The Silver Hand (49 page)

My gaze darted quickly to Siawn Hy; he wore one too! They all did—all of Meldron's chieftains and the warriors of his Wolf Pack wore amulets containing pieces of stone. Thinking that the Song of Albion would make them invincible, they had made talismans of the Singing Stones and now each man wore one around his neck.

I only had a glimpse, for Meldron turned away, shouting, “Take them to the river!”

My hands were thrust behind me and bound. Strong arms seized me; I was lifted off my feet. Goewyn cried out and was quickly silenced.

“Meldron!”

It was Siawn Hy. He had been waiting, lurking in the usurper's shadow. Words passed between them that I could not hear. Then Meldron turned, and when he spoke again he said, “I have long desired to see this enchanted city that Llew has built. Is there anything to prevent me, do you think? No? Then I will see it at once.”

Then the Great Hound called out to those who had seized us. “Bring them! Bring them all!” he cried. “Follow me!”

We were hauled up the ridge, as the enemy whelmed Druim Vran in their vast number. The feet of the foemen struck the track ways, and our hidden glen was invaded. Our people, standing along the ridge wall, wailed to see our defeat. Their outcry struck the ear like the keening of a mother whose child has gone down to death's dark pit. The lament could be heard streaming across the valley, and it tore my heart.

Captives all, we were marched down through the forest to the lake. All our chieftains were bound hand and foot, and we were made to stand on the lakeshore. I wanted to be with Llew, to stand at his side, to face death and die together defying Meldron to his face.

But my hands were tied and I was pressed on every side by enemy warriors. I could not move. Death was close; I could feel the black wings hovering ever nearer with every breath.

Risking all, risking nothing—for I had nothing left—I cried out. “Meldron! Great Hound of Destruction! Scourge and Pestilence of Albion, long may your life endure—so that you may savor the condemnation your acts have earned. Great your guilt, greater still will be your shame. Despoiler! Abomination! Live long, Meldron, revel in the hatred you have rightly won! Delight in the loathing your name inspires! Rejoice in the ruin you have wrought in the land!”

I willed my words to become weapons that would torment him long after my flesh and bones were dust.

“Meldron!” I shouted, “Hear my accusation! King of Hounds, behold your portion!” I extended my bound hands toward the poisoned lake. “Fill your lungs with its stink! The stench is exquisite, is it not? Behold the splendor of your reign, Meldron, King of Corruption, Prince of Poison!”

“Silence him!” Meldron shouted angrily, and an instant later a fist smashed into my jaw. A second blow snapped my head back. My mouth filled with blood, and I fell to my knees.

When I raised my head once more I saw the foul black water gleaming dully in the white light of the naked sun as it struck the surface of the dead lake. Llew knelt a short distance from me along the shore; he was bound at the wrists, knees, and ankles. Meldron towered over him, gloating with immense satisfaction.

Narrow-eyed, superior, Siawn Hy skulked behind.

I scanned the tight-pressed crowd, and I happened to glimpse Bran and Scatha in the forefront of the prisoners. Calbha stood nearby with his head down; he was bleeding from wounds to his neck and shoulder. All three of them wore nooses around their necks; their hands and feet were bound. I did not see Nettles anymore, but Cynfarch stood erect with Goewyn defiant beside him, fire in her eyes. After Llew, they would be next to die.

A boat was drawn up on the shingle nearby. Meldron ordered Llew to be placed in the vessel, and four of his Wolf Pack lifted Llew and roughly handed him into the craft. Then Meldron climbed into the boat with his prisoner and commanded that the boat be pushed away from the shore.

Wicked, and shrewd in his wickedness, I saw then what Meldron intended. My heart heaved within me like a captive beast hurling itself against its cage. I struggled to rise.

“Meldron!” I shouted. Fists struck me down and hard hands held me to the ground with my face a hair's breadth from the noxious water.

The Great Hound meant to murder Llew hideously in view of all his people. He intended that we should see Llew screaming his last breaths as the lethal waters of the poisoned lake pared the skin from his bones. Meldron desired that we should see Llew die in writhing agony, broken and disfigured, his flesh a mass of bloody ulcers.

