The Silver Hand

by Stephen R. Lawhead

With my quickened inner eye, I scanned the wide valley for sight of bare earth and saw none. The valley swarmed with the horde, and yet warriors streamed through the narrow glen mouth. Was ever such a mighty force seen in Albion?

  No; never. I sat upon my rock and gazed at a wonder. Not in the days of Nemed, not even in the days of Nuadha, had such a war host been known. Of horses and men there was no end. The spears of the warriors bristled like an ashwood forest; the glint of their swords in the dire sun flashed with the spiked radiance of the sea, and their shields were more numerous than shells on an endless beach.

  Scatha, Wise War Leader, had declined the use of horses—a desperately prudent stroke. Horses would lend us power at the outset, but they would also make it easier for the enemy to identify, surround, and contain us. Our battle plan depended upon penetrating deep into Meldron’s forces, finding him and removing him—and that could be accomplished more efficiently by men afoot who, in the chaos of battle, might slip through the ranks unobserved.

  I watched the foot of the ridge wall, where the first signs of the attack would come. Scatha had also directed that no carynx should sound the attack. “They will discover our attack soon enough,” she said. “But perhaps we can penetrate to the heart of Meldron’s host before those across the river even know the battle has begun.”

  That was our one thin hope: take the center and hold it. This would force the enemy to fight inward upon itself to reach us. We would be surrounded, yes; but there were so many warriors we would be soon surrounded whatever we did. At least, by taking the center, we would create a smaller field of battle, and our own war bands would not be separated.

  It was, as I say, a desperate tactic. But, as I looked down upon the masses of warriors encamped below, I understood beyond all doubt the utter hopelessness of our position. We could not expect to overpower Meldron. At best, we could only . . . what? Blunt his attack? Delay his inevitable victory?

  Calbha was right, we were but a burn trickling out of the hills. The war host of the Great Hound was as wide and deep as the sea. Once battle commenced, that vast sea would whelm us over and we would vanish without a trace.

  Even as this thought took root in my mind, I heard the raw croak of a raven taking flight above the ridge. I turned my sightless eyes towards the sky, and was given the vision of black wings against a filthy yellow sky. I recoiled from the sight and turned away.

  Gwenllian’s voice came light as a sigh in my ear. The Bánfaith had said:

  Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face; abomination stalks the land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds.

  Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness, and terrify all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will despoil the island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand. The Island of the Mighty will become a tomb.

  All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire. Rise up Men of Gwir! Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men in your midst. The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.

  Yes, it had all come to pass as she had predicted. But the prophecy finished with a riddle:

  Hear, O Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit and with Spirit ever more remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.

  Silver Hand was the name given to the Champion who would save Albion. It was Llew’s name: Llew Llaw Eraint, of whom marvelous things were foretold.

  An accusing voice arose within me: Fool! What have you done?

  I had tried to force the fulfillment of the prophecy by making him king. But I had failed in that. Meldron had shattered any hope that Llew might reign. The Rule of Sovereignty cannot be broken or set aside—not for any reason, not for any man. The Great Hound Meldron had snatched away the kingship when he struck off Llew’s hand.

  And now, I thought, gazing over the stinking, smoke-filled valley and the enemy spread in deadly array, the Island of the Mighty had become a tomb.

  I heard the sound of an approaching footfall soft behind me. Before I could turn, I felt Goewyn’s hand on my shoulder. “I mean to stay with you, Tegid,” she said, brooking no denial.

  “Stay,” I said. “We will uphold our brave ones together.”

  She settled beside me. “I could not wait with the others. I thought perhaps you could use someone to see for you.”

  We sat together, taking some small comfort in each other’s presence as we waited for the battle to begin. And when it did begin, it was as a tiny ripple on the edge of the ocean that was Meldron’s host. I saw a swirl like the eddy of a wave in the camp directly below—-and even watched it for a time before realizing that it was Scatha’s force surging into the foe.

  “There!” Goewyn said. “It has begun!”

