The Silver Hand

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I turned once more to see Meldron’s war host, closer—the light of hundreds of burning torches, flaming bright, spreading across the plain—and Llew, firebrand high, flying to meet the foemen.

  The yard below me was a boiling mass of confusion: warriors swarming, voices calling, horses moving in the moon-dim light, weapons gleaming. The gate swung open and Bran dashed out a moment later, torch in hand.

  He ran to join Llew, and I watched their twin trails of flame recede until they reached a place well away from the wall, whereupon Llew stopped and drove his torch into the ground. He heaved the leather container to his shoulder and began walking slowly backwards.

  Cynan, armed and ready for battle, rejoined me on the wall. “What is he doing?” he asked. “Is he mad?”

  “No,” I told him. “Now gather your men and be ready.”

  Cynan sprang away again, and I turned back to observe Llew. He stopped pacing and stood for a moment on his measured spot, then he hastened to the place where he had planted his burning brand. Still holding the leather cask on his shoulder, he now began walking backwards in the opposite direction. I watched him, and it came to me what he was doing.

  “Cynan!” I shouted, turning from the wall. “Cynan! Bring the king!”

  Cynan stood in the center of the yard, ordering his men. Horses had been saddled and stable hands ran to bring them to the warriors. He snatched the reins from a running youth. “Cynan!” I cried. “Where is Cynfarch?”

  “He is readying his chariot,” Cynan called. “He will ride before us into battle.”

  “Send someone to bring him to the wall. I must speak to him at once. Hurry!”

  Cynan laid his hand on the warrior nearest him, nodded, and the man disappeared into the tumult of the yard. “You come too,” I shouted to him.

  I felt the presence of someone behind me. I turned to see the stranger Nettles standing with me on the wall. He raised his arm and pointed out upon the plain. Where before there had been hundreds of gleaming torches, a thousand now burned. And I heard a sound like far-off thunder rumbling across the plain as the sparkling lights drew ever nearer.

  Llew threw aside the leather cask and ran to snatch up his torch. Bran stood by him, but Llew seemed not to see him; seizing the torch, he held it to the ground. Instantly, flames leapt high and sped away from him on either side, tracing a wide arc through the dry grass.

  Cynfarch, gripping an upright sword, called to me from the yard below. At that moment there came a sound like the rush of a roaring wind and the yard shimmered in flickering light. Through the open gate the king saw a curtain of flame leaping high into the night sky. Cynfarch took one look at the spectacle before him and demanded, “What is he doing?”

  “He is preparing a way for us,” I replied. “We must make ready our departure.”

  “Departure?” The king’s mouth writhed, and he drew breath to condemn the suggestion with scorn.

  “We are leaving,” I told him. “Behold!” I stretched my hand toward the shimmering flames. “Llew has set a shield before us.”

  “What has he done?” Cynfarch roared.

  “A fire shield!” Cynan cried.

  “Summon him!” the king shouted. “He has defied my authority.”

  “The Penderwydd’s awen is upon him,” I told the king. “He hears only the voice of the Swift Sure Hand. Summon him, by all means, but I do not think he will obey you.” Llew stood outlined against the firelight, his hand raised over his head, palm outward, in the attitude of a beseeching bard. His image shifted in the shimmering light, making it appear that he was dancing before the fire.

  Higher and higher the flames leapt as the fire streaked through the dead dry grass. The heat generated a fire-wind, which whipped the flames yet higher and hotter.

  Bran, spear upraised, turned to the wall and motioned the war band forth. Instantly—as if they had been waiting for this signal all their lives—the warriors raced from the fortress to join Llew. Lofting torches gathered from hall and storehouse, they ran out through the gates and joined Llew. The shouts of the warriors and the rising voice of the flames—fire joined to fire as the warriors ignited fresh blazes— grew to fill the night.

  “Cynfarch!” I called. “The matter has been decided. Gather your people and your cattle, and what treasures you can carry. Make ready to leave, and look your last upon this place.”

