‘Don’t just stand there gawping! Feed my fire!’
‘This wood is green—’ Gwion felt he should warn her.
‘Good, good.’ She insisted he proceed. ‘Dead wood has no life force . . . the greener the wood the better.’
So Gwion unstrapped the branches and used his small blade to strip them down into a manageable length so he could bundle and set them around the base of the cauldron. The green flame was fascinating and frightening – it had no heat whatsoever, yet it consumed the wood as the cauldron simmered.
‘Good.’ The crone was pleased. ‘Get more! Much more. Flowers are also favoured; bring flowers.’
Gwion boggled at the request – the winter chill had yet to lift – but he felt around his belt and came up empty handed. ‘I was ambushed by a monster . . . I must have lost my axe in the struggle.’
‘A monster?’ The crone was clearly affronted by his terminology. ‘If you judge everyone by their appearance, I hold little hope for you. By what name are you known?’
‘I am Gwion, son of Gwreang of Llanfair.’ It was only after he’d answered that he realised he might have done himself a disservice by being so honest, as a witch could do great harm with just a name.
‘Well, a monster would not have left you breathing, Gwion Bach.’
The lady in black suppressed her amusement at her mother’s perception, too genteel to openly mock him as the crone did. Bach meant ‘small’, and although it was true that he was slight of build for his seventeen years on this earth, he did not appreciate the mockery.
‘You are right, of course.’ Gwion bowed his head to concede correction, although he felt his was a fair mistake.
‘Give him an axe,’ the crone instructed her daughter. ‘Let him at least be useful.’
The lady in black proceeded to a large chest by her mother and from it pulled an axe, which was the most perfectly crafted tool Gwion had ever laid eyes on. ‘This will slice through wood as if it were lard.’
Gwion admired the craftsmanship as he took possession of the hatchet, which was clearly not crafted by any man of this earth.
‘Get to it!’
The witch’s command spurred Gwion towards the forest in search of anything blooming.
Some mistletoe clinging to a rowan tree and a few early primrose blooms growing in the grassland beyond the wood provided a token offering of flowers and the new axe made quick work of gathering the fresh branches Keridwen required.
Gwion did not pause from his chore to contemplate what he was doing, for fear of displeasing the crone. His gut instinct was in conflict with his inherent flight tendency. This was the perfect opportunity to flee this calamity yet although it might not appear so, he knew he was already ensnared in a trap. Where would he go? If he did not make a stand with his combrogi now, he may not have a village to return to! Defying the crone’s orders would not pass without retribution and there was nowhere in the middle kingdoms that you could hide from the Otherworld. Gwion’s life to date had been tough, joyless and pointless – at least if he died in battle, or at the hands of a witch, it would make for a notable end to the tedium of his existence. That’s what he consciously told himself, but deep inside he wanted to aid the lady in black – he felt honoured by her need of him.
Upon his return to the gully with his haul, Gwion’s eyes met with a scene so horrific that he took cover behind a tree to observe before proceeding.
The cart that Gwion had seen wheeled past him earlier was in the glen. Its driver, Morda, had been collecting the bodies and body parts of their dead countrymen, and was currently tossing the remains into the witch’s cauldron, along with the bodies of their foe. At first Gwion was sickened that the hero warlords he’d heard so many wondrous tales about would allow the remains of their combrogi to be treated so ill. What could the witch want with the dead?
‘In the name of Don, I feed the fire!
That it might burn as we desire.
Let it be fuelled by our will
As any bubble upon a kill.’
The witch invoked the words as she held her hands over the rising vapours.
From the luminous haze within the cauldron a hand reached up, fingers tensed as they grappled for the rim. Transfixed, Gwion feared Keridwen was conjuring another monster to the cause as a second hand appeared and then a third and fourth.
Fighters, dead and dismembered only moments before, pulled themselves out of the green slime of the enchantment and over the rim of their containment where they fell with sloshes onto the ground. Without so much as a word, the fighters rose to their feet and reclaimed their weapons from Morda, who directed them back to the battlefield to fight again. ‘Kill Hengist.’ He sent the resurrected invaders back to their warlord as other barrow-men wheeled in corpses to add to the crone’s concoction.