  Calbha’s war band entered the fray behind and to the right of Scatha, with Cynan’s but a short distance to the left. The three together pushed quickly through the ill-ordered and unwary ranks, striking more deeply and more rapidly than I would have thought possible. The enemy seemed to melt before them, giving ground without a fight.

  The Flight of Ravens struck in from the far right, driving toward Scatha. They were a marvel to behold! The speed with which they moved! I could see Bran running headlong into the enemy, scattering whole tribes of warriors before him; Alun Tringad and Garanaw strove to overtake him on either hand, and the rest of the Raven Flight, unhindered by the enemy, scrambled to keep abreast of their leader.

  Llew I did not see at first. But Goewyn said, “I see him! To the left, beyond Cynan. There he is!”

  With my inward vision I beheld Llew with his war band, flying to meet Scatha. As with the others, the enemy ranks merely opened before them, rolling back upon themselves as the attackers drove bravely in.

  I heard a shout from the ridgetop to the left, and turned to see half the population of Dinas Dwr standing on the ridge, and the rest scrambling to find a place to view the battle. Unable to await the outcome, they had all come to witness it.

  The shouts soon grew to a chorus of cheers. I doubted whether the warriors could hear the encouragement of their kinsmen, but it poured down upon them in a heartfelt shower of praise. And for a time it seemed as if the impossible had become plain fact: we would, by sheer determination alone, defeat the foe where they stood and drive them from the valley.

  A fall of pebbles, clattering among the rocks to my right, gave me to know that Nettles, unobtrusive as ever, had taken his place beside me. Cynfarch, spear in hand, came at his heels, scanning the valley below. If the size of the Great Hound’s forces surprised him, he gave no sign. “It has begun well,” he observed as he came to stand behind me. “For all their numbers, they are ill-trained and unready.”

  “Yes, it has begun well,” I agreed. I had never seen a war host in such disarray and confusion, and told him so. “Indeed, they do not behave as warriors at all.”

  So saying, I realized why it was so. These were not warriors. Of course not. How could Meldron field a war host so vast? If I had stopped but a moment to consider the question before, I would have seen the obvious: there were not enough warriors in all of Albion to amass a war host so great. Meldron had swelled his ranks with the helpless he had conquered—farmers and craftsmen, shepherds and untrained youths. He had given them spears and swords but, though they wielded weapons, they were not warriors. That is why, faced with the dreadful desperation of our own warriors, the hapless foemen— ill-matched and unprepared—simply turned and ran, or stood and were cut down.

  It was not cause for praise, certainly. But the sight of the en
emy fleeing before our rapidly advancing warriors made the people shout and cheer all the same. Glad acclaim rose up from the heights and echoed down the slopes toward the valley in a bright cascade of blessing. With my inner eye, I saw the enemy churning in retreat; ebbing like the falling tide, flowing back and away from the sharp edge of our attack. Farmers and shepherds against skilled warriors! There could be no glory from such a victory. Still, shameful though it was, I dared hope that the bold, decisive assault of our warriors—driving ever deeper, striking into the midst of the invader—would yet turn the battle into a rout.

  36

  DEADLY RIVER

  Calbha and Scatha drove deep into the center of the enemy host— alas, their swift advances could not continue. On the near bank of the river the retreat stiffened and abruptly halted. Word of the attack had reached Meldron’s mounted warriors who had now had time enough to gather and make the first real attempt at resistance. Still, there were so many frightened people striving to escape that the horsemen could not reach Scatha’s war band.

  Cynan’s force was thwarted by the swiftly thickening press. Escape cut off by their own leaders, the ill-trained enemy turned once more to engage Cynan’s withering fury. There were so many bodies pressed tightly together that Cynan could scarcely swing his sword. Bran and the Ravens were likewise obstructed. Though we could not see them clearly, we watched their spear-blade formation thrusting deep into the ranks of the enemy. They still drove toward Scatha, but her progress was slowed to a crawl.

  “They mean to fight,” Cynfarch observed. “The Dagda have mercy on them.”