  King Cynfarch’s face darkened with rage. But Cynan, eyes alight with the blaze, clapped a hand to his father’s shoulder and said, “Your anger cannot stand against his deed. Let us be fearless men, wise in our strength. Let us use Llew’s shield of fire to cover us while we depart.”

  “While we flee!” the king shouted angrily. “He cannot do this! He has no authority over me or my people!”

  “It is not by Llew’s authority that this has come about,” I answered, “but by the authority of One who commands fire and wind. If you can make the wind and the flames obey you, then do so. Otherwise, I suggest we prepare to leave while we may.”

  Cynfarch spun on his heel and hurried to the hall. I turned back to see that the flames had become a towering wall of blazing fire, a great, rippling sail, billowing outward in the heat-incited wind. Cynfarch’s warriors completed the task Llew had begun. Streaks of fire coursed through the dry grass, igniting great swathes which raced before the rising wind.

  “Come,” I said to Nettles. “It is time to go.” The small man turned from the blaze and followed without a word.

  We withdrew from the wall and joined the uproar taking place in the yard as people scurried to retrieve their treasured possessions from the hall and from their houses. Ten or more wains stood in the yard: four in which we had brought water, with the vats still on them; the rest were quickly filled to overflowing with the wealth of the clan.

  Cynfarch appeared in his chariot and took his place at the head of his people. Cynan, on horseback, shouted orders. A man came running with my horse. I took the reins and dismissed the man to join his family, then mounted and helped Nettles to a place behind me—and not a moment too soon. There came a rush from the far corner of the yard and suddenly we were engulfed and surrounded by frightened cattle, bawling and bellowing at the sight of the towering flames.

  King Cynfarch in his chariot, his driver beside him, raised the curved carynx to his lips and gave a sharp blast. Two hundred people moved as one body toward the gates. The king led us out onto the firelit plain.

  I paused outside the gates to wait with Cynan until all were away. The families passed through first, hastening off along the firewall after the king’s chariot. Next came the cowherds who drove the pigs and cattle—the sheep would follow of themselves—and lastly, the wagons laden high with the tribe’s treasure.

  Cynan turned his face to the fire. The horse beneath him shied and twitched, tossing its head. “Look at it!” he said, lifting his voice above the flame roar. “The flames are drawing the wind!”

  The intense heat of the fire created a gale all its own, gusting wildly, whipping the flames, driving them higher and faster: a raging torrent of flames.

  “Choke on that, Meldron! Ha!” Cynan exclaimed. “Llew has bested you again.”

  “Where is Llew?” I shouted.

  “I do not see him!” Cynan answered, searching the rippling, shifting fire. “Nor Bran!”

  I scanned the withering flame-bright walls with the sight of my inward eye for some sign of Llew. Then Nettles tapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward the leading edge of the fire. I saw Llew, body glistening from the heat, astride a galloping horse speeding along the shimmering wall. He seemed a creature of the storm, oblivious to the flames swirling around him. Bran followed a little distance behind him and the warriors, mounted now, raced with their torches all along the blazing border, pausing in the gaps to kindle new fires and then racing on.

  “There!” I shouted. “He goes before us.”

  Llew disappeared again in the swirling smoke and jutting flames, and we looked to the task at
hand. King Cynfarch led the people out upon the charred and smoking plain, then turned to the north, moving away from the inferno. We followed behind with the wagons; Llew and the warriors ranged ahead keeping the shielding flames between us and the enemy, feeding the firestorm afresh.

  All the next day we journeyed north unseen, through a foul haze of smoke that darkened the sky and cloaked the sun. Black ash fell in a filthy rain over us. We pulled our mantles over our heads and plodded on. With every step, I expected Meldron and his war host to emerge from the murk and cut off our escape.

  But no enemy riders appeared; not the dull glint of a spear point did we see, nor did we hear the rumble of horses’ hooves. Still I looked for the trap.

  Day followed day, and each dawn the sun rose hotter and more fierce than the last. The land, already dry and hard as fired clay, cracked like a loaf baked too long in the oven. Dust clouded thick where the people walked. The heat became stifling. We rested from first light to last, and traveled through the night—hoping to elude both the heat and Meldron’s war host, who could surely track us by our footprints in the dust.

