The Endless Knot (38 page)

Once more I felt the hands of men on me. I was encircled in strong arms and lifted off my feet. Laughing, I was hauled from the path of the writhing serpent. I glimpsed men's faces in the darkness, eyes wide with awe, mouths agape in fright and wonder as they carried me away from the writhing Wyrm and out of danger.

The death throes of Yr Gyrem Rua were harrowing to behold. The serpent screamed—curling, twisting, spinning, crushing itself in its own coils, clawed feet raking the soft belly, battered wings rent and broken. The forked tail lashed and stung, striking the earth in a violent frenzy.

The Wyrm's paroxysms carried it to the portal of the palace shrine. The tail smashed the stone, loosened the ancient pillars, and knocked them from their bases. Chunks of stonework began falling from the time-worn façade. The serpent spun in a knot of convoluted wrath, shattering the forecourt of the obnoxious temple, which began to crumble inward like an age-brittle skull. The dying serpent squirmed, beating against the hard shell of its cavern sanctuary. Red stone crashed and red dust rose like a bloody mist in the moonlight. The frenzy gradually began to ease as the life force ebbed. The movements became languid and sluggish; the sibilant shrieks dwindled to a pathetic strangled whine, its last cry a monstrous parody of a child in distress.

Slowly, slowly, the potency of its own poison began to work its deadly effect. Even so, the red Wyrm was some time dying. Long after the thrashing had stopped, the forked tail twitched and a broken wing stump stirred.

As I stood watching, my eyesight dimmed and my limbs began to twitch. The trembling increased. I fastened my teeth onto my lower lip and bit hard to keep from crying out. I wrapped my arms around my chest and hugged myself tight to keep my limbs from shuddering.

“Llew! Llew!” a sharp voice assaulted me.

Pain exploded in my head. I felt hands on me. The taste of blood filled my mouth; words bubbled from my bleeding tongue and I prated in a language unknown to those around me. Faces clustered tight over me, but I did not know them—faces without identity, familiar strangers who stared in anguish. My head throbbed, pounding with a fierce and steady ache, and my vision diffused, dwindling to vague patterns of light and dark, shapes with no clear features.

And then I tumbled over the edge into senselessness. I felt waves of warm darkness lapping over my consciousness and I succumbed to oblivion.

I awoke with a start as they laid me on the ground beside the fire. The awen had left me like a gale that has passed, leaving the rain-soaked grass flattened in its wake. I struggled to sit up.

“Lie still,” advised Tegid. Placing his hands on my chest, he pressed me down on the oxhide.

“Help me stand,” I said; my words slurred slightly as my wooden tongue mumbled in my mouth.

“All is well,” the bard insisted. “Rest now.”

I had no strength to resist. I lay back. “How is Bran?”

“Bran is well. His head hurts, but he is awake and moving. Alun is unharmed—a scratch; it will heal.”

“Good.”

“Rest now. It will be daylight soon, and we will leave this place.”

I closed my eyes and slept. When I woke again the sun was peeping cautiously above the trees. The men had struck camp and were ready to go. They were waiting for me to rise, which I did at once. My arms and shoulders were stiff, and my back felt like a timber plank. But I was in one piece.

Tegid and Scatha hovered nearby. I joined them and they greeted me with good news. “We have scouted the high road beyond the shrine,” Scatha reported, “and it has been used recently.”

A spark of hope quickened my heart. “How recently?”

“It is difficult to know for certain,” the bard answered.

“How recently?” I demanded again.

“I cannot say.”

“Show me.”

“Gladly.” Scatha, haggard and near exhaustion, smiled and her features relaxed. “All is ready. You have but to give the command.”

“Then let us go from here,” I said. “It is a hateful place and I never want to see it again.”

We passed the ruined temple to reach the road. Little of the shrine remained intact. Scarcely one stone stood upon another; it was all a jumble of red rubble. In a twisted mess amidst the debris lay the wrecked body of Yr Gyrem Rua. A single broken wing fluttered in the wind like a tattered flag. The venom of its bite was quick about its grisly work of dissolving the muscled flesh; decay was already far advanced. The stink of the decomposing Wyrm brought tears to our eyes as we rode quickly past.

