The Silver Hand (29 page)

Llew, who had been standing at the water's edge talking to Bran, approached, his footsteps sounding crisp on the pebbled strand. “I am liking that man more and more, Tegid,” he said, taking his place beside me.

“He will be a good battle chief for you,” I said. “The Flight of Ravens will soar under his command. And he will follow wherever you lead, brother.”

He let the observation pass without comment. “Have you seen anything of Ynys Sci?” he asked instead.

“Nothing, yet,” I confessed. “Be assured I will tell you if anything comes to me.”

“Do you think it is a fool's errand?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But what of that? We cannot stand aside if there is even the slightest chance we can save them.”

“I hope it is not already too late,” muttered Llew gloomily.

“What do you wish me to say? Tell me and I will say it!” I spoke more fiercely than I felt, mostly to rout out the uncertainty I heard creeping into Llew's voice. Uncertainty, like doubt and hesitancy, is a form of fear.

“I wish the truth,” replied Llew. “What do you think we will find?”

“You wish the truth? Then I will tell you the truth; I do not know. Until we arrive on Sci, we do not know what we will find!”

“Calm yourself, brother,” Llew said, pricked. “I was only asking.”

“But I will tell you something else,” I said, relenting somewhat.

“What is that?”

“If we succeed, it will be long before Meldron dares attack anyone else. And that is worth daring, I think.”

Thunder boomed out over the water, and we listened to the echo rolling along the headland. “It will be rough sailing,” Llew said, after a moment.

“All the better. They will not think to look for anyone sailing out of the storm.”

There came a shout from the beach. “Come,” said Llew, “we can board now. We must not be seen to lag behind.”

We walked to the water's edge and splashed our way to the ship— Llew with his spear and shield, I with my staff of ash. The men surged behind us, streaming to the ships and clambering aboard. The voyage would be rough, but the ships would fly like gulls before the breaking storm.

And we did fly! Though the sea heaved and rolled under us and the sails strained and masts groaned, the ships' sharp prows sliced the foaming waves, cleaving them with powerful strokes. That day, and through the endless, turbulent night, we braced the high sea swell.

Dawn brought us within sight of our destination: the shimmering silver green promontories of Ynys Sci rising above the slate gray sea. Yet we did not put in to land but lowered the sails and waited for nightfall. The sun seemed fettered to the sky, so slowly did it advance. While the ships pitched in the waves, the men slept fitfully or sat idly stropping the edges of their swords. Overhead the cloud wrack raced, flying to meet the horizon.

At last, half-hidden in the ragged gray cloud cloak, tatters streaming, the sun sank below the rim of the world to begin its journey through the nether realms. Darkness gathered, pooling in the east and spreading over the water. When we could no longer be seen from the island, Llew gave the signal and the sails were raised.

We approached Ynys Sci from the west and put in at a cove that Llew knew. The warriors slipped over the side and struggled to shore where they walked about on unsteady legs in the darkness. The surf ran heavy and the coast was treacherous—sheer sea cliffs tumbling to shallow rock-strewn bays—so, when the last man had come ashore, the ships withdrew once more. We assembled on the narrow strand and began threading our way up through the scree-filled clefts. Upon reaching the top, we pressed inland to reach our position before morning.

We went without benefit of torchlight and we went with speed; many a man stumbled over the difficult trail in the dark. Llew led, finding his way unerringly over the rough terrain: three columns of men, hastening through the night to reach the appointed place ahead of sunrise.

The rugged track gave way to long sloping hills, the sibilant whisper of feet through grass the only sound of our passing. Across the hills, across small streams, across the high-humped back of the island we marched, arriving at our destination in good time. While the men rested in the glen and waited for dawn, Llew, Cynan, Bran, and I mounted to the hilltop where we could overlook Scatha's settlement: a handful of warriors' lodges and small dwellings—cookhouses, granaries, huts, and stores—clustered around a large, high-roofed hall.

I sat with my back to the hillside while the others lay on their bellies, peering over the crest of the hill and watching as daybreak gradually illuminated the site below.

