I drew a deep breath, shuddering with excitement like a nervous horse, and forced myself to calm down. On an impulse I knelt behind Sion, who was muttering some prayer in Latin. I drew Caledvwlch and held it before me with its tip resting on the ground, so that the cross of the hilt echoed the cross on the wall. Light stirred within the ruby, rose to a steady flame, and I willed it to quiet, knowing that I would be unable to explain the sword to Sion or to the monks. It stilled, and I tried to follow Sion’s example, and pray. Pieces of various songs floated through my mind, and the old druidical invocations of the sun and the wind, the earth and the sea. Then I brushed these aside, deciding that I wished, after all, to speak to my lord the Light, not to any mysterious and unknown god who was new to me; and I spoke to him silently.
“Ard Rígh Mor, my King…I would keep my oath to you. I have killed since I pledged you fealty. Let that…oh, I am lost and cannot understand it. Let there be forgiveness of it. My lord…” I wanted to sing, suddenly, but did not know what to sing. “My lord, I am your warrior. Command me. Aid me. Let me find Arthur and find service with him. Let me…” What? I thought of Morgawse, of Lugh, of Ceincaled. “Let me know your will in this, since it is yours to rule. God of this place, if you are my lord the Light, hear me.”
There was a moment of stillness, a silent, deep listening quite different from the exaltation I had known before. It was as though the troubled water of a deep pool had stilled, and one could look down into it through limitless depths, as if into a lake of glass. At the heart of that stillness was a light, quiet as the candle flames, and a sense like the first notes of a song. I felt only this, and only for an instant. But I knew that my prayer had been heard, and I could go to Camlann with a quiet mind. I stood and sheathed the sword.
Sion turned, looked at me, frowned, then grinned. “Consecrating the sword?”
“In a fashion.”
“A good thing to have done, a very good thing. Come, let us see if they have anything to eat in this thieves’ den.”
In the porch of the chapel there were three other farmers and a trader, all bound for Camlann, who greeted us cheerfully and began to complain of the monks. Sion joined them in this pastime with great enthusiasm, and outdid them all in eloquence. None of the men did more than glance at me, for which I was grateful.
Presently a young monk brought us our evening meal in a basket, together with some fine yellow mead that did much to mollify the anger of the guests. After the meal we unrolled the straw pallets which were kept there for travellers, and we spread out cloaks on these, wished each other a good night, and curled up to sleep.
I woke up in the darkness, some time near midnight, and lay very still. There was something in the chapel porch, something which had no right to be there.
It was very dark, too dark. Beside me Sion’s breathing had taken on a labored, drugged sound, and seemed to come from a distance. It had become cold with a soul-chilling empty cold, and the air tasted thin and flat.
Stealthily I put my hand to the hilt of the sword I had placed by my head. Caledvwlch was warm, and as welcome to my hand as a hearth fire after a winter drizzle. I rolled over, got my knees beneath me, ready to move.
Whatever had entered the chapel was definitely there. I could see nothing, but I sensed its presence. It was prowling, creeping along the line of sleeping men, searching…it was at the opposite end of the porch from me, a pulsating core of darkness, cold, and desolation. And it was strong, frighteningly strong.
I waited for it, my pulse thudding dully in my ears and shaking me with the force of my life. I felt divided: I wished to run from the horror of it; I wished to leap up and destroy it.
The shadow had crept half-way along the line of men, still looking. Looking for me. It was not the one Aldwulf had summoned in Sorviodunum; it seemed, even, to be too strong for him to have sent, though I knew he must have sent it. He would want vengeance for what my sword had done to him.
I could see the creature now, a darker patch in the blackness, lying across the floor like the shadow of a tree, only there was no tree to cast it. I swallowed, and tasted again the sweetness that had been there when I rode Ceincaled, and I was glad that this demon had come.
…it had moved to Sion…
I cast aside my cloak and stood, drawing my sword.
It stopped, drawing in on itself, and for a long moment there was a thunderous silence.