While it stood, the temple had hidden much of the road that could now be seen stretching out straight and wide, leading on through the forest and away from the river. It was, as Scatha had said, a proper high road: paved with flat stone, fitted together so closely and with such cunning that no grass grew between the joins.

“Show me the evidence of its use,” I said as Tegid reined in beside me.

“You will see it just ahead,” he replied. We continued on a short distance and stopped. Tegid dismounted and led me to the side of the road. There, nestled like round, brown eggs in the long grass, I saw the droppings of perhaps three or four horses. A little way beyond, the grass was trampled and matted where a camp had been established. There was no evidence of a fire, so we could not tell how long ago the travelers had sojourned there. Nevertheless, I reckoned it could not have been more than a few days. We returned to our horses, remounted, and moved out upon the high road with a better heart than at any time since entering the Foul Land.

28
O
N THE
H
IGH
R
OAD

O
nce on the high road, we journeyed with something approaching speed—a mixed blessing, as it soon exposed the loss of our horses. Those on foot could not keep pace, and we were constantly having to halt the mounted column to allow the stragglers to catch up. Thus we were obliged to rotate the men, foot-to-saddle, with increasing frequency as the swifter pace began to tell.

At the end of the day, we had traveled a fair distance. Since we planned to camp right on the road itself, we pushed on until it became too dark to see more than a few hundred paces ahead. There were stars shining in the sky and, though still cold, the air seemed not so sharp as on other nights. This served clear notice that time was passing. The weather was changing; Sollen was receding, and Gyd would soon arrive.

I begrudged the time—every passing day was a day without Goewyn and empty for the lack. I felt an urgency in my spirit that nothing, save the light in Goewyn's eye, could appease. I was restless and craved the sight of my beloved. The infant was growing now within her, and I wondered if it had begun to show. I repeated her name with every step.

As Cynan and I walked together, taking our turn on foot, I asked, “Do you miss Tángwen greatly?”

His head bent low. “My heart is sore for yearning, I miss her so much.”

“You never say anything,” I prodded gently.

“It is my heartache. I keep it to myself.”

“Why? We share in this pain together, brother.”

Cynan swung his spear shaft forward, rapping the butt sharply on the stone, but kept his eyes fixed on the road. “I keep it to myself,” he repeated, “for I would not grieve you with my complaint. Bad enough that Goewyn is stolen; you do not need my troubles added to your own.”

He would say no more about it, so I let the matter rest. His forbearance humbled me. That Cynan could forswear the very mention of his own hurt lest it increase mine, shamed me; doubly so, since I had scarcely given
his
suffering a second thought. How could I be worthy of such loyalty?

That night we came to the end of the little grain that remained, and it was a sorry meal.

“The sooner we leave this accursed forest, the better,” grumbled Bran Bresal. We sat at council around the fire while the men ate, wondering what to do. “It cannot go on forever.”

“Nor can we,” I pointed out. “Without meat and meal, we will soon grow too weak to travel.”

“We have meat on the hoof,” Scatha suggested delicately. “Though every horse we take means that another warrior must walk.”

“I have never eaten horsemeat,” Cynan muttered. “I do not intend to start now.”

“I have eaten horse,” said Tegid. “And I was glad to. It warmed the belly and strengthened the hand to fight.”

I remembered the time Tegid meant: the flight to Findargad in the mountains of northern Prydain. Then, as now, it was winter. We were pursued by the Coranyid, Lord Nudd's demon host, while making our way to Meldryn Mawr's high stronghold. Freezing, starving, we fought our way step by faltering step to the safety of the fortress. We were not freezing this time, but the starving had begun.

“Nothing good can come of eating a horse,” rumbled Cynan, pressing his chin to his chest. “It is a low endeavor.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Scatha, “but there are worse.”

I stirred at the sound of footsteps, and Emyr appeared, anxious and uneasy. He spoke directly to Tegid. “Penderwydd, it is Alun. I think you should come and see him.”

Rising without a word, Tegid hurried away.

“What has happened to him?” asked Cynan, jumping to his feet. Bran had risen at Emyr's approach and was already following.

We fell into step with Emyr. “Garanaw found him sitting back there,” the Raven said, indicating the road we had that day traveled. “He took his turn walking, but he did not join us when we stopped to make camp. Garanaw rode back to look for him.”