“He is there and no mistake,” Bran said. “The practice yard is filled with horses. Close to two hundred I make it.”

“Clanna na cù!”
Cynan swore softly. “He is an arrogant hound. Let us take him now.”

“Easy, brother,” cautioned Llew. “Scatha and the others come first.

Tangling with Meldron will not help them.”

“But he is unsuspecting, and we are ready to fight. He cannot escape, nor can he bring more men than he already has. I say, take him now. We could defeat him.”

“More likely we would die trying,” Llew said. “Think, Cynan, they outman us five to one. They would cut us down where we stood.”

“We will never have a better chance,” grumbled Cynan.

“Look,” said Llew, “I despise Meldron as much as any man here. But getting ourselves killed for spite will serve no good purpose. There are hundreds at Dinas Dwr depending upon our return. We will do only what we came here to do. Agreed?”

Cynan agreed reluctantly and said, “What if he has killed them already?”

“I see no sign of battle,” Bran reported. “I do not think there has been any fighting here.”

“Unless he murdered them without a fight,” Cynan pointed out. “He would do that.”

I rolled onto my side and joined the others. “Meldron came here seeking something,” I offered. “And he is still here.”

“So he does not have the thing he came here to get—is that what you are saying?” Cynan wondered aloud. “Then we have not come too late.” I heard him shift on the ground. “Llew, we will . . . Llew?”

Llew did not answer. I heard a rustling movement beside me and the quick, light tread of feet moving away. In my mind's eye I saw Llew rise and stride to the crest of the hill, clutching his spear in his left fist. Llew raised the spear over his head in a gesture of silent defiance. Dawn's red gold radiance broke over him so that he seemed to glow with a glimmer of the Hero Light. He stood for a moment, then turned away, walking slowly back down the hillside to his waiting war band.

“What are you thinking, brother?” I asked as I joined him. There was a long hesitation in which I saw him leaning his forehead against the spear shaft. “Llew?”

“I am thinking that I may face my friend today,” he replied. “Simon—Siawn—was once my friend, my closest companion—we ate together, lived together . . . I never dreamed it would come to this. I tell you the truth, Tegid; I do not understand it.”

“It is well to mourn the loss of a friend,” I soothed. “Grieve then, but do not be deceived. Those men down there have grown wicked in their greed. Their iniquity stains all of Albion with the blood of the innocent they have slain. The evil they have worked has made them vile, and it must be stopped. This day is the day we begin to make an end of it.”

Llew replied softly, “I know . . . I know—and I am sick with it. It feels like a knife in my gut, Tegid. Simon was my friend!”

“Weep for your friendship, but do not weep for Siawn Hy. Know this: he has been against you from the moment you came here. He has ever served himself alone. He and Meldron are rabid beasts and must be destroyed.”

I heard footsteps behind us and recognized Cynan's tread. Llew straightened. “It is time,” Cynan said. “The ships will reach the bay soon. We must move into position.”

“Go to your men,” I told him. “We will join you.”

“There is no time to—”

“Just a moment more, Cynan. Please.”

“Very well.” Cynan moved away.

“What is it?” Llew asked when he had gone.

“I have been thinking,” I replied. “About the Singing Stones.”

“Yes?”

“If Meldron has brought the stones to Ynys Sci, then we must try to get them back. It sickens me that Meldron holds the Song of Albion and uses it as he does. We must reclaim the stones and establish them on Dinas Dwr, where we can guard them.”

Before Llew could reply, there came a shout from Bran, who had remained on the hilltop. “They are coming!”

“We have to go now, Tegid.” He made to turn away, but I reached out and caught at the sleeve of his siarc. “What is it?” he said impatiently.

“The Singing Stones,” I replied with some urgency. “We must recover them.”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed hastily, “if that is possible. But if all goes well we will not engage Meldron in battle. We may not have a chance to search for the stones—and anyway, he probably has not brought them here.”

“He keeps them with him always.”

“How do you know?”

“I know Meldron,” I replied.