Then it attacked, as Morgawse’s demon had attacked: I was smothered in a cold darkness, falling, unable to see, unable to breathe. I staggered, sickened and chilled to the marrow—by the Light, it was strong! And sweet Light, I was glad, and raised my sword between us; here was an enemy worthy of destruction! The fire of the sword flared into the blade, heating it in my hands, and the coldness in my mind blinked from existence. The shadow flew across on to the wall, trembling like the shadow of a tree in a storm. It radiated confusion, anger…and fear. It had not expected this. Steel does not hurt such creatures, and they have no fear of helpless men. This was different.
I smiled and advanced. “Come,” I said, my voice strange in the darkness and the unearthly silence which lay so close. “Come, my enemy. You are bound to this, and cannot return to your place until you have performed that which you were sent for.”
It made a high, thin, keening sound and leapt.
I was ready. I brought Caledvwlch down, and the creature gave a voiceless scream, screamed again, twisting on the floor, but now with rage; and before I could recover the sword it had slid across the floor and touched me. I fell backward. There was a deadly cold and intense pain which clawed inside my skull, and a flood of hatred, a black tide like the hatred I had once felt for my brother Agravain, or the hatred Morgawse felt for the world. I was drowning in it; I could not tell what were my own feelings and what the desires of my attacker. I did not know who I was, or where; all time and all clarity were swallowed in one gulf of darkness. In the confusion I seemed to remember something: my mother, clothed in terror, commanding; then Aldwulf, his face covered with a blood-stained bandage, kneeling before the runes screaming, “Come! Any power that will destroy Gwalchmai, the Light’s servant! Come, take your price!”—and I heard who had been wandering, trapped in the hated light of the world, and came, saying, “Where is Gwalchmai, son of Lot, son of the Queen of Darkness? I seek him.” No. It was not my memory, it was the demon’s. This was the power Morgawse had summoned that night on Samhain after I had fled, which had pursued me to Llyn Gwalch to destroy me. For nearly three years it had wandered the world, seeking me, unable to depart until it had carried out her command, and then Aldwulf had called, and it had found me again. The thought, the realization brought me to myself, as a man and apart from the dark power, and I brought the sword up, pressing the hilt against my forehead.
The demon released me, screaming, and fell across the floor. I got to my knees and slashed at it again, and it writhed madly, speaking to me now, pleading inside my mind without words and saying that it would obey me in everything if I would spare it. I laughed and brought the sword down.
The demon’s death cry shook the air, seeming to penetrate into the very fabric of the world; then faded slowly with the cold and the silence into nothingness.
I raised the sword again, panting, and looked for something else to fight.
Silence. The soft breathing of sleeping men, now without the drugged, labored sound of earlier. A night bird called outside, and the wind rustled in the eaves. I lowered the sword. The fire faded, both from the blade and from my mind, leaving peace and a great weariness.
My King, I thought. You are the greatest of lords, the most splendid of war-leaders. My thanks for the sword, and for the victory.
Then I went back to my pallet, sheathed Caledvwlch, and lay down, too tired to stand.
As I settled, Sion stirred, woke, raised his head. He looked about the chapel porch for something, paused, then looked towards me uncertainly.
“Gwalchmai?” he whispered.
I
was already half asleep, and did not want to talk, so I pretended to be wholly asleep. After a minute, Sion shrugged and lay down again. I closed my eyes. Sleep was like a boat, drifting lazily across a vast and peaceful ocean.
Nine
When I woke the next morning the feeling of peace remained. Sion, however, seemed anxious. He picked at the bread that the monks had provided and brooded. The other farmers discussed land and crops and the weather, laying plans, but Sion did not join them. Half-way through the meal he stopped eating, a piece of bread raised in one hand, and looked at me evenly. “I had a strange dream last night,” he announced.
“Oh?” I asked, amused. “What was it?”
Sion looked back at his bread, shoved it into his mouth and chewed moodily before replying, “A dark thing came into the chapel porch.”
