The Endless Knot (45 page)

The valley appeared as Bran and I had left it, a red gash in the belly of the land. The smoke hung like a sooty ceiling over all, shutting out what little light might have come from the pale and powerless sun. I imagined, for a moment, that sunlight penetrating the fog and burning away all the filth and corruption. Oh, but it would take something stronger than sunlight to reverse the devastation that met our sight.

The scum-filled lake, lethally still beneath the shroud of smoke, lay like a tarnished mirror. The stench of the lake and from the wounded land hurt our lungs and stung our eyes. The men must accustom themselves to this before going nearer.

“The Dyn Dythri are there,” I told them, pointing with my spear tip to the dam and chimney. Cynan, Bran, Scatha, Tegid, and Nettles stood with me; the war band was assembled behind us. “I do not know how many strangers have come, but it may be that they know we are here and will be ready for us.”

“Good,” grunted Cynan. “Then men will not say we defeated a sleeping foe.”

Scatha observed the valley, studying it in detail, green eyes narrowed to attentive slits. “You described it well. But it will be difficult to walk that slope. I think we should use the path,” she said, indicating the track on the left-hand side of the lake, which the mudmen used to trundle their burdens to the compound behind the dam.

“The slaves will not hinder us,” I said. “There is no need to avoid them. They will not fight.”

“I do not see any of the strangers, nor their
olwynog tuthógi,
” Bran said, and some of the men laughed. But it was nervous laughter; there was no real mirth in it.

I turned to address them using the words I had pondered during my long, sleepless night. “Kinsmen and friends, we have journeyed far and endured much that would have daunted lesser men.” There was a general murmur of approval at this.

“Today,” I continued, “we will face a most deceptive and cunning enemy. Deceptive, for his weapons are those of cowardice and guile. Cunning, for he is shrewd in malice and devious in hostility. He will appear to you a weak and unworthy foe, unlike any you have met in battle. His weapons will appear low and inferior, but do not be deceived. For they can kill at a distance, without warning. You must be wary at all times—for when the foeman stands far off, then is he most dangerous.”

The men looked at one another in bewilderment, but I went on. “You must understand,” I told them. “Heed me well. The enemy we face today will not stand against you. They will run and they will flee. They will fight from hiding.” This brought sneers of contempt.

“Hear me now!” I continued. “You must not be deceived. Do not expect skill, neither expect honor. Instead, expect confusion and cowardice—for these are sturdy shields for a foe who understands neither valor nor courage.”

The warriors acclaimed this outright, raising their voices in hoots of derision.

“Their strength is not in numbers, but in rapacity and lust for destruction. The enemy will destroy swiftly, without thought or remorse. Pity will not restrain him, nor will mercy stay his hand. He feels no shame.”

There were calls and shouts of scorn for such a worthless foe, but I raised my silver hand for silence. “Listen to me! We do not fight today for honor; there is no glory to be won. We fight only for survival. We are few, but we stand between this foe and the ruin of our world. If we fail, Albion will fall beneath the shadow of evil and desolation that has overcome Tir Aflan.

“We fight today for the freedom of those held captive to the foe: for Goewyn and Tángwen, yes, but no less for those who do not yet know their danger.

“Therefore, let us advance with shrewdness and cunning. We must use stealth where we would take the battleground openly, if by stealth and concealment, even flight, we may save ourselves to fight again.”

The war band did not like this. They grumbled against such cowardly tactics, but I held firm. “Cling to pride and we will perish. Cherish dignity and we will die.

“We
will
fight today,” I told them, “but we must survive the fight. For, if we fail, Albion will fall. And once Albion has fallen, all the pride and dignity in this worlds-realm will not restore it.”

There were no shouts or grumbles now. My words had found the mark and taken hold.

I paused before concluding. “Listen, brothers. If I have learned anything in my time among you, it is this: true honor lives not in the skill of weapons or the strength of arms, but in virtue. Skill fades and strength fails; virtue alone remains. Therefore, let us put off all that is false. Let us prefer instead the valor of virtue, and the glory of right.”