An army of the dead. He’d heard legends of a cauldron used to such ends, but never in his wildest dreams had Gwion thought such an event could be possible in this day and age. The fact sent a shiver down his spine as the men who exited the fire seemed more like soulless corpses than men reborn. If he died today, would he join the ranks of these walking dead?
Friend and foe returned to the battle to fight side by side. How shocking it would be for their enemy to see their comrades resurrected and turned against them. Surely it would not take long for the invaders to realise that their every loss was the opposition’s gain. As extreme as this tactic was, Gwion saw the brilliance of the strategy, for such an unnatural threat would drive the Saxons out of their lands permanently.
‘I need more fuel! Where is Gwion Bach?’ the witch hollered.
In that instant, Gwion realised that his role this day was just as vital as any warrior on the field – without fuel their advantage would be lost. ‘I have it!’ He sprang from his hiding place to the crone’s aid.
‘Quickly, lad,’ she urged, appearing surprised and appeased that he’d not turned tail and fled. She observed Gwion as he offloaded his bundle and immediately began snapping, cutting and bundling the fuel. ‘Keep pace with me this day and you will have earned the favour of the Goddess.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Gwion continued to work his fastest, hoping that the favour she spoke of would get him out of this alive.
Dozens of foraging trips later and the bodies of the dead were beginning to pile up in the gully, awaiting rebirth in the cauldron. It appeared that a young Cymry noble had brought the production line to a halt. A few years younger than himself by Gwion’s guess, the Lord stood addressing the witch and he appeared most displeased. ‘This is not what was agreed.’
‘I said I would bring the fallen back from the dead, and that is exactly what I have done,’ Keridwen countered.
‘They are all mute! And witless! I had to prevent one from killing our own.’
‘It was not my idea to resurrect the enemy as well; the situation was bound to get confusing.’ The crone looked bored by the complaints. ‘They are the perfect fighting force: they are silent, they don’t need to eat, sleep, rest, or be paid. They live only to fight for us.’
‘And what do we tell their families? There is little point to winning this war if the people feel betrayed!’
Gwion thought the young noble very courageous, challenging the witch thus. He was barely more than a boy, yet his countenance was that of a seasoned leader. The way the young man glared at the witch and spoke in earnest, commanded attention – Gwion was greatly in awe of him.
‘When the Saxons are subdued,’ the crone said, ‘all those resurrected will return to their final repose, just as the fates have denoted. Tell their families that they fought like demons and died for the glory of Cymru.’
Gwion’s attention was diverted to the piled bodies awaiting resurrection. Did his eyes deceive him, or was one of the corpses on Morda’s cart rising? ‘Morda, behind you!’
Morda, who had been watching the debate between the witch and the noble, spun around to confront a huge warrior. The Saxon eye-gouged the little barrow-man, reduc
ing his eyeballs to bloodied pools in one swift motion. Morda screamed in agony and was pushed aside – the next obstacle in the warrior’s path to the witch was the Lady Tegid.
Gwion ran towards the huge hulk of a man, with no thought as to what he’d do once he reached him.
Lady Tegid was diverted by Morda’s cry and she gasped to realise danger was in such close proximity to her. The Saxon had procured a sword from the pile of weapons Morda had collected from the dead, and was clearly of the mind to smite the Lady Tegid for her part in the ambush.
‘Cymru am byth!’ Gwion proclaimed his fealty to his kingdom forever and, struggling to unholster his axe from his belt as he ran, he swung the bundle of branches that hung on his back around under his left arm.
Sidetracked from his target to combat Gwion’s charge, the intruder turned his attention towards him.
Gwion held his bundle on its end and rammed it onto the extended sword of his opponent, the warrior’s blade disappearing inside the branches. He squeezed the bound bundle of sticks underarm and was stunned when he managed to rip the sword from the Saxon’s hand, as he finally freed his axe from its holster. ‘Ha-ha!’ Gwion was impressed with himself only long enough to realise that he’d failed to notice the shield in his opponent’s other hand.