  Llew’s war band strove to join Scatha and Calbha in the center. But, as with Bran and Cynan, the arrival of the mounted warriors arrested Llew’s progress. Meldron’s undisciplined mass formed an unwilling wall; Llew could not advance—there were too many people between him and the center ground where Scatha stood.

  But if our own warriors could not further the attack, neither could the enemy retaliate effectively. The battle seemed to have run aground. Like contrary currents in the sea, waves of warriors flowed over and against one another in contending swells—some striving toward the attackers, others struggling away. Our own war bands were islands bounded by these chaotic crosscurrents.

  The sound of the carynx bellowed from across the valley. Word of the attack had finally reached the enemy war leaders, who now thought to sound the alarm. But they had foolishly established themselves on the far side of the river, and could not now direct their ill-trained warriors, who flailed uselessly.

  It did not take Bran Bresal long to resolve his dilemma. Finding it impossible to back his way through the tangle, he threw his shield before him and simply battered his way forward, overwhelming any who stood in his way. The Ravens followed his lead, and soon they had formed a clear path through the crush of bodies. Over a living road they advanced. I do not believe their feet touched the ground.

  “They have done it!” cried Goewyn, as the Flight of Ravens joined Scatha and Calbha in the center of the battleground. “And now Cynan is moving!”

  The enemy flowed into the space abandoned by the Ravens. Cynan must have sensed the surge and instinctively moved towards it. What began as a stumbling push ended in a headlong rush: Cynan drove into and through the turmoil like a bull charging a scattering herd; many fell before his blade. The force of their charge carried the war band into the circle cleared by Scatha and the Ravens.

  “Now only Llew is left,” Goewyn said, clasping my hand as she gazed anxiously into the tumult.

  “The horses will cut them off,” countered Cynfarch, gesturing with his spear. “Llew cannot move.”

  Unable to advance on the center, the mounted foemen had turned aside and were forcing their way along the outside toward Llew, effectively blocking his attempt to join the others in the center. Llew’s war band would be separated from the main body of warriors and would have to fight on alone—until they could find or force a way past the horsemen.

  Though the sun burned hot in the deathly sky, I felt a shadow fall over me. “Now they need horses,” Cynfarch muttered. “And chariots. Horses and chariots!”

  More enemy horsemen were moving toward Llew’s force. Although none had yet joined the fight, I could see that they would, and soon. Goewyn saw it too. She clutched my arm; her fingernails dug into my skin. I heard a sharp tapping sound and noticed Nettles, a stone gripped tight in his fist, absently pounding his hand against the rock on which he sat, staring wide-eyed at the battle below.

  The horsemen drove closer. The others were encircled, and Llew could do nothing to stem the onslaught. It was for me to act. I stood.

  Taking my staff, I raised it to the fierce and unrelenting sun. As Chief Bard of Albion, I summoned forth the power of the Taran Tafod and loosed it to the aid of our warriors.

  I raised my staff and lifted my voice to the heavens and to the forces beyond. “Gwrando! Gryd Grymoedd, Gwrando!” I called and heard my voice grow loud. “Gwrando! Nefol Elfenau, Gwrando! Erfyn Fygu Gelyn! Gwthio Gelyn! Gorch Gelyn! Gwasgu Gelyn!”

  The words formed on my tongue and leapt from my lips like flames; I breathed fire. My voice was no longer my own, but the voice of the all-sustaining Word beyond words. I emptied myself of all thought and became a vibrating reed played upon by the willful wind.

  “Gryd Elfenau A Nefol Grymoedd! Gwrando! Gorch Gormail Fygu!” I called, hearing only the sound of the Taran Tafod blaring like the carynx. Filling my lungs, I opened my mouth and let the words of the ancient sacred speech flow from my innermost heart. “Nefol Elfenau, Gwrando! Efryn Fygu Gelyn! Gwthio Gelyn! Gorch Gelyn! Gwasgu Gelyn!”

  A fitful breeze stirred; I felt it on my face.

