The Silver Hand (28 page)

There was no answer to be made, and we offered none, but sipped our beer and listened to the soft flutter of the flames before us. “Tell us what happened,” Llew said gently.

Calbha took a last swallow from the cup, wiped his moustache on the sleeve of his siarc, and began. “They came at us without warning. I had men riding the circuit of the land, but they were killed, I think; none of them ever returned. I had posted sentries. On the day you left, I established a perpetual watch, or they would have overwhelmed us. As it is, I wish I had listened to you—if we had ridden against Meldron, as you suggested, we might have put an end to him before he grew so strong.”

“How many warriors rode in his war band?” asked Bran.

“There were two hundred on horses and three hundred on foot.” Calbha paused and, in a voice spiked with rancor, added, “Most of the horsemen were Rhewtani. They and their lord rode under Meldron's command. I am sorry, but you asked.”

“Where injustice is great,” Bran replied, “all men must shoulder a portion of dishonor. I know well the burden I bear.”

One of Calbha's lords said, “But do you know what it is to see your son battered to death beneath the hooves of charging Rhewtani warriors?” The man's voice was a wound, ragged and bloody.

“I am sorry,” Bran Bresal said gently.

“We are all sorry,” Calbha grumbled. He drank again and then continued.

“We defended the gate and walls through the day—I was not fool enough to meet them on the battleground. They had the strength of numbers, and I knew we had no hope against them on the field. But I thought we might hold them off. Our losses were light, we were well supplied, and they could not breach the walls no matter how many horses they had.

“We resisted this way for three days, and could have held out far longer. But Meldron attacked some of the smaller holdings and made the people prisoners. He brought these hostages to Blár Cadlys and began killing them before the gates. Even so, he was not content to murder them outright.”

His voice became a croak. “He caused iron axle rods to be heated to glowing heat in a great fire. He took the fiery rods and extinguished them in the flesh of the captives. Some he pierced through the throat; some through the belly. The screams . . . the screams . . . Do you know what it is to die this way? Have you any idea what it sounds like?”

“What did you do then?” Llew asked gently.

“What could I do?” the Cruin king asked. “I could not allow my people to suffer so. I ordered the attack. We might all be killed—I knew and rued it well—but would go down fighting.”

Cynan commended the decision. “Better to die with honor like men, rather than allow yourselves to be slaughtered like beasts.”

“No beast was ever slaughtered so shamefully,” Calbha declared. “And do not think he was content to torture men alone. Women and children suffered too.”

“What did you do?” Llew asked.

“We attacked,” spat one of Calbha's battle chiefs.
Mór Cù
cut us down like saplings.”

“Môr Cù?” Llew mused. “Why do you call him Great Hound?”

“This Meldron is like a mad dog,” the man replied, “running over the land, devouring all in his path—a great hound of havoc.”

“Our losses were heavy,” Calbha told us. “We could not stand against them—there were too many, and they meant to destroy us.”

“How did you escape?”

“Dusk came upon us; it grew too dark to fight. That was a mercy. So I gathered all who could walk or ride and, under cover of darkness, we fled.” Calbha paused; he was straining to keep his voice steady. “The Great Hound would not even allow us the dishonor of our escape. He pursued us through the night, hunting us by torchlight. They rode us down like animals and killed any who fell: the fortunate ones they stabbed with spears; the unfortunate were torn apart by dogs.”

Calbha's voice had shrunk to a dry whisper. “My wife, my best beloved . . . she was not one of the fortunate.”

The wind stirred on the lake. I heard the wavelets lapping at the timbers of the crannog. My heart was heavy with grief for Calbha's woe; it felt like a stone in my chest.

It was long before the Cruin king spoke again. “I do not know how anyone endured the night,” he said, recovering some of his composure. “But by daybreak we straggled together and found that the Great Hound no longer pursued us. If he had not broken off pursuit, none of us would have survived.” He swallowed hard.

“You came north,” Llew said, to keep him talking.