  It was not until we began the long ascent into the northern hills that I began to hope that we might yet elude the foe—not until I felt the land begin to rise toward Druim Vran that I thought we had truly done so.

  After the frenzy of the awen, Llew remained subdued. Bran rode with him, but he spoke to no one and rode with his head down, his body bent forward in the saddle as if in pain. I tried to rouse him, but could not—he even spurned Nettles.

  The small stranger rode with me; he became my constant companion, my shadow. I began teaching him our tongue, and soon grew to respect his agile mind—the speed with which he mastered the most difficult expressions. Indeed, before we reached Druim Vran, we could converse in simple words. I found him an amiable companion, willing and eager.

  That was the only good thing to come out of the journey. As for the rest, I remained wary and ill-humored—and I was not the only one. Despite Llew’s brilliant diversion, Cynan also feared we had eluded Meldron too easily, and the thought did not sit well with him. We stood together beside our horses as the last wagon and the last of the sheep crested the hump of Druim Vran and began the descent to our hidden lake fortress.

  “Well, brother,” he said, “you may call me a fool for fretting, but I am still uneasy.” He turned away from me as he spoke; and though I could not see him, I knew he was looking at the trail behind us, watching for Meldron to appear.

  “You were happy enough to leave Dun Cruach,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, aye,” he agreed sourly. “That was well done. And necessary, I grant you that. We had no other hope. Still—” He paused, looking down the trail again. “It is one thing to leave, and another to arrive safely. Am I right?”

  “Even so, we have arrived safely.”

  “Have we? I do not hear your tongue awag in reassurance, eh?” He paused, then growled, “I am listening, bard, but I hear nothing.”

  “I make no secret of my fear. And you are welcome to share it, Cynan Machae. I considered this journey ill-advised; I warned against it from the start. And though we stand once more within the protection of our high ridge, I feel no safety here. I tell you the truth, the deed is far from finished.”

  Even as I spoke the words, I heard the hollow sound of my own despair. Why? Cynan was right to question it. I had been against leaving Dinas Dwr, but the undertaking had ended well. So why did I still feel the chill of foreboding in my bones? Was all as peaceful as it seemed in our hidden realm, or did some fresh disaster await discovery?

  Shouts of greeting reached us then, echoing up from the lake, as the people hastened to welcome us home. Cynan remounted his horse. “Come, or we will miss our greeting.”

  I listened to the joyful shouts, hearing in the sound not welcome only, but something else as well—an elusive note. What? Was the greeting a little too ardent, the welcome too exuberant? Or had I been so long expecting the worst that I could not recognize happiness when I heard it?

  Cynan saw my hesitation. “Why do you delay?”

  “It is nothing,” I told him, snatching up the reins and lifting myself to the saddle once more. “Let us join the celebration.” I snapped the reins and started down the steep trail.

  “Tegid,” he called after me, “is something wrong?”

  His question did not remain unanswered, for we had ridden but halfway to the lake when we caught the unmistakable stench of death in our nostrils.

  My horse halted, refusing to proceed. But I struck him across the withers with the reins and urged him to speed. Cynan shouted behind me to wait. I did not heed him but flew headlong down the trail to the lake.

  33

  THE WORD ALREADY SPOKEN

  I realized well before I reached Dinas Dwr what was wrong. A man does not need eyes in his head to recognize the stink of rotting fish— even the dullest of noses will do. The stench grew stronger as I drew nearer the lake, becoming more fierce and virulent with every step.

  By the time I arrived, the crowd had quieted. I pushed through the curiously reticent assembly and found Llew standing on the shingle, stunned. “You warned me, Tegid,” he muttered. “But I would not listen.”

  The sound of his voice roused my inward sight. I saw our shining lake dead, its clear water turbid with poisonous scum—like the eye of a corpse long dead, or the once-bright surface of a silver mirror now tarnished and corroded. The shore was strewn with dying vegetation, wilted and reeking in the hot sun. From one side to the other, the lake was defiled with the bloated remains of fish and water fowl. The surface seemed to quiver, gurgling gently as bubbles formed and burst, releasing evil-smelling vapor to foul the air. The whole valley stank.