As the wooden face of the shield was thrust at him, Gwion swung the axe in his right hand to block the strike. The force of his swing was such that his axe blade lodged in the shield and would not come out.
The Saxon laughed off his heroic attempt and Gwion panicked as his weapon was yanked unexpectedly from his grasp. The Saxon swung at him again, this time with the intent to kill – Gwion saw the determination in his attacker’s eyes. Instinctively, he raised his bundle to block the strike, but was not fast enough to prevent the sharp iron rim of his opponent’s shield from clouting him in the forehead.
Gwion heard the crunch of his own skull shattering under the blow, but all feeling was suspended as he flew backwards and his body slammed into the ground, robbing him of breath. ‘Aw . . .’ he gasped as his entire body screamed in agony, yet he did not have the air to bellow his grievance. Gwion knew his head was split wide open – he could feel the breeze stinging the exposed flesh around the throbbing wound. The sticky, warm ooze of blood flooded his left eye and made it difficult to focus on his combatant – was he coming to finish him off?
With waning sight he witnessed the young nobleman push the Lady Tegid aside to safety, before he took the intruder’s head off in one clean stroke. The intense throbbing from his wound and lack of oxygen in his lungs forced Gwion’s remaining eye closed, whereupon his consciousness plummeted into darkness. The heated flush of panic he’d felt pre-strike gave way to the chill of death’s approach.
If Gwyn ap Nudd was coming for his soul, Gwion had given his life to save the most beautiful woman on earth – if no one else remembered his meaningless existence, he hoped that she always would.
THE LIVING DEAD
If the sun has set for you,
tears shall burn my cheek evermore.
So selflessly you gave to me,
as none who’ve gone before.
A siren’s song filtered through his unconscious bliss – was it one of the Night Hunter’s waifs, beckoning his soul to her lord’s side in the Otherworld?
Does the forest choir hush in reverence to the stars above?
Do you intend to join them?
Don’t leave me lonely in a world without love.
It was gratifying to learn he’d been right – the sirens of Annwn sounded just like the Lady Tegid. With the cherished memory of her dawn performance, such pain gripped his head that it forced Gwion to stir from his slumber with a moan.
‘There you are.’
The gentle voice compelled Gwion’s eyes open and when the Lady Tegid’s radiant face came into focus, he felt the vision well worth the agony of his return to the land of the living. ‘The battle?’
‘Was won; the Saxons have fled . . . for now.’ Her smile made the delivery of the news all the sweeter.
‘Llanfair?’ He enquired after the welfare of his village.
‘Is as it ever was.’
Gwion’s relief gave way to pride – for he’d had a small hand in the preservation. He’d never had cause to be proud of himself before, and the feeling was a revelation – this was why men risked all to fight for a cause. ‘I thought myself bound for the eternal bliss of Annwn.’
‘As did we.’ The Lady lifted a cloth from a bowl of water by her and wrung out the excess fluid. ‘Hence my song to call you back to life.’ She gently wiped his face and moistened his lips. Such attention was pure bliss, an honour beyond reckoning.
‘How bad is my wound?’ Were her attentions just an act of pity for the maimed?
‘Just a very bad bump and a scratch,’ she told him happily. ‘You are as fair as you ever were.’
She thought him fair? The notion made his cheeks burn with embarrassed delight. ‘But I was hit by a shield edge? I felt blood flowing.’ He finally raised his fingers to inspect the spot and was stunned to find all as the Lady described. There was no trace of the bloody ooze that he’d thought he’d felt; his face and hair were clean.
‘The mind can play tricks when struck witless.’ She cupped her hand over his brow in comfort. A soothing, warm energy poured from her hand into his forehead and his eyes lulled closed as his pain ebbed away beneath her touch.
‘But I felt sure—’
‘Count your blessings, Gwion Bach, not all were so fortunate as you.’