“We came north. There was no safe place in Llogres anymore. But I thought if we could lose ourselves in the empty hills of Caledon, we might escape. We traveled by night to avoid Meldron's scouts; we did this for many nights until we were well into Caledon. And by then we had found others—clans and tribes who had either escaped or had taken to the hills and glens rather than wait to be attacked and driven out.”

When Calbha paused again, Llew asked, “How did you know to come here?”

“The Catrini and some of the others had heard of a place in the north of Caledon where we might find refuge. We planned to search for it.”

“Man, then why did you attack us?” Cynan demanded. There was some resentment in the question, but more curiosity. “If it was refuge you sought, you have a strange way of seeking it.”

Calbha's battle chiefs growled their disapproval of the question, considering it an affront to their king's dignity and respect. But Calbha silenced them with a word. “It was my mistake, and I rue it,” he said. “I have dishonored myself and my people. Long will I bear the shame.” He straightened; his voice became grave. “I claim
naud
of you.”

The claim of naud was the most serious appeal for pardon and absolution that could be made, and only a king could grant it. Llew answered him with appropriate delicacy. “I hear your claim and would freely grant it, but I am not a king that you should seek naud of me. It was a mistake, brother. No one here condemns you.”

“Men of my clan—my kinsmen!—lie cold beneath the turf tonight!” Calbha snapped. “The blood of those good men condemns me.”

“Lord Calbha,” I said, “we promised peace to you and offered war instead. It is no less our mistake, and no less our failing.”

The Cruin king took his time answering. “Thank you, Tegid Tathal,” he said at last, “but I know what I did. I saw the settlement here and I saw the horses, and I grew fearful of our reception. I was afraid and I attacked in fear. Nothing you say can change that.” He paused, and added, “I lost hope.”

“You are here now,” Llew said. “It is over.”

“It is over,” Calbha agreed mournfully. “I am no longer worthy to be king.”

“Say not so, lord!” wailed one of the Cruin chieftains. “Who else could have led us to safety?”

“Any coward would have served you there, Teirtu,” Calbha answered.

“You are no coward, lord,” the man declared.

“We are all cowards, Teirtu,” Calbha answered softly, “else Meldron could never have grown so strong. We gave him through fear what we should have protected through courage.”

We slept under the stars that night—and for a good many nights thereafter. We were a long time building enough shelter for our growing clan. And we would grow. As Calbha had warned, there were homeless tribes wandering the hills. Albion was in ferment; men were moving on the land, seeking safety and solace. The clans of southern Caledon and Llogres were as sheep driven before the ravening Hound. I little doubted they would find their way to Dinas Dwr, the safe haven of the north.

All that long Maffar, Season of Sun, they came. The Mawrthoni, Catrini, and Neifioni that Calbha had seen were first. Others followed: Dencani, Saranae, and Vynii from the southeast; Ffotlae and Marcanti from the fertile midlands; Iuchari from the eastern coast; and Goibnui, Taolentani, and Oirixeni from the high hills of northern Llogres.

We questioned every tribe and clan that came to us, and listened to their mournful tales. Each tale was the same: Meldron, Great Hound of Havoc, raged through the land with murderous intent. Death and destruction rode with him, and desolation followed in his wake.

Many told us that they had heard of our northern refuge. When we asked them how they knew where to find us, all said that someone else had told them. Word spread on the wind, it seemed; men moving through the land heard the word and followed. We held council among ourselves to determine what we should do, for it seemed only a matter of time before word reached Meldron and he rode to destroy us.

“We cannot hide from him forever,” Cynan said. “He will ride against us. But if we establish a line of beacons along the ridge, we can at least be forewarned of his approach.”

This we did.

But in the end it was not a beacon fire which warned us of Meldron's progress. The alert came from the tribal remnant of a small clan on the eastern coast, five brothers and their dying mother, who brought news of ships full of warriors bound for Ynys Sci.

