The Paradise War (39 page)

“With these and other stern words, Great Beli addressed his sons. Both were moved with shame and grief, but only Lludd lamented his part in the evil he had helped bring to the fairest realm that ever was in the world. ‘The fault is mine, father,’ he cried, stretching himself upon the ground before the king. ‘I am not worthy of the gift you have given me. Take away the torc of kingship, and cast me out of your kingdom. Better still, kill me for the fool that I am. For I have placed right before mercy and honor before humility.’

“King Beli heard these words and knew the truth of them; his great heart broke. He turned to Nudd and asked, ‘What do you say to this?’

“Nudd thought he saw a way out of his plight, so he answered, ‘You have heard Lludd say that the fault is his. Who am I to disagree? He is king, after all. Let his blood be shed for the evil he has practiced against you, your land, and your people.’

“Beli, Wise and True, heard these words, and they pierced him through his great good soul. With tears in his eyes, Beli drew his sword and struck off Lludd’s head. Lludd quivered once and he died.

“Nudd saw this and, though it frightened him, he still did not own the blame of starting the quarrel which led to the war. ‘Do you yet having nothing to say?’ Beli asked his son. But Nudd made no reply. And his silence stung his father more than his false words had hurt him before.

“The Great King did not want to lose two sons in one day, so he asked Nudd yet again, ‘It takes two to wage war, my son. Am I to think that this wrong was Lludd’s alone?’

“Nudd, whose heart had grown cold as stone, still believed that he might win the kingship now that Lludd was dead. So he replied, ‘Think what you wish, my father. Lludd held the kingship, as you well know. He has paid the blood-price for the wrong practiced upon the land. Let us end the matter there.’

“Beli Mawr heard this and gave a long and terrible groan—the first of the Three Grievous Laments of Albion. Taking the edge of his cloak in his hands, he covered his head in his sorrow and wrath. ‘You are right when you say that Lludd has paid the blood-debt he owed. With my own hand I have killed him who stood in my stead, my servant and my son. Lludd it was who would have held Albion after me, who would have reigned in my place, whose flesh and blood is my own—him I have sacrificed for the justice that I created. I have sacrificed myself to myself. This I have done so that righteousness will once more flourish in Albion.

“‘Lludd is dead. But his death is nothing to the punishment you will receive for your part.’

“‘Punishment?’ sniffed Nudd. ‘Justice is satisfied. What wrong have I done to you?’

“‘You let your brother accept the punishment which you earned, and which you alone deserved,’ said Beli. ‘You are right when you say that the debt has been paid, for Lludd has paid it in full with innocent blood.’

“‘If the blood-debt has been paid,’ Nudd argued pitiably, ‘let that be the end of the matter. There is no need to kill me.’

“‘Listen well, Nudd,’ replied Beli, Keen of Knowledge. ‘Had you answered truthfully, you would have been spared. But by your own words I know that the truth is not in you. Lludd is dead, but in his death he will become greater than any who ever lived. He will be raised up, and you will be brought low.’

“‘But you said you would not kill me!’ cried Nudd.

“‘You shall not die, Nudd. You will live to hear the name of your brother acclaimed wherever men revere justice and honor. You will endure to hear your own name as a curse upon the lips of all men everywhere. You will live and never die, and your miserable life will be worse by far than Lludd’s noble death.’

“‘You cannot do this to me!’ cried Nudd. ‘I am your only son!’

“But Beli would not hear any more of Nudd’s twisted words. ‘Depart from me, Wicked One,’ he said. ‘Go you from my sight. Wherever you find anyone to receive you, let that be your home.’

“Nudd flew from the field of battle and traveled throughout the length and breadth of Albion. Never did he find a friend to greet him; never did he find a hearth to warm him, or a welcome cup to quench his thirst. His cold heart hardened and grew still colder in his breast. At last he came to himself and said, ‘All men hate me. Every hand is raised against me. I am an outcast in the land I might have ruled. So be it. If I cannot rule here, I will go where I can rule: I will go down into the Pit of Uffern, where no man dares go, and there I will reign as king.’