My amusement vanished and I stared at him. He went on without looking at me, or at anyone else, though the others were now listening with some interest. “I felt it come in through the door and stand there a moment. At first it looked like a shadow, and then I blinked and saw that it was…well, a little like a man. Like a corpse, blackened and half-rotted. It started to come forward, shambling a little, like a trained bear, and I tried to wake up, because I was in a cold sweat at the sight of the thrice-damned thing, but I could not wake.”
“Ah,” said one of the farmers. “I knew a man who had a dream like that, and when he woke up in the morning he found that his daughter had died. They are strange things, dreams.”
“They are indeed,” said Sion, “but that was not the end of it.” He began addressing me again, refusing to be sidetracked. “You did wake up. You stood and drew your sword, and the sword lit up like a pine torch catching light. You held it between yourself and the thing of perdition, looking like you’d just been given your heart’s desire, and then the two of you began fighting.” Sion shrugged uneasily, eyed Caledvwlch, and continued. “And then it was as though you were frozen, just beginning the fight, and I looked up at the wall behind the black thing, and there was a woman standing there.”
I found that my hand was somehow about the hilt of my sword.
“A dark woman, she was, with a white, starved face and terrible eyes, more beautiful than any woman I ever saw, but with something sick about her. I’ve seen such a look as that in a town beggar starving in a gutter and cursing the by-passers, but never in some proud beauty like that woman. She saw you about to fight the spirit of Yffern, and reached out to touch it; as she did, the darkness tripled. But then she looked up, and grew angry, and I looked behind me and saw there was a man there, a yellow-haired man cloaked in light, and he raised his hand, forbidding the woman to interfere.”
I sat and stared at Sion. I started to speak, could think of nothing to say. I had considered this man a simple farmer. A farmer he was, but not simple. Men are not simple, and I had forgotten that others, besides myself, might serve the Light. “And that was the end of the dream?” I asked. Even to myself, my voice sounded strained.
Sion shook his head. The other farmers looked confusedly from one to the other of us, but Sion ignored them.
“No. But the dream changed after that. Suddenly I was not standing in the chapel porch, but on a great, level plain full of people. The sky was very dark in the east, as though a thunderstorm were about to break. In the West I saw the emperor with his warband, and suddenly the dragon broke from their standard and rose into the air, glowing like hot gold, and then it seemed that I was standing in the middle of a battle, for all the people on the plain had begun to fight. Near me there was a tall man, a Saxon, from his looks; the left side of his face was scarred, and he held a black flame in his left hand. The dragon passed over, and I shut my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, the Saxon was dead, and over him stood a young man with pale hair, wearing a brooch in the shape of a lion. There were other struggles going on all about me, but I don’t remember them now. Everything was in confusion.”
The trader snorted suddenly and shook his head. “Indeed it is. Confused nonsense. Anyone who expects more from dreams is a fool.”
“I’ve not finished,” snapped Sion. “Let me tell this tale to the end, and if you do not wish to listen, don’t. It kept growing darker, and the shouting and clash of arms grew louder, and the dragon kept flying back and forth along the lines trailing fire; then there came a flash of lightning from heaven, and I saw the ground behind me scattered with bodies, and one I noticed especially, a man in a red cloak, lying dead. There came a burst of thunder, and darkness full of fires, and I turned away, because I was afraid. When I turned I saw a man standing there, and he caught my arm. He was the emperor’s Chief Poet, Taliesin—when the emperor took the purple, I fought with the army, so I recognized the man from then. But in the dream he was wearing a star upon his forehead, and he was the only one, in all that dream, who saw me. He said, ‘Remember these things, Sion ap Rhys, and do not be afraid. Though they are terrible, no harm will come to you by them. Have faith’ So I bowed my head and all became dark. And then,” Sion took a deep breath, “Then I woke up.” He shrugged. “But all was quiet, and you were asleep.”
The trader laughed at this, and Sion scowled.
“Dreams are strange things, to be sure,” said the farmer who had spoken earlier. “But I cannot make head or tail of that one. I never heard of anyone fighting devils in dreams. But a dream about the Pendragon, that is plain enough. The thunderstorm would be the Saxons. Only I could not tell what they did, in your dream.”
