The Silver Hand (11 page)

Thus, all the bards of Albion were in attendance. They had received my summons and had come, eager to discuss the signs and portents which they had witnessed since the last gathering.

Most of the brotherhood were known to me, and I greeted them by name. My heart lightened to see them again, for since Ollathir's death I had made my way alone. For their part, the Derwyddi were concerned to see that Ollathir was not with me. Indeed, it was Ollathir they were expecting; they did not know he was dead. But though they saw I now held the rowan staff of Prydain, they said nothing, biding their time until I should declare the reason for the gathering.

The gorsedd is conducted with all probity; strict laws of rank and order are observed. It is a most ancient observance and one which is held in highest respect. Wars have been halted in midbattle to accommodate a bardic gathering! It is not lightly regarded.

Gorsedd
is itself a most ancient word. It can be used to designate the chair or throne of a king, for the earliest kings received their sovereignty atop the holy mounds or in sacred groves. The word for throne thus indicates a mound. And, since bards are often buried in these holy mounds,
gorsedd
also means “grave.” The sacred mound on Ynys Bàinail was Ollathir's grave; even if he had not died on the mound itself, it is likely he would have been buried there.

The Chief Bard of Caledon was a tall man with a long dark mustache and braided beard. His name was Bryno Hir and, now that Ollathir was gone, Bryno the Tall was the most eminent bard in the Island of the Mighty. Ollathir respected Bryno; he had sought his counsel on many occasions and welcomed his company always.

When Bryno's ship arrived, I made certain to meet him the moment he disembarked. He raised his hands in greeting, “Hail, Tegid ap Talaryant! May your song endure!” Even as he greeted me, his eyes slid past me, searching for Ollathir. He meant no slight; it was an instinctive action.

“Hail, Bryno!” I touched the back of my hand to my forehead out of respect, even though we now shared the same rank. Still, when the time came to choose a new Phantarch, I recognized that it would likely be Bryno Hir. “I trust you journeyed well.”

He looked at me, his keen dark eyes searching. “What has happened?” he asked softly.

I walked him a little apart from those who were with him. “Ollathir is dead,” I told him simply. Before he could ask how this had come to pass, I added, “And all the rest of Prydain's bards with him. I alone have survived.”

Bryno seemed to shrink into himself; the color drained from his face. “How?” he asked in a shattered voice.

I explained briefly, and Bryno listened, shaking his head gravely all the while. When I finished, he turned his eyes to the White Rock. “Yet the sacred center was not defiled.”

“Llew,” I replied, “the man with me, prevented it. He has received Ollathir's awen, and I have made him king of Prydain.”

Bryno was silent for a long moment searching the meaning of all that I had told him. Wise and farseeing, the Chief Bard of Caledon rightly understood the peril facing us. “The Day of Strife,” he said at last. Then he asked, “What of the Phantarch? Dead?”

“Yes.”

He did not ask how this had come about, nor how I knew it to be true. “And the Song of Albion?”

“It was saved,” I answered, and told him about Llew's Hero Feat with the Singing Stones.

“Where are the stones now?”

“Prince Meldron has them,” I answered. “But with help, I am certain they can be recovered.”

Despite this assurance, Bryno passed a hand before his eyes. He remained some moments in silent mourning for the age he saw passing away before our very eyes. “The Day of Strife,” he repeated slowly, heavily, as if the words were weighted with the grief of all the world.

After a moment, he turned to me. “Ollathir tried to tell us, but we would not hear him.” He was recalling the last gathering of bards which had refused Ollathir's warning and instead had fallen into discord and dissension.

“Not even Ollathir knew what would happen,” I offered. “If he had known, he would never have—”

The bard lifted his hand and gripped my shoulder. “No,” he said gently. “We own the guilt. So be it.” He glanced at the scattered knots of bards assembled on the strand and drew a deep breath. “There is treachery among us.”

“The traitor has answered for his crimes,” I replied. “He chose treachery, and treachery claimed him.” I then told him about Ruadh, Prince Meldron's bard, and how Llew and I had found his body at the bottom of the dry well shaft in Findargad.

Bryno accepted this and set his face to the task ahead. “You were right to raise the gorsedd,” Bryno said. “There is much to be done this day and in the days to come.”

