The Endless Knot (44 page)

The appearance of the vehicle shocked and disturbed me more than I could say. But I had no time to consider the implications. It was more crucial than ever now to learn the enemy's strength and position. I ran headlong down the road, dodging behind rocks, pausing to catch my breath and lurching on. Bran ran behind me and we entered the valley, staying well out of sight behind the slag heaps and rock piles.

A tainted rain began to fall. It left black-rimmed spots where it splashed onto my skin. The laborers took no notice. The red dust slowly turned to red mud, transforming the valley into a vast oozy quagmire. Yet the workers toiled on.

Bran and I crept under an overhanging boulder and settled down to watch. The first thing that struck me, after the shock of the desolation and the presence of
Dyn Dythri
, the outworld strangers, was the relentless labor of the miners. They worked as driven slaves, yet I could not see anyone compelling them. There were, as far as I could see, no overseers, no taskmasters. There was no one directing the frenzied toil. Slaves under an invisible lash, then, the mudmen struggled and strove, sinking under their burdens, floundering in a thick stew of ordure and sludge and soot.

The poor, ignorant brutes
, I thought, and wondered who, or what, had so enslaved them.

There was a track made of cut logs thrown across the mire on the far side of the valley. I watched as men fought their way up from the pits and trenches to stumble along this track toward the dam. The track crossed the dam and descended out of sight behind it in the direction of the smokestack. This seemed to be the workers' destination.

I considered whether the impetus for the wretches' toil might derive from the object of that labor, rather than any external force or threat. Perhaps they were enslaved by some deep passion within themselves. Maybe they
wanted
to work like beasts of burden. Lacking any other explanation, I decided they must be prisoners of their own rapacity.

“I want to see what is behind the dam,” I told Bran. Slowly, carefully, we began making our way around the slag heap. We had not crept more than a dozen paces when we came face-to-face with two mudmen digging into the mire with crude wooden shovels. They looked at us with dull eyes, and I thought they would raise a cry at seeing intruders. But they merely bent their backs and proceeded with their work without so much as a backward glance as we pushed past and continued on our way.

This was the way of it elsewhere too. There were so many slaves about that it was impossible not to be seen by some of them, but when we were seen, our presence went unremarked. On the whole they took no notice of us, or if they did, they appeared not to care. If they showed no fear, neither did they show any interest. Their labor was, apparently, all-absorbing; they gave themselves to it completely.

“Strange,” concluded Bran, shaking his head slowly. “If they were beasts, I would not work them so.”

Upon reaching the dam, we skirted the track and kept to an upper path so that we could observe the ground below from a distance. The chimney we had seen was part of an untidy complex of structures. Attached to the largest of these buildings was the spewing smokestack, and from this came the ceaseless dull rumble of heavy machinery. Into this main building trudged an endless succession of miners lugging their burdens in one portal and emerging with empty bags and baskets from another.

My spirits, already low, sank even further. For, if there had been any uncertainty before, every last particle of doubt crumbled away before the belching smoke and rumble of heavy machinery. There was no sign of Paladyr or any warriors; nor of any place large or secure enough to hold hostages—except the factory, and I doubted we would find them there.

“Goewyn and Tángwen are not here,” I told Bran. “Let us return to camp.” I saw the question on his face, so before he could ask, I added, “The Dyn Dythri have come in force to plunder Tir Aflan. We will tell the others what we have seen and make our battle plan. There's no time to lose.”

Bran and I turned away to begin making our long way back to where the war band waited. We had almost gained the cover of the smoke layer when I heard the hateful rumble of the vehicle returning.

My mind raced ahead. “That rock!”Whirling, I pointed to a place in the road behind us. A large rock marked the bend: there Bran and I could hide. Upon reaching the place, we flattened ourselves behind the rock and waited for the thing to pass.

I heard the motor race as the driver downshifted into the bend. The vehicle's tires squelched on the wet stone a few short paces from where we hid. The sound ground away, dropping rapidly as it receded into the valley. We waited until we could no longer hear it, and then crept back onto the road. We retrieved the horses and stopped to catch our breath. The valley spread far behind and below us, dull red in the sullen rain like a wound oozing blood.