I had spoken my heart, but could they understand? It appeared I had misjudged the moment. The warriors did not understand; I had lost them, and perhaps the battle as well.

Yet even as doubt began to grow, I heard a small clicking sound. I turned my head toward the sound and saw Bran, eyes level and hard, tapping the shaft of his spear in the rim of his shield. Click, click, click . . .

The Raven Flight quickly joined him; Scatha and Cynan soon followed.
Click! Click! Click!
And, by twos and threes, the rest of the war band joined in.
Click! Click! Click!
The sound became a rattle, and grew to an ominous thunder as the ashwood shafts struck the metal rims.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It mounted to a crashing climax and then stopped so abruptly I could hear the final report echoing away across the valley. And then we turned and descended into Cwm Gwaed, the Vale of Blood.

34
T
HE
T
RAP

S
inuous as a snake, the road twisted down into the valley. Though I had entered it before, I felt the shock afresh—like a fist in the throat. It was still early morning, but the mudmen were already teeming like maggots over the slag heaps and swarming the trenches. The high chimney spewed its noxious emissions into the air beyond the dam to the dull thunder of hidden machinery.

Those with me gazed glass-eyed and dumbstruck at the enmired misery around them. Unable to comprehend the mindless ardor of the toiling wretches, the warriors simply stared and moved on.

We had divided the war band into three divisions each under the command of a battle chief; Scatha, Cynan, and I each led a band on foot. The Raven Flight alone was mounted, leaving Bran to range the battleground at will wherever need was greatest. As for the rest, I judged horses would not help us; without them we could make better use of the cover provided by the holes and heaps of crushed rock. Tegid, Gwion, and Nettles had stayed behind to look after the other horses. As in the battle against Meldron, the Chief Bard meant to oversee the fight and uphold us in the bardic way.

Cynan's war band descended to the valley floor and worked its way toward the dam along the shore of the polluted lake; I led those with me on the upper road; Scatha and her warriors approached by way of the path on the far side of the lake, doing their best to blend into the pocked and mottled landscape. Bran advanced behind us, out of sight; when I paused to look back I could not see the Raven Flight anywhere.

The first shot came without warning. I heard the whine of a bullet and the dry ricochet on the hillside below us. A moment later the report echoed from below like the crack of a splitting tree trunk. I motioned to the men to lie down on the road. Several more shots dug into the hillside. Overanxious, undisciplined, our foe could not wait for us to come into range and had opened fire prematurely. This gave us a prime opportunity to fix the enemy's position and assess their numbers without risk to ourselves.

Wisps of white smoke from their guns betrayed the enemy's placement along the top of the dam. I scanned the valley and the far side of the lake to see that Scatha and Cynan had halted and were marking the place as well. The enemy had seen us on the road, as I intended, but had not thought to look elsewhere.

“Such stupidity should be rewarded,” I muttered to the man nearest me.

“Then let us be generous, lord,” the warrior replied dryly.

The bullets chunked harmlessly into the rock waste below us for a time, and then the shooting tapered off. I signaled to the men to keep low, and we advanced once more, slowly, listening for the bullet's whine and watching for the tell-tale white puff that revealed an enemy gunman. I took heart from the fact that, as yet, the gunmen still concentrated all their attention on us; they had so far failed to notice Scatha and Cynan working their way ever closer below them.

If I could keep the enemy occupied but a little longer, it would allow the others a more protected approach.

Raising my hand, I halted my warriors. We were by now nearly within range of the guns. “Keep down!” I told those with me. “And wait for my command.”

Then I stood and, lofting my spear and shield, I began to yell. “Cowards!” I shouted. “Leave your hiding places and let us fight like men!”

I knew the enemy would not understand me. It was to encourage my own war band that I cried my challenge in Albion's tongue. “Why do you crouch like vermin in your holes?” I taunted. “Come out! Let us do battle together!”

My simple ruse worked. The enemy opened fire. The bullets dug into the slag-covered hillside below me, throwing up dust and splinters— but falling well short of the target. They were using small arms—handguns and light rifles. Larger-caliber weapons would have carried further, and with far greater accuracy.