Leaving the Mabinogi to tend camp, we launched the curraghs and plied the narrow strip of water separating Ynys Bàinail. Time and again, the small boats crossed the blue-green water until all stood on the white strand. We then made our way up the long, narrow path to the top of the great White Rock, passing through the hole in the rock which leads to the wide plain above. In the center of this plain stands the holy mound, rising like a spike, the great pillar stone. The bards of Albion made their way to the foot of the mound. When all were assembled, we passed three times in a sunwise circle around the base of the mound, and then mounted the steep sides.

The top of the mound is flat, and the perimeter marked with white stones; these form a wheel and the pillar stone the axle. The various orders of bards:
Filidh, Brehon, Gwyddon,
and
Derwydd
—some of them holding branches of white hazel or rowan, or staffs of oak, beech, or yew—all gathered in ranks around the pillar stone within the sacred circle.

Thus did the gathering of bards begin. Since Llew now possessed the Chief Bard's awen, he was allowed to join us atop the mound, though in any other circumstances that would not have been allowed. With Bryno the Tall at my right hand and Llew at my left, I stood before the blue-painted pillar stone and delivered my terrible pronouncements to the assembled Derwyddi: I told of the deaths of Ollathir and the Phantarch, the ruin of Prydain and the slaughter of Prydain's bards by Lord Nudd, and the dawning of the Day of Strife.

At my words, the brotherhood trembled. When I finished, they rent their garments and sank to their knees, pounding the earth with their fists. They filled the air with wailing and loud lamentation, throwing the white dust of the mound over their heads, rubbing it into their hair and beards. They shrieked their outrage to the sun, and called upon the elements to witness their sore distress. Many uttered vows in the dark tongue, binding their spirits to the cause of justice for their murdered brothers.

Llew watched all, grimly, without a word, his arms crossed over his chest. He alone remained unmoved.

When the outcry had exhausted itself, I stood once more before the brotherhood and bade them stand on their feet and hear the prophecy of the champion which the Banfáith had given to us. “Bards of Albion, Wise Men, cease your lamentation! Rise up and hear the prophetic word which I shall speak.”

They rose and silenced themselves to hear what I would say. I knew well the words. I had hoarded them in my heart. I had but to open my mouth and speak them out. Yet, even as they stood watching me, I could not. Something stayed me. I stood with gaping mouth and stared at my brothers, and it came into my mind that I looked upon corpses: gray-faced in filthy cloaks, their hair wild, their eye pits hollow.

When the Light of the Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood of bards demands justice . . .

The words of the Banfáith's prophecy—she had spoken this time. The Light of the Derwyddi was the Phantarch and the blood of my kinsmen, the bards of Prydain, demanded justice. The gathering had cried out for justice. I wondered at this. Was this how the prophecy would be fulfilled?

As if in answer to my ill-posed question, there came a shout—distant, yet distinct—a cry of challenge. I turned to Llew. He stood motionless, listening. The cry came again: a word, a single shouted word. I heard it and recognized it . . . my name.

“T-e-e-g-i-i-i-d-d!” came the shout for a third time.

Who dared invade the sanctity of the holy isle?

The Derwyddi surged toward the sound. Those closest to the outer rim of the wheel dashed to the edge of the mound to look upon the plain below. Their reaction was instantaneous and fatal.

Seeing the abomination in the sacred place, some bards threw themselves over the edge of the mound, racing down the slopes with shouts of rage. Others fell back, calling to those behind. In the space of one heartbeat, all was confusion. The outcry was deafening. I could not make out what was happening.

“Follow me, Tegid!” It was Llew, pushing through the churning throng.

More and more of the Derwyddi were racing down the slopes of the mound. I could hear their voices as they ran, screaming, calling on the Swift Sure Hand to strike. But why? What was happening? What did they see?

Llew and I reached the rim of the mound and looked down. Warriors, a band a hundred strong, advanced across the plain below, their weapons and shields glinting in the sun as they came. This is what the Derwyddi had seen—and what had sent them into a frenzy of rage.

“Meldron!” Llew said; the word was a curse between his teeth.