  Bran, standing near, gazed upon the tainted lake and said, “The poison has touched Dinas Dwr at last. And now there is no safety anywhere in this worlds-realm.”

  Scatha and Goewyn came to us. The women greeted us warmly and kissed us. I saw that Goewyn took her place beside Llew and remained there; she said little, but her eyes never left him. Despite her nearness, Llew had not a word to spare for her. Neither did he look at her—if he had, he would have seen how his lack of regard cut at her heart.

  Noting soot and ash amidst the dust on our clothes, Scatha surmised that we had come through fire, and Alun spoke up boldly to praise Llew, telling all gathered near about the Hero Feat of the fire shield.

  “Would that I had been there to see it,” Scatha replied, and the Ravens echoed her, trying to cheer us. Yet despite all, their welcome remained somber, for they were no less dismayed than we by the horror.

  “It is a wretched homecoming.” Goewyn said. She stretched a hand halfheartedly toward the lake. “I am sorry you had to find it so.”

  Llew looked around at those gathered near. “Where is Calbha?”

  “He is searching for water. He took six with him, and they have been gone four days,” Scatha answered. “Our supplies are very low.”

  “We have left the crannog,” Goewyn said awkwardly.

  Scatha added, “We thought it best—until the plague is over.”

  “No doubt that is best.” Llew gazed out across the lake with an expression of grief. Tears glazed his eyes; he blinked, and they spilled from his lids and started down his cheeks. He brushed them away quickly with the stump of his arm. “If I had been here . . .” he muttered, and then turned his back on his city in the lake.

  As Goewyn said, the people had moved from the crannog to a camp at the end of the glen, hard against the ridge—as far from the lake as possible in the valley. Even so, it was not far enough. The stink of the dead lake under the blistering sun assailed us with undiminished vigor.

  Cynfarch and his people settled among us, bewildered and forlorn. It seemed to them that they had fled to a worse fate then they left behind. Cynfarch, much disheartened, rumbled restless through the Galanae encampment like a storm waiting to break. To his credit, he held his tongue and kept his misgivin
gs to himself.

  Two days passed and the sullen sun blazed ever hotter. We measured the water and apportioned it carefully, awaiting some word or sign from Calbha. But there was none.

  Neither was there any respite from the stench of the lake. The searing sun and withering heat served to increase the rot and decay, making the once clean, cold water a festering, putrid, bubbling stew. My Mabinogi came to me, wanting to proceed with their learning, but we could not abide the heat and stink; even our shaded grove offered no escape. I abandoned the teachings, saying, “We will begin afresh when this blight is over. Go back to your kinsmen and do what you can to help them.”

  Gwion took it hard, so I gave him my harp, saying, “Keep this well-tuned, Gwion Bach. If you are ever to be a Filidh you must learn the proper care of a harp.”

  “Summon me when you will, Penderwydd,” Gwion vowed. “Day or night you will find this harp ready to your touch.”

  The boy dashed away—he could not wait to try the harp. I turned to Nettles, who had accompanied me to the grove. “It was but a small thing,” I said.

  “But it—ah, restored his spirit,” he observed, hesitating only slightly over the words.

  “Would that I could do as much for the rest of Dinas Dwr,” I replied.

  By day the scent of death assaulted us; by night the children cried in thirst and fever. Food was prepared and served, but it went uneaten. With the foulness in the air drawn into our mouths at every breath, no one could stomach a bite. The heat and stench sapped both strength and will; we moved in a torpor, dazed by the enormity of our misfortune, and daunted by our own inability to overcome it. Here was an enemy we could not fight, much less conquer.

  At dusk on the second day, Llew sought my council. “Something must be done, Tegid. Follow me.” He led me away from the camp to a place where we could speak without being overheard. We sat together side by side on a rock below a cliff face of the ridge. The rock was still warm from the day’s heat, and black flies swarmed in the evening air. “Calbha has not returned, and the little water we have left will soon be gone.”