“It is nonsense,” the trader repeated. “Though to be sure, you had us listening. But a man cannot heed dreams. I knew an old fool once who…”
Sion stood abruptly. “I think I will go into the chapel and pray.”
“Indeed,” said one of the other farmers. “Light a candle, and perhaps have the monks say a mass. That may avert it.”
“Avert what?” asked the first farmer. The second shrugged.
“I will join you,” I said to Sion.
He gave me another of his steady looks, then nodded in satisfaction. The others looked at me uneasily, shook their heads. One crossed himself. As we left the farmers began talking in whispers, while the trader tried to resume his story.
There was a monk in the chapel, replacing the burned-out candles. Sion ignored him and knelt before the altar, crossing himself and beginning to mutter a prayer in Latin. I knelt slightly behind him, wondering. It was indeed a strange dream. Like the farmers, I could not guess at what most of it meant, but some of it was frighteningly plain. Sion was an unlikely prophet, but I wished I could better understand the dream.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo,” said Sion, as though reciting something, “Glory to God in the heights, and in Earth peace to men of good will…” He went on in this vein for a bit, then stopped, and stared silently at the crucifix. I wished I understood his religion better. It seemed to worship the Light, and I did not know how to do that on my own. I knew just enough to disbelieve the rumors and strange tales about that faith, the stories of cannibalism and unnatural orgies which had been discussed at great length in the Boys’ House. It would be comforting to have some fine words like Sion’s to say to my lord now, after the victory of the night before and now this dream.
Not knowing what to say, I drew my sword again and rested it before me, one hand on each of the cross-pieces. I felt again, suddenly and stronger than before, that deep silent regard, and again wished to sing, but all I could remember was a song to the sun, in Irish.
“Hail to you, bright morning,
Shattering the sky of night,
Blazing fair, victoriously dawning,
Ever-young, the new-born light!
Welcome is this morning,
Golden-handed, sunlight lender:
Welcome is the day’s High King,
Light’s liege-lord, morning’s sender.”
It seemed appropriate enough. The monk finished with the candles and left, his feet making soft padding sounds on the wooden floor. The door
closed behind him, and we remained, staring at the altar.
The ruby in the hilt of Caledvwlch began to glow, burned brighter; the light steadied and became more intense, casting a clear rose-colored light brighter than the candles. Sion saw it cast his shadow before him and turned. He stared for a moment, then let out a long sigh.
“It is true, then,” he said. “I was not certain.”
“I know that some of it is true,” I replied. “The rest, though, is beyond my understanding. I am only human, Sion ap Rhys.”
Sion blew out his cheeks. “I know.”
I was surprised, and showed it.
“Oh, I know,” Sion explained. “Indeed, I did think differently yesterday. You came from the forest out of nowhere, and I looked once and said to myself, ‘It is one of the People of the Hills.’ But you were obliging with the cart, and got yourself covered in mud pushing it loose on that Yffern-bent track, and I thought, ‘Perhaps not.’ All the way to Ynys Witrin I was uncertain. I have dreams, you see, and sometimes one has a sense of things. It runs in the family. Usually I ignore it—the supernatural is best left alone—but I know enough to pay heed when something strange is happening; and even those farmers can sense that there is something strange about you, and they knowing no more than a Saxon’s sheep does. Yesterday, when I mentioned that witch, just before we came to Ynys Witrin, I was nearly certain that you were of the Fair Ones, and you had taken a human form for some purpose of your own. But when we arrived, and you tried to give me your cloak in return for half a sack of flour, and afterwards followed me into the chapel here and prayed, I knew that you had to be human. The People of the Hills don’t pray. And besides, it made no sense that one of the Fair Ones would get covered with mud about a cart of wheat flour. Only you have had dealings with the Otherworld, haven’t you? There is still something strange about you, though today it is less strong.”
Hawk of May (Down the Long Way 1) Page 16