Bran got to his feet and mounted his horse. “Let us leave this, this
cwm gwaed,
” the Raven Chief said bleakly. “It sickens me.”

“Cwm Gwaed,” I muttered, Vale of Blood. “The name is fitting. So be it.” Bran made no reply but turned his horse onto the road and his back to the valley.

Upon reaching our encampment, we were met by two anxious warriors, Owyn and Rhodri, who ran to greet us with the news, “Strangers are coming!”

Rhodri added, “Cynan and Garanaw have gone down to meet them.”

I slid from the saddle, scanning the camp. “Where is Tegid?”

“The Penderwydd is watching from the road,” Owyn said. “He said to bring you when you returned. I will show you.”

Rhodri took the horses, and Owyn led us a short distance away from camp to a lookout where we could gaze down upon the road rising to meet the pass where we had made our own camp. Tegid was there, and Scatha with him, watching, as the warriors had said, a group of horsemen approaching in the distance.

The bard turned his head as we took our places beside him. “Who is it?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“Watch,” was all he said.

In a moment, I was able to pick out individual riders, two of whom were smaller and slighter than the others. One of these wore a white hat or headpiece. Closer, the white hat proved to be hair. The man raised his face toward the place where we stood, and the sun flared as it caught the lenses at his eyes.

“Nettles!” I shouted. My feet were already running to meet him.

33
R
ETURN OF THE
W
ANDERER

P
rofessor Nettleton urged his horse to speed when he saw me running down the slope to meet him. Gaunt and haggard from his journey, his broad smile measured his relief. I reached up and swept him from the saddle in a fierce embrace. “Nettles! Nettles!” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know how to find us?”

The old man grinned, patting my arm and chuckling. “King Calbha sent three stout warriors with me, and Gwion led the way.”

At this I glanced at the others, observing them for the first time. Flanked by Cynan and Garanaw were three warriors, looking none the worse for their journey, each leading a packhorse loaded with provisions and, on a fourth, Tegid's young Mabinog, Gwion Bach.

“How did you find us?” I asked, shaking my head in amazement. “I cannot believe you are here.”

“Finding you was simplicity itself,” the professor replied. “We had but to sail east. Once ashore, we simply followed your trail.” He lifted a hand in the young Mabinog's direction. “Gwion has a special gift in that regard,” he explained. “We would have been lost many times over without his guidance.”

I turned as the others gathered around us. “Is this true, Gwion? You followed our trail?”

“It is so, Lord Llew,” the boy replied.

“Well,” I told them, “however you have fared, your journey is at an end. You have found us. But you will be tired. Come, rest, and tell us what news you bring. We are all eager to hear how you have fared and what brought you here.”

We returned together, talking eagerly to one another about the rigors of the journey. “See here!” I called as we came into the camp. “The wanderer has returned.”

Scatha and Tegid hailed the travelers, greeting them with astonished admiration. All the warriors gathered around to acclaim their feat, not least because they had seen the provision-laden packhorses and could almost smell the food awaiting them.

“Gwion tracked us,” I told Tegid, clapping a hand to the boy's shoulder.

The Mabinog drew himself up and answered with an air of immense satisfaction. “Where you have walked,” he replied, “there is a trail of light. Day or night, we merely followed the
Aryant Ol
. The Radiant Way led us to you.”

“Well done, lad,” said Tegid proudly. “I will hear more of this later.” Looking to the others, he said, “You have all faced great hardship and danger. The need must be great to have brought you here. Why have you come?”

Gwion and the warriors looked to Nettles, who answered, “It was at my insistence, Penderwydd. Lord Calbha warned me about Tir Aflan. With every step I feared we would arrive too late.”

He paused, turning his bespectacled eyes to me. “It is Weston and his men,” he said, licking his lips. He had traveled far with this news burning in him. “They have succeeded in creating a veritable gateway from our world to this. They have learned how to move machinery through the breach, and they have devised systems for exploiting the land—diamonds, or something equally valuable.”