“Where is your battle chief ?” I called loudly, my voice echoing back from the blank face of the dam. “Where is your war leader? Let him come and meet me face-to-face!”

This brought a further heated and wasteful volley from the dam. The warriors with me laughed to see it. I summoned them to rise, now that I knew it was safe to do so. And taking my lead, they too challenged the enemy to come out and fight like true warriors. The gunfire beat like a staccato tattoo, and the white smoke drifted up from behind the dam.

“How many did you count?” I asked the nearest warrior.

“Three fives,” he replied.

His tally matched my own. I would have thought that fifteen men with guns could have defeated threescore with spears—and we were far fewer than that. But without more battle-cunning than these fifteen had so far demonstrated, their weapons would not win the day.

Scatha, sharp as the blade in her hand, was not slow to turn our diversion to advantage. In two rapid, ground-eating advances, she and her war band reached the dam, crossed it, and descended the other side. Cynan followed her lead, disappearing behind the dam while we jeered and danced like madmen, drawing the enemy's fire.

All through this commotion, the mud-covered slaves toiled away, scarcely pausing to raise their dull heads as the bullets streaked above them. Were they so far gone that they no longer knew or cared what was happening around them?

The gunfire eventually ceased. But by then the trap was set.

“Now we must find a way to draw them out of hiding so that Scatha and Cynan can strike,” I said, thinking aloud.

“The battlelust is on them,” said the warrior next to me. “They are greedy for the kill.”

“Then let us see if their greed will make them foolish. We will form the shield line.” I gave the order and the warriors took their places beside me. We formed a line, shoulder to shoulder, and began slowly advancing along the road.

“Raise shields!” I called, and we put our shields before us, rims overlapping. We continued walking.

The enemy gunmen held their fire. We had advanced as far as we dared, and still they did not shoot.

“Halt!” I raised my silver hand. The bluff had not worked; we had not drawn the enemy into the open. Any nearer and a well-aimed shot might easily penetrate our oak-and-iron shields.

“Cowards!” I called down to the dam. We were close enough to see the shallow holes the men had dug along the top of the dam. “False men! Hear me now! We are the
Gwr Gwir!
Leave your hiding holes, and we will show you what true warriors can do!”

At this, the warriors began striking their shields and taunting the hidden foe. The clash of spear upon shield became a rattling roar. The gunmen could not resist such obvious targets: they began firing again. The bullets struck the stone flagging at our feet. I ordered the line to move two paces back.

The temptation proved too strong—they were drawn from cover at last—all fifteen of them, shouting as they came.

The initial volley tore into the stones a few paces ahead of us. One warrior turned away a glancing shot off the pavement; a slug struck the bottom of the shield. I felt the wood shiver as it ripped through. It was time to retreat.

“Back!” I cried. “Three more paces.”

The line fell back and halted; the jeering catcalls continued. Seeing that we would come no closer, the enemy gunmen attacked.

They had no sooner abandoned their hiding holes than Scatha and Cynan materialized out of the drifting smoke behind them. The gunmen were neatly trapped.

They whirled in sudden panic, shooting wildly. Two of their number were down—victims of their own incompetence. One of Cynan's men took a shot through his shield and fell. The gunman paid for his last act as a streaking spear sank to its shaft in his belly. The man fell to the ground writhing and screaming.

At this single casualty the fight went quickly out of the rest, and they began crying surrender and throwing down their weapons.

“It is over!” I shouted. “Let us join our swordbrothers!”

We hastened down the road to the tip of the dam. I cast a quick backward glance for the Ravens, but they were still nowhere to be seen. What could be keeping them?

“Splendid, Pen-y-Cat! Well done, Cynan!” I called. Scanning the throng of warriors, I was surprised to see the man who had been shot standing in the forerank once more. His shield had a chunk bitten out of the upper left quadrant, he was pale and bleeding just below the shoulder, but he was clear-eyed and undaunted staring grimly at his enemy.