

“The Ravens are turning aside,” Rhoedd answered after a moment. “They are riding to the fallen on the battleground.” He turned back to Llew and Cynan. “The lords have reached the place where the stranger waits.”

“Take me to them,” I commanded, clutching his sleeve. “Hurry!”

Rhoedd strode ahead, and I held tight to his siarc. “They are riding to meet the stranger. Cynan carries his spear upright. The stranger waits for them.”

The ground sloped upward, climbing to the ridge. Rhoedd paused. “An enemy warrior, fallen.” He stopped to the body. “He is dead, lord.”

We hurried on. I urged my guide to continue his description. “They are met. It seems that they are speaking to one another . . .”

“Yes? . . . Rhoedd?” He stopped in his tracks. “What is happening? Tell me—”

“I do not believe it, lord bard,” he replied, his voice sharp with disbelief.

“Speak, man! What has happened?”

“The two of them—they are . . . they—” he spluttered.

“Yes? Yes?”

“They extended their arms—they are embracing!”

Relief unclenched my heart. “Come, Rhoedd. Hurry.”

Llew and the stranger had dismounted and were talking together when we reached the place. “Here, Tegid,” Llew called, guiding me to him. I stepped toward the sound of his voice and felt his stump brush my arm at the elbow.

“Hail, Calbha,” I said. “If we had but known it was you, we would have spared you a fight—and the lives of good men.”

“Your words are bitter to me, Tegid Tathal—not the less because they are true. I own the blame; the blood debt is mine alone.” His remorse was genuine; he stood before us a stricken man. “I am sorry. Although I am a king without a realm or riches, on my honor, I will make redress by whatever means you deem acceptable.”

“Calbha,” Llew said, “do not speak of redress. We have suffered no lasting hurt today.”

Cynan spoke up. “We lost not a single man—none injured, even.”

“Look to the solace of your people,” Llew told him. “You have borne the loss, and we are sorry for our part in it.”

“Lord Calbha,” I said, “you are a very long way from home.”

“I have no home,” he muttered darkly. “I have no lands, no realm, no kingdom. My lands are stolen; my realm is forfeit, my people driven out.” He paused, his voice cracking like a riven oak. “My queen . . . my wife is dead.”

“Meldron attacked him,” Llew explained, although I had already guessed what must have happened.

“Yes, Meldron attacked me—as he has attacked everyone else in Llogres,” the Cruin king explained. “We held out as long as we could, but his forces are better armed and their numbers greater. Many have joined him. Those he has not put to the sword have alliances forced upon them. We resisted for a time, but it was useless.”

“How did you know to come here?” I asked.

“We heard there was safe haven in the north, in Caledon.”

“Then why did you come with the sword, man?” Cynan bawled in exasperation.
“Mo anam!”

Calbha's answer was a groan. “Ahh . . . I was afraid . . . I acted rashly.”

“Stupidly!” Rhoedd whispered. He had taken his place beside me.

Bran joined us then, and Llew acknowledged him. “Eight dead,” the battle chief reported. “Six wounded—they are receiving aid now.”

“The blood debt is mine alone,” Calbha muttered. “I am ashamed.”

“How many are with you?” Llew asked.

“Three hundred—not counting children.”

“Three hundred!” Rhoedd repeated, astonished.

“Are they with you now?” asked Llew.

“Yes,” Calbha answered. “They are waiting in the forest.”

“Gather them and bring them to the lake. We will receive them there.”

“What are we going to do with so many?” Rhoedd wondered aloud. “Three hundred—”

“Not Cruin only,” Calbha hastened to add. “We met others on the way: Addani and Mereridi. They were without a lord and had no protection. There are also Mawrthoni, Catrini, and Neifioni wandering in the hills . . . we have seen them.” He fell silent as the enormity of the calamity engulfed him. “All of Llogres is in upheaval—no man's hearth remains secure.”

The Banfáith's prophecy came to mind:
Llogres shall be without a lord
, I mused to myself.

“Mark me well.” Calbha spoke in somber tone. “When Meldron has finished with Llogres, he will turn to Caledon. There is no end to his battle lust. He means to rule all Albion.”

So saying, the Cruin king remounted his horse and returned to the forest to summon his people. And the invasion of Dinas Dwr began.

20
G
REAT
H
OUND OF
H
AVOC

C
albha disappeared into the forest, and we returned to the lake to await the people's arrival. Soon they were streaming from among the trees. They came by scores; tribes and clans and families, survivors of Meldron's wanton depredations. Weary, travel-worn, exhausted, they came, dragging themselves miserably from hiding. But the setting sun lit their haggard faces and filled their eyes with light.

“Rhoedd is right,” Bran remarked, watching the streams of refugees mingle to become a flood. “There are too many. How will we feed them?”

“The forest is full of game,” Llew observed, “and the lake is full of fish. We will survive.”

Cynan was not so certain. “They cannot stay here,” he complained. “No—let me speak. I have been thinking, and it is clear that we do not have the means to support them.”

“I have already told Calbha that he can stay.” Llew replied.

“Clanna na cù,”
grumbled Cynan. “A day—two at most. Then they must move on. I do not like to say this, brother, but I will, because someone must: laudable your generosity may be, but it is also foolhardy.”

“Finished?”

“Man, I am telling you, if they stay we will starve. It is as simple as that.”

“And
if
we starve,” Llew said firmly, “we will all starve together. Yes?”

Cynan drew breath to speak. I could not see him, but I imagined him shaking his head, or running his big hands through his wild red hair in irritation.

“It will be well, brother,” Llew told him. I heard the light clap of a hand on a shoulder. “This is why we have established this place. Three hundred! Think of all the work we can do with so many pairs of hands. Why, Dinas Dwr will rise overnight!”

“If it does not sink under its own weight first,” Cynan muttered.

Later, when we had settled the newcomers for the night—they were ranged in a score of camps along the lakeshore—we sat with a grimly silent Calbha and his bleak battle chiefs around the hearth on the crannog. We had retreated there to confer in peace without fear of being overheard. We ate bread and meat and passed the cups from hand to hand while we waited for Calbha to tell us the thing we most wanted to hear—that which pierced him to the marrow to say.

The cup worked its quiet way, and at last Calbha's tongue was loosened. He began to speak more easily, and we to edge him closer to the matter at hand.

“Meldron has slaughtered the bards of Caledon and Llogres,” I said. “In this he has surpassed even Lord Nudd, who slew only those of Prydain.”

“He meant to kill us as well,” Llew added. “As it is, I lost a hand to him, and Tegid lost his eyes.”

“Meldron is mad,” groaned Calbha. “He seizes the land and steals the cattle; what he cannot carry off, he burns. He cuts a wide swathe of destruction, leaving only ashes in his wake. I have seen the heads of warriors piled high as my chin, and hands heaped high as my belt. I have seen children with their tongues cut out . . .” He grew angry and demanded: “What was their offense that they should be treated so?”