  “Gwrando, Gryd Nefol Elfenau! Erfyn Gwrando! Erfyn Nefol! Gorch Gormail Fygu!” I cried in the voice of the bellowing bull roarer. The wind quickened, plucking at my sleeves as I held the staff in stiff arms over my head. I threw back my head and let the Taran Tafod thunder forth of its own volition.

  And, as if in answer to my cry, I heard the moan of the rising wind gathering from the four quarters. The dry heat of the day was quenched as clouds unfurled to obscure the sun. That hot, white sky flame grew pale under a pall of smoke and cloud . . .

  . . . Let the sun be dull as amber . . .

  The wind swirled; howling, it gathered force. A cold blast struck me full in the face, and another buffeted me from behind, lashing my back and legs. The people cried out in alarm and scrambled back from the cliff edge. Cynfarch hunkered down behind me, and Goewyn wrapped her arms around my legs—as much to steady me as to protect herself. Nettles scuttled closer.

  . . . Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast . . .

  The wild winds scoured the empty sky paths and screamed into the valley, tearing at the rocks and turf, raising pillars of dust, whirling and heaving it high in darkly billowing streams.

  . . . The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds . . .

  Goewyn clung to my legs, and Cynfarch leaned on his spear shaft to remain upright. In the valley below, the enemy warriors quailed, their confusion wonderfully increased. They wailed and shouted in anguish as the weird gales assailed them.

  . . . the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds . . .

  Across the poisoned river, the enemy battle horns blared, their frightful din all but smothered by the raging squall of the gale. The sky darkened to false twilight—hard-edged stars burned among the streaming clouds. Frightened horses screamed and reared, throwing their riders beneath their hooves. The cries of terrified men mingled with the shrieks of the dying; the sharp crack of spear on shield pierced the sky vault. Our brave warriors stood to their work, iron blades pealing as they struck.

  . . . The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven . . .

  Darkness passed before my inner eye. Blindness reclaimed me. Amidst the bawl of the tempest I could hear the clash of weapons and the shouts of men rising up from the valley be
low, but I could no longer see what was taking place on the battleground.

  “Goewyn!” I shouted. “Goewyn! Hear me! I cannot see!”

  Shifting the staff to my left hand, I reached down for her, took her arm, and she scrambled to her feet. She put her arm around me and together we stood against the gale. Nettles assumed the task of helping steady me; rising to his knees, he snaked an arm around my legs and held on tight.

  “My sight is gone,” I shouted. “Look for me, Goewyn! Be my eyes!”

  “It is terrible, Tegid! There are so many—I cannot see him . . . Yes! There he is! I see Llew. The war band is with him. The horsemen have reached them, but they are standing their ground. The horses are afraid—they rear and plunge . . . it is difficult—the riders cannot fight from the saddle. Our warriors strike them at will . . . the fighting is cruel.”

  “What of the Ravens?”

  “I see the Ravens,” she confirmed. “I see Bran. They are pressing forward—they are trying to reach Llew. But there are horsemen before them—and more are coming.”

  “They are cut off,” added Cynfarch. “The Ravens cannot reach Llew.”

  “And Cynan—what of Cynan? Do you see him?”

  “Yes, I see him—” began Goewyn.

  “He is at the forefront of his men,” Cynfarch put in. “He is fighting. They are all fighting.”

  “What of the enemy? How do they stand?”

  “The enemy has surrounded our war host. Scatha is in the center of the ring. Calbha is to the right of her. Cynan stands to the left. Bran is also on the left,” Cynfarch replied, raising his voice to be heard above the gale.

  Goewyn added: “Scores, Tegid, hundreds are fleeing—they do not want to fight. But their battle chiefs are making them stand. They jab with their spears, but there is little hurt.”

  “How many have we lost? How many killed or wounded?”

  “I think—” Goewyn began, pausing to assess the numbers. “The enemy has lost many—there are many down. And . . . oh, but they are all pressing so tightly. I cannot say, Tegid. Some, I think, not many.”