“Look, Tegid, this is no time to discuss it. You should have said something sooner. We have to go. The ships are entering the bay.”

“But if the Singing Stones are on Ynys Sci?”

“Then we will get them if we can,” Llew promised. “All right?”

“Very well,” I relented, and we turned to join the others.

The war band was split into two divisions—one to follow Cynan, and the other to follow Bran. Llew and I would go with Bran to the settlement, while Cynan led his men to the bay below Scatha's caer.

At a sign from Bran we moved off. Llew knew just how close we could advance without being seen. The hills behind the caer would shield us most of the way, and nearer to the dwellings there were fields of tall grain through which we could advance unobserved.

Silently we went. The thick, damp turf muffled the sound of our approach, and we crept down the hillside to the barley field, our hearts thumping in our chests. We stopped and entered the field, moving among the rows, heads low, backs bent, the leaves rattling as we passed.

We crouched among the brittle stalks, the smell of damp earth and dry grain full in our nostrils; we listened for any sound of discovery. But no cry of alarm greeted our approach, so we settled at the edge of the field to wait.

Our ships had not been idle. Crewed only by two men each, the ships had sailed around the eastern promontory to the southern bay which served as Ynys Sci's only harbor. At dawn the ships would enter the bay, their sails black in the morning light, a forest of spears lashed upright to the sides.

We had but to wait until Meldron's sentries saw the ships and raised the alarm.

22
T
HE
R
ESCUE

T
he shouts came first-—muted and indistinct. This was the first alarm as one of the watchers on his circuit discovered our invading ships, and it was quickly answered by a nearer cry.

Most of Meldron's war band must have been camped outside the hall, for the response was immediate. There came a quick clatter as men snatched up sword, spear, and shield, and then the tramp of running feet as they raced to the clifftops. A moment later, men poured from the hall and the warriors' houses, racing to join their sword brothers.

“I hope we have not misjudged Meldron's vanity,” whispered Llew.

“Difficult to misjudge that,” I replied. “Listen!”

Even as I spoke, the great battle horn, the carynx, sounded its dire bellow. “There!” Llew said. “Get on with it, Meldron. Let it begin.”

Hunkering in the field, we waited. The battlehorn blared again, and as the blast resounded in the hills around us, it was joined by the neighing of horses and the excited shouts of men. My dark inner eye kindled to life and brought forth the image of ranks of horses, jittery on pickets ranged in the yard beside Scatha's hall, and men, cloaks flying, weapons flashing, rushing to their mounts.

“Do you see him?” I asked.

“No,” Llew answered, glancing at me quickly. “Do you?”

I shook my head. “No. Meldron is not among them.”

The riders massed in the yard. The carynx boomed its dreadful call once more, and I heard the hollow drumming of horses' hooves as they galloped away.

This is what we had been waiting for. At a silent signal from Bran, Niall crept from the cover of the barley stalks and flitted across the narrow distance from the field to the nearest building, which was a granary. He paused briefly, and then disappeared around the corner of the storehouse. A moment later, he reappeared and motioned us forward.

In groups of three or four we crossed the open ground between the field and the storehouse. The yard was empty, the horses gone; there were no warriors to be seen.

Bran signaled again, and a heartbeat later we were bolting across the empty yard to the hall. A swift scramble around the wall brought us to the doorway of the hall. Bran and Niall were first, Llew and I among the last. We ducked around the near corner of the hall and collided with those who had gone ahead.

They were standing flat-footed, staring at something.

“What is it?” Llew said, pushing his way to the front of the throng. “Why have you stopped?”

I followed at Llew's back; he stepped beside Bran and, like all the others, froze in his tracks. I put out my hand and grasped his shoulder. He half-turned to me, his features twisted in revulsion.

“Llew?”

My inward sight shifted to the source of his distress: row upon row of spears driven half-down into the ground; and on the standing point of each spear the head of a young boy. Meldron had murdered the warrior-Mabinogi of Scatha's school and spiked their heads before the hall in a hideous mockery of a warriors' assembly. Crows had been at the heads, and hollow eye pits regarded us accusingly.