The usurper was there, standing in the midst of his Wolf Pack, ordering the attack upon the defenseless bards. Beside Meldron stood Siawn Hy, spear in hand, shield slung over his shoulder.

Helpless, I watched as my brothers hurled themselves into the spears and swords of the waiting warriors. “Stop them!” shouted Llew.

But there was no stopping them. Heedless, they rushed to their deaths, defending the sacred ground with their bodies. The cries of the dying assaulted the air.

The bards hastened to the plain, cloaks and mantles streaming, flying to their deaths. Meldron's Wolf Pack struck and struck again. Spears thrusting, swords flashing out from under uplifted shields. The warriors simply stepped over the twitching bodies and moved on.

“Tegid, do something!” cried Llew. “Stop them!”

Bryno Hir appeared beside me. He held his rowan staff in both hands, raised above his head, his face dark with anger, his lips tight over his teeth. He opened his mouth, and the air shook to the sound of the
Taran Tafod,
the dark tongue.
“Cwmwl dyfod! Gwynt dyrnod!”

At his word, wind gusted across the plain and swirled the base of the mound. Vaporous clouds appeared over the pillar stone, boiling out of the air and spreading across the sky.

“Dynrod! Dyfod! Tymestl rhuo!”
Bryno Hir called, swinging his long staff through the air. The clouds thickened, darkening the plain below. Wind whipped and flattened the long grass.
“Cwmwl dyfod! Gwynt dyrnod! Tymestl rhuo!”

The sound shivered the air as the dark tongue boomed out from the top of the mound and echoed across the plain.
“Dyrnod tymestl, rhuo tymestl! Terfesgu! Terfesgu!”

Cold wind shrieked in the heights; clouds—swarming, swelling, surging—streamed over the plain. The storm struck fierce and strong. Rain pelted down in stinging sheets, scouring the plain.

The tempest crashed. Thunder rolled. The warriors advanced, mounting to the slopes of the holy mound. Llew shouted, taking up an oaken staff as a weapon. Bryno lifted his face to the sky and called down the wind and the rain.

The enemy advanced. The remaining Derwyddi descended to meet them; better death than suffering the foeman's foot on the holy mound. And they did die. The attackers, grim-faced and determined, made quick work of the unprotected, unarmed bards. The foemen wiped the gore from their blades on the bodies before them and moved on.

The first warriors reached the top of the mound. I gripped my staff and dashed at them, swinging the stout length of rowan like a club. The warrior—I knew the man; he was a kinsman!—stumbled back. I struck at him with the staff, catching him on the top of the shoulder. He screamed in pain and dropped the sword.

Before I could strike again, a blade flashed, cleaving the staff in two. I heard a rush behind me and felt strong hands on my throat. I tore at the hands and more hands seized me, grabbing my arms and holding them back.

“Llew!” I shouted, fighting furiously. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Llew struggling with three foemen. They had him pinned to the ground and were hammering at his face and chest with their fists, trying to subdue him. One of them raised the hilt of his sword and smashed it down on the top on Llew's skull.

“Llew!”

I screamed like a beast. I flailed with my feet and was dragged down. As I fell, I saw Bryno sitting on the ground with his back against the pillar stone. Rain streamed down his face, mingling with the blood flowing freely from the gash in his throat. Blood smeared the pillar stone behind him and soaked the ground. One of the Wolf Pack stood over him, wiping his blade on Bryno's beard.

Blood and rain and howling wind. The screams of the dying . . . death . . . abomination in the sacred center . . . atrocity and death . . .

It was quickly over. With Bryno silenced, the storm dispersed, melting away, sunlight breaking through the swiftly dissolving clouds. I squinted against the light and looked at the bodies of my brothers lying where they had fallen. The holy mound, the gorsedd, had become their grave.

All those not already dead were put to the sword. Llew and I only were saved.

Llew was dragged unconscious from the mound. I was half-thrown, half-carried down the slope to stand before Prince Meldron, who greeted me with a fist in my teeth. Siawn Hy laughed to see it, and his wicked laughter pierced my heart more cruelly than the red-stained spear blade in his hand. His eyes were wild and cold with hate.

“Did you think you could escape me, bard?” Meldron demanded.

I spat at him. He hit me again, and warm blood filled my mouth.