“So Nudd turned his cold heart against every living thing that enjoys the light of day and took himself down into the deep, black Pit of Uffern, where there is nothing but suffocating darkness and fire.

“Meanwhile, Beli, All-Wise King, gathered up the body of his beloved son and carried it to the highest hill that is in Albion. He raised the gorsedd of a hero over Lludd and established bards to praise Lludd’s virtues at all times and all days. From the heart of the heromound there grew a silver white birch tree. Beli cut the birch, made a fire, and burned the slender tree. Sparks from the fire leaped high into the sky. These became the Guide Stars by which men find their way in the darkness. Next, Beli gathered up all the embers and ashes from the fire and threw these into the sky also. These became the radiant belt of silver light known as the Sky Path. Lludd himself, Bright Spirit, nightly treads that shining starpath, ever gazing down upon the fairest island that is in the world. Those who look upon that wonder are ever moved with awe and reverence for its matchless beauty.

“But Nudd, Cold-hearted Enemy of All, gathered to himself every evil of every kind. The wretched spirits infesting the nether regions of the world thronged to him and called him lord. These became the
Coranyid
, the Host of Chaos, the inhuman minions of the Cythrawl, who delight in misery and exult in death: vicious in hate, ferocious in malice, brutal in spite, infinitely resentful of order and right and goodness.

“Endlessly resourceful in depravity, obscenity, and every iniquity, the Coranyid abide their darksome halls, gnawing out their poisonous souls, until through escape or release they are loosed upon the world, then they fly on the wings of the storm behind their dread monarch: Nudd, Prince of Uffern and Annwn, King of the Coranyid, Sovereign of Eternal Night, who wears the Black Serpent of Anoeth for his torc and carries Wyrm’s fang for his weapon. At Lord Nudd’s command they fly to destroy all that is good and right and beautiful.”

Tegid raised his eyes from the fire and looked at me. I saw the fear in his glance and knew that the words he had spoken contained a truth too potent to impart in any other way save the veiled meaning of a song. He intoned softly, “Here ends the tale of Lord Nudd, believe it who will.”

I did believe his tale. There are those who would not, I suppose, but they had not seen what I had seen. Unbelievers enjoy the security of their unbelief; there is great confidence in ignorance. But I had seen the Cythrawl.

I did not doubt that Lord Nudd and his Demon Host had been loosed and now roamed Albion in a savage spree of death and destruction. Once more, Nudd was free to wage his ghastly war of evil on Albion. The Day of Strife had dawned, yes. The Paradise War had begun anew.

26
T
HE
B
EACON

W
e stayed seven days at the fisher’s hut by the river. The weather grew steadily worse all the while. Each day brought cold, gusting winds from the freezing north, rain, and sleet. We banked the fire high and sat huddled near it most of the day. When we grew hungry we ate from the salmon hoard.

I spoke little, and Tegid less. As each day passed, he seemed to withdraw more into himself. He sat staring into the heart of the fire, his eyes narrow and sad, round-shouldered with grief. He did not sleep well—neither of us slept at all soundly, but I would wake at night to see him sitting hunched in his skins, staring at the embers of our night fire.

I grew concerned for him. I tried to talk to him, but my attempts at drawing him out were met with silence and mute resignation. Each day passed in a gray blast of cold, and Tegid grew more remote and despondent. It was a knife in my heart to see him slipping away before my eyes, so I determined to do something about it.

On the morning of the eighth day I rose and went to the river to fetch drinking water in a leather cannikin. When I returned, I found Tegid sitting before the spent embers of the previous night’s fire, his head bent, his chin resting on his chest. “Tegid, get up!” I called loudly.

He did not stir when I spoke his name. “Tegid,” I called again, “stand up on your feet; we must talk together. We can no longer sit here like this.”

Again, my words brought no response from him. I stepped near and stood over him. “Tegid, look at me. I am talking to you.”