21
A
SSAULT ON
S
CI

W
ith my inner eye I saw them: three thirties of warriors, standing in the strand, watching the ships glide into the bay. A menacing line of dark clouds swept in low from the east; the wind whipped our cloaks. But the sheltered bay remained smooth as molten lead. I turned sightless eyes to the sky and saw a clear expanse of blue still gleaming above. I smelled rain on the air, and beyond the bay I heard the surge of waves on the rocky coastline.

Four ships, square-rigged and stout-masted, sailed nearer. The blood-red sails bellied in the wind as the low-riding vessels flew before the approaching tempest. Our horses, sensing the nearness of the storm, jerked and jigged, tossing their heads and hoofing the sand. Two men and four boys would herd them back to Dinas Dwr where Lord Calbha waited. We could not use horses where we were going, and, if we failed, Calbha would need them.

It was the evening of the third day since leaving Dinas Dwr. And the ships had sailed from southern Caledon to meet us.

“Three days' ride along the ridge will bring you to the coast here,” Cynan had said, tapping the ground with a stick where he had scratched a few instructive lines. “This is where the ships will meet you.” He tapped the ground again. “Four ships is all we have,” he added, as if in warning.

“Four is enough,” stated Llew firmly.

“We will not be able to take the horses.”

“Horses would be no use to us,” replied Llew.

“We are a small force against Meldron's host,” Bran pointed out. “He has five hundred men at least—”

“If our observers are to be believed,” said Calbha skeptically. “They could not agree how many ships they saw.”

“Let Meldron take as many as he can haul with him,” Llew replied with some force. “We cannot take more men than we have.”

“But if they join battle with us on the field—” Calbha persisted. The king was protesting because it had been decided that he should stay behind to look after the people of Dinas Dwr.

Llew shook his head gently. “One day we will meet Meldron on the battlefield, and then we will want to match his forces. But not now. Superior numbers will avail Meldron nothing, nor would they help us.” He rose, brushing dirt from his hands. “You will have your day of retribution, Calbha.”

Thus the war council ended.

Cynan had departed immediately with four warriors, hastening to Dun Cruach in the south to fetch his father's ships. We spent the next days readying weapons and horses for the journey to the coast, waiting for the day of our departure, and salving Lord Calbha's bruised pride at not being included among the war band.

Three days later we set out at dawn, riding beside the long, glass-smooth lake through the silent glen. The thick-veiled darkness of my blindness was—occasionally, and without warning—illuminated by blazing images of the world around me: men and horses moving through deep green valleys . . . silvery mist flowing down the slopes from the high ridgeway . . . sunlight bright on gleaming metal . . . red-cloaked warriors bearing round white shields . . . blue lake sparkling and bluer sky flecked with gray . . . twilight stealing swarthy across the sky vault, and stars burning like campfires on a vast darksome plain . . .

And I heard the keening cry of eagles soaring on the wind. I heard the soft plod of the horses' hooves on the track, and the light jingle of halter and tack. I heard the easy banter of the men, arming themselves with good humor for the confrontation ahead.

It was a risky plan—as any plan was destined to be, considering our woefully inferior position. Surprise was our sole advantage. Never again could we count on catching Meldron this way, not least because it would alert him to the fact that Llew and I were yet alive to trouble him. We had one chance, and one chance only. But perhaps, if all went well, one would be enough.

Llew knew the island well. His six years under Scatha's tutelage had prepared him for this undertaking. He knew where our ships could approach without being seen; he knew which hills and valleys would provide protection; he knew how the caer could be attacked to maximum effect. Our plan hung on Llew's intimate knowledge of Sci. And Cynan knew the island almost as well.

As we made our way along the ridge, I tried—as I had tried many times before—to see ahead a little, to draw aside the veil of the future for a glimpse of what we might expect when we encountered Meldron. But nothing came to me; neither foresight nor vision was granted, so I let it go. Knowledge would come when the Dagda bestowed it and not before. So be it!

Now we stood watching Cynfarch's ships enter the bay—one of the nameless thousands of inlets and coves the sea had carved out of the hard rock face of the northern headland. This place should have a name, I thought, listening to the wave wash and the distant rumble of thunder on the rising wind:
Cuan Doneann,
Storm Bay.