Alun sat slumped by the campfire. The other Ravens hovered near, quietly apprehensive. They did not speak when we joined them, but gathered close as Tegid stooped before their stricken swordbrother.

“Alun,” began the bard, “what is this I hear about you taking your ease by the road?”

Alun's head came up with a smile, but there was a pain behind his eyes, and his skin glowed with a mist of perspiration. “Well,” he replied in a brave tone, glancing around the circle of faces above him, “I have not been sleeping as well as I might—what with one thing and another.”

Scatha knelt beside him. “Where is the hurt, Alun?” she asked, and put her hand on his shoulder. The touch, though gentle, brought a gasp from the Raven. The color drained from his face.

Gently, she reached to unfasten the brooch that held his cloak. Alun put his hand over hers and shook his head slightly. “Please.”

“Let us help you, brother,” Tegid said softly.

He hesitated, then closed his eyes and nodded. Scatha deftly unpinned the cloak and loosened the siarc. Alun made no further move to hinder her, and soon the shoulder was exposed. A ragged welt curved over the top of the shoulder toward the shoulder blade.

“Bring a torch,” the bard commanded, and a moment later Niall handed a firebrand forward. Tegid took the torch and, stepping behind the seated Alun, held the light near.

“Oh, Alun!” sighed Scatha. Several of the Ravens muttered, and Bran looked away.

“Fine brave warriors you are!” complained Alun. “Has no one seen a scratch before?”

There was a small rip in the siarc, and little blood; indeed, the scratch itself had already scabbed over. But the flesh beneath was red and swollen, with a ghastly green-black tinge.

Tegid studied the shoulder carefully, holding the torch near and probing gently with his fingertips. Then he placed his hand flat against the swollen shoulder. “The wound is hot to the touch,” he said. “It is fevered.”

Scatha reached a hand to Alun's head and pressed her palm to his brow. She withdrew it almost at once. “You are roasting, Alun.”

“Perhaps I have been sitting too near the fire,” he laughed weakly. “And here I thought I was cold.”

“I will not lie to you, brother,” Tegid said, handing me the torch and squatting before Alun once more. “It is not good. The wound has sickened. I must open it again and clean it properly.”

Alun rolled his eyes, but his exasperation was halfhearted and mingled with relief. “All this fuss over a scratch?”

“Man, Alun, if that right there is only a scratch,” said Cynan, who could contain himself no longer, “then my spear is a pot sticker.”

“Bring fresh water—and clean cloths, if you can find any,” Tegid ordered impatiently. Cynan left at once, taking Niall with him. “I need a knife,” the bard continued, “and I need it sharp.”

“Mine will serve,” said Bran, pushing forward. He drew the blade from its place at his belt and handed it to Tegid.

The bard tested the edge with his thumb and gave it back, saying, “Strop it again. I want it new-edged and keen.”

“And hold the blade to the fire coals when you have finished,” I instructed. Bran raised his eyebrows at this, but I insisted.

“Do it,” said the Raven Chief, handing the knife to Drustwn, who hastened to the task. Tegid turned to the remaining Ravens. “Gather moss, and spread oxhides and fleeces; prepare a bed.”

“I will not need a bed, certainly,” Alun grumbled.

“When I am through,” Tegid replied, “
one
of us will be glad of a place to lay his head. I will use it if you will not.” He nodded to Garanaw and Emyr, who turned and disappeared at once.

Scatha and I retreated a little apart. “I mislike the look of this,” Scatha confided. “I fear the serpent's poison is in him.”

“If the poison was in him, he would have been truly dead by now,” I pointed out. “Help Tegid, and come to me afterwards.”

Thus, I set about keeping myself and the rest of the men busy until Tegid and Scatha had finished. The horses were picketed and the fires banked high; Cynan and I positioned the guards and saw the men settled to sleep before returning to the fire to wait.

I dozed, and after a while Cynan nudged me awake. “Here now! He is coming.”

I yawned and sat up. “Well, bard?”

Tegid sat down heavily. Fatigue sat like a burden on his shoulders. Cynan poured a cup of water and offered it to him. “If I had a draught of ale,” Cynan said, “I would give it to you. As soon as I get another, it is yours.”