He did not raise his head, so I lifted the leather cannikin and poured the ice-cold water over him. That roused him. He jumped up spitting and spewing and glaring at me. His face was pale and wan, but his eyes were red-flecked with anger.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded, shaking water from his sodden cloak. “Leave me alone!”

“That is the one thing I will not do,” I told him. “We must talk.”

“No!” he muttered darkly and made to turn away. “There is nothing to say.”

“Talk to me, Tegid,” I replied. “We must decide what to do.”

“Why? This is as good a place to die as any other.”

“It is not right to sit here like this. We have to do something.”

“What would you have us do?” he sneered. “Speak, O Soul of Wisdom. I am listening.”

“I cannot say what is to be done, Tegid. I only know we have to do something.”

“We are dead men!” he said savagely. “Our people are killed. Our king is gone. There is no life for us anymore.”

He collapsed once more on the ground—sinking beneath the weight of his despair. I sat down opposite him, more determined than ever to draw him out. “Look at me, Tegid,” I said, seizing on a sudden inspiration. “I want to ask you something.” I did not wait for his surly reply but forged ahead. “Who is the Phantarch?”

Tegid sighed, but answered lifelessly. “He is the Chief Bard of all Albion.”

I remembered this from my early lessons. “Yes,” I replied, “so you have said. But what is he? What does he do?”

He stirred enough to lift his eyebrows and look at me. “Why do you ask?”

“Please—I want to know.”

He sighed again and hunched his shoulders, and I thought he would not answer. But he was thinking, and after a while he said, “The Phantarch serves the Song. Through him, the Song is given life; through him, all is held in order.”

“The Song,” I said, recalling what Gwenllian had told me. “The Song of Albion?”

Again he raised his eyes to me. “The Song of Albion—what do you know about the Song of Albion?”

“I know that it is the chief treasure of this worlds-realm; it upholds all and sustains all that exists,” I told him, recalling the words the Banfáith had used in her prophecy. “Is this so?”

“Yes,” Tegid replied flatly. “What else did the Banfáith tell you?”

I hesitated, feeling again the dread inspired by the torment of Gwenllian’s prophecy—a dread deepening to fear. Yes, what else did the Banfáith say? Tell him—Tegid should know.

Something in me resisted; I did not want to reveal all the Banfáith had said. The prophecy carried with it a duty—a great and terrible duty I did not want to accept. But Tegid had a right to know at least a part of it . . .

“She said—” I began, hesitated, and then blurted, “she said the Phantarch was dead and that the Song was silent.”

At this, Tegid lowered his eyes to the cold ashes of the dead fire. “Then it is as I have said.” His voice was sorrow itself. “There is no hope.”

“Why? Why is there no hope? What does it mean?” I challenged, but he did not respond. “Answer me, Tegid!” I picked up a charred stick and threw it at him, striking him on the shoulder. “What does it mean?”

“It is the Phantarch who prevents the Cythrawl from escaping the underworld abyss,” he said softly, lifting a hand to his face as if the light hurt his eyes. “The Phantarch is dead,” he groaned. “Albion is lost, and we are dead.”

“Why?” He did not respond. “Tell me, Tegid! Why is Albion lost? What does it mean?”

He glared at me. “Must I explain what you see before you with your own eyes?”

“Yes!”

“The Phantarch is dead,” he muttered wearily, “otherwise the Beast of the Pit could not escape, and Lord Nudd would not be freed.”

At last I understood what the Banfáith had told me. Since the Phantarch alone held the power to restrain the evil of the Cythrawl, the Phantarch’s death must have released the Cythrawl, and now Lord Nudd was free to roam where he would, destroying all in his path. I was beginning to understand, but even so I could not share Tegid’s despair.

“Then let us go down fighting,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Let us summon Lord Nudd and challenge him and his vile Coranyid to do their worse.”

Tegid frowned and mumbled, “You are talking foolishness. We would be killed straightaway.”

“So be it!” I spat. “Anything would be better than sitting here watching you gnaw at your bowels.”

He scowled and balled his fists as if he might strike me. But he lacked the will, and his halfhearted anger gave way to misery once more.