“Not diamonds,” I corrected. “Some kind of precious metal, I think.” I explained quickly about the chimney and machinery, which indicated a smelting process. Then I related to Tegid and the others what Bran and I had discovered in the valley.

Nettleton listened, a pained expression on his face. When I had finished, he said, “It is even worse than I thought. I had no idea . . .” He fell silent, considering the enormity of the crisis.

“Come,” I said, thinking to make it easier for him. “Sit down. Rest yourself, and we will talk.”

But he resisted, putting his hand on my arm as if to hold me back. “There is something else, Llew. Siawn Hy is alive.”

I stared. “What did you say?”

“Simon is alive, Lewis,” he said, using my former name to help drive the point home. “He and Weston are working together. They have been from the beginning.”

As he spoke the words, I felt the certainty fall like a dead weight upon me. It was Siawn Hy, not Paladyr, who sought revenge through Goewyn's abduction. Paladyr might have had a hand in the deed, but Siawn Hy was behind it. Siawn's poisonous treachery was at work once more in this worlds-realm.

“Llew?” the professor asked, studying me carefully. “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” I replied dully. “Siawn Hy alive—that explains much.”

“After their initial contact,” the professor continued, “Weston furnished Simon with information in exchange for funding arranged through Simon's father. It was Simon's ambition to set himself up as king—he even boasted about it. But you thwarted him in that. Indeed, you succeeded where he failed,” Nettles stressed. “I do not think he will forgive you that.”

“No,” I mused. “I do not think he will.”

I stepped away from him and, raising my voice, I addressed the warriors. “Unload the provisions and prepare a feast of welcome. Then look to your weapons. Today we ready ourselves and take our ease. Tomorrow we meet the enemy.” As the warriors dispersed to their various tasks, I summoned Cynan, Bran, and Scatha, saying, “We will hold council now and lay our battle plans.”

Darkness had long claimed the camp by the time we finished; the stars shone down hard flecks of light in the black skybowl of night. We had spent the remainder of the day in deliberation, pausing only to share a most welcome meal of bread, salt beef, and ale, prepared from the provisions brought to us. That night, while the war band slept, I walked the perimeter of the camp, my thoughts returning time and again to the meaning of the professor's revelation.

Simon, badly wounded by Bran's spear, had fallen across the threshold to be rescued by some of Weston's men. They had rushed him to a hospital, where he had spent a lengthy convalescence. “Immediately upon his release,” Nettles explained when we had a moment together, “Simon disappeared. And shortly after that the activity began in earnest.”

“How did you find out?”

“I have been keeping an eye on the entire operation. Also, I had help.” He leaned forward. “Do you remember Susannah?”

At his mention of the name, a face flickered in my memory: a keen-eyed firebrand of a young woman with brains and pluck for any challenge. Yes, I remembered her.

“Susannah has been a godsend,” Nettles informed me soberly. “I have told her everything. I could not have managed otherwise.”

He grew grave. After a moment, he said, “It was after Simon disappeared again that I began noticing the signs. I knew something had to be done. The damage is fearful.”

“Damage?”

“The damage to the manifest world. There are,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “there are
anomalies
breaking through. Aberrations appear almost daily. The Knot, the Endless Knot, is unraveling, you see. And the manifest world is diminishing; the effect is . . .”

His eyes were intense behind his round spectacles, imploring, entreating, willing me to understand. “That is when you decided to come back,” I suggested.

“Yes, and when Calbha told me that Goewyn had been abducted and taken to the Foul Land, I feared I had returned too late.” Professor Nettleton's voice grew stern and insistent. “They must be stopped, Llew. They are manipulating forces they do not understand. If their violation continues, they will destroy literally everything. You cannot imagine . . .”

With this warning reverberating through my mind, tolling like a bell of doom, I stalked the silent camp through the night's cold. The end was near, I could feel it approaching with the speed of the dawn. Tomorrow I would meet my enemy and, with the aid of the Swift Sure Hand, I would defeat him. Or die.