A third voice in their conversation broke the enchantment. The Lady withdrew her hand as Gwion gazed about to get his bearings.
He was in a small roundhouse that held only one other patient – Morda, the little barrow-man, whose damaged eyes were bound with bandages, bloodied from his injuries.
‘Hush now, Morda.’ Lady Tegid, seated on the ground between them, turned to pat the blind man’s arm. ‘You and I would both be counted among the dead this day, if not for Gwion.’ She returned her gaze to him. ‘It was very brave of you to run to my rescue as you did. Without your warning, the invader may have prevailed, and the day’s venture would have ended very differently for the Cymry and for me.’
Gwion was flattered that she felt he’d done her a great service. ‘I believe that it was the young noble in disagreement with your mother who dispatched the threat against your life . . . I just got in the villain’s way long enough for the hero to reach you.’
‘He is a warrior well accustomed to smiting such threats.’ She dismissed Gwion’s humble modesty. ‘But you, Gwion, with no such surety of skill, gambled your life to save mine and I shall not soon forget it.’
‘I got in the way too.’ Morda objected to Gwion getting all the accolades.
‘You are my hero too, Morda,’ she appeased the blind man, though her gaze quickly returned to Gwion. ‘I have three heroes to thank for my deliverance, and I am beholden.’
‘To some more than others!’ Morda added, disgruntled.
‘Shush. None of that. I owe you both a great debt, so if there is any favour I can grant in return, you have only to ask.’
Morda gave a huff. ‘What use am I blind? How will I sustain myself now?’
‘Rest your mind, I have taken care of all.’ Lady Tegid wiped Morda’s face, the little to be found of it between bandages and beard. ‘Rest and regain your strength.’
‘Please, Lady . . . there is one thing I would ask,’ Gwion ventured, and she looked back to him expectantly. ‘To know my Lady’s birth name?’
‘She is the Lady Tegid to you, boy,’ Morda grouched.
‘I meant no disrespect—’
Her finger upon Gwion’s lips silenced his apology. ‘I am Creirwy.’ She withdrew her touch.
The name had connotations that made Gwion smile. ‘Creirwy . . . it suits you very well.’
‘By your understanding the name means “a jewel”.’ The Lady’s smile was forced. ‘But in the old tongue
of my mother’s folk it means “a token egg”, for I am the inconsequential proof of my mother’s foolish interest in the middle kingdoms.’
‘Come now, my Lady, that was not my mistress’s intended meaning.’ Morda defended the witch he served. ‘And you have earned the respect of her kindred now.’
‘Hm,’ Creirwy scoffed. ‘Now they have found a good use for me.’
Gwion desperately wanted to know more about her grievance, but felt it rude to pry.
The flap of tanned hide that hung in the only doorway was flung aside and drew the attention of all – even Morda, who turned to the source of the noise out of habit.
A young man, about Gwion’s age, entered and made his apologies to the Lady within.
The fellow’s clothes were of coarsely woven cloth – unlike the leathers, fine cloth and fur favoured by the nobles. Yet the chain mail of a high-ranking soldier covered most of his arms and torso, and he sported a sword and scabbard on each hip, in addition to a sheathed dagger tucked through his belt. Gwion couldn’t help but note that the man’s weaponry was the most ornate part of his attire. His was a rags to riches story, Gwion imagined; he appeared a man who’d earned his rank and the King’s trust by valour, and been richly rewarded for it.
‘Gilmore,’ the Lady Tegid gave him leave to speak.
‘My liege enquires after the status of your patient?’
‘See for yourself.’ Creirwy stood to move out of the knight’s line of sight.
Upon seeing Gwion awake, the soldier appeared amazed. ‘My Lady’s healing powers are truly miraculous.’
‘I had very little to do with it.’ She referred him back to the patient.
‘How do you fare?’ Gilmore’s eyes were set on Gwion, but Morda didn’t know that.
‘I am honoured to have been of service to your king,’ Morda replied as Gwion raised himself onto his elbows.
‘I concur.’ Gwion nursed his head as he struggled up to a seated position.
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