No doubt this was Siawn Hy's wicked intent—we had been brought to the lake so that we might be tortured and murdered at Dinas Dwr in full sight of all. He wanted there to be no doubt in anyone's mind that Llew was dead and Meldron was king.

“Great Hound!” I shouted. “I defy you! Take me first—kill me!”

Meldron turned his face toward me and laughed in reply, but made no answer.

I strove to regain my feet. I was cruelly kicked, and the hands that gripped me did not relent. I could but await the inevitable, powerless to prevent it.

Meldron worked the oars and the small boat moved slowly to a place well beyond the reach of anyone on shore, yet close enough for all to see and hear what was about to happen. There, with Llew huddled at his feet, he stood and raised his hands in the manner of a generous king bestowing a gift on his people.

The gesture sickened me, for in it I saw the image of his father, Meldryn Mawr, Prydain's Most Noble. I was not the only one to find this mocking mimicry offensive. Bran cried out: “Meldron, I curse you! I, Bran Bresal, curse you to the seventh generation!”

Bran struggled forward to rail at Meldron and received a hail of vicious blows for his effort. The sight of Meldron's scurrilous rabble striking that noble warrior filled me with outrage, and I shouted, too, and struggled to rise—until a foot on my neck pressed me to the ground.

The captive warriors cried out against this contemptible handling of their battle chief. They were likewise silenced in a most crude and shameful manner by the Wolf Pack. Meldron's scum even dared attack Scatha, but their repugnant bluster was no match for her daunting dignity. Though they struck her, they could not make her cower before them. Her head remained erect, green eyes blazing with such ferocity that her attackers quickly ceased their assault, and Scatha remained aloof from further humiliation.

Cynan I could not see, nor the Raven Flight, so tight-pressed was the crowd of onlookers thronging every side. Still, I little doubted that they, liked the rest of us, would follow Llew in turn. I knew that they, like the multitude ranged along the lakeshore, must be watching the appalling event taking place before them.

Meldron, swelling with pride and glowing with self-celebration, stood in the boat with arms upraised. The golden rings on his fingers and arms glistened in the harsh sunlight.

“My people,” he called across the dead water. “This day you will witness a triumph. This day you will witness a king placing the whole of Albion under his protection! For even now my last enemy is conquered.”

His words were worms in a corpse's mouth.

“You see!” the Great Hound cried. “You have seen how my enemies are destroyed! You have seen how I crush those who think to use treachery against me!”

Meldron seized Llew's arms and hauled him to his feet. Llew was made to stand before him, head forced down in defeat.

“Now you will see how I deal with those who raise war against me!” Meldron shouted, so that all gathered around the lake—warriors and captives alike—could hear. “Now you will see how I claim the vengeance that is mine!”

Llew raised his head, squared his shoulders, and regarded Meldron with unflinching defiance.

Meldron, gripping Llew by the arms, turned him to face the crowd that looked on from the shore. Then, smiling evilly, the Great Hound placed his hands on Llew's back and thrust hard. Llew, tightly bound, plunged headlong into the lake.

“No! No!” Cynan shouted. Straining forward, legs and shoulders thrusting, he had somehow gained the water's edge. Now he cried his helpless defiance as his captors hauled him down. “Llew!”

The still air trembled with screams of horror and dismay—piercing sharp, keen as grief. And then the awful silence . . .

Llew sank instantly. There was no struggle, no thrashing, no tortured death screams such as we had seen and heard at the river. There was only a single splash of black water and then a dread silence as the lethal waters slowly rippled and grew calm once more.

Meldron gazed at the place where Llew fell. He appeared displeased with the suddenness and serenity of Llew's death. He had hoped to produce a more thrilling spectacle and was disappointed. His lip curled and his countenance darkened with anger as he stared at the lifeless water.

He turned to the throng on the shore. I saw him point as he swung his arm to order Cynan's execution.

But even as he turned, a glimmer from the surface of the poisoned lake caught his eye, arrested him. I saw it too: a faintly shimmering glint, a flash like that of a silver-sided fish darting in a stream. Something moved just below the surface of the tainted lake.

Meldron's arm faltered; his eyes turned again to the place where Llew had disappeared. His expression wavered between frustration and expectation. Perhaps he would have his revenge sweetened by a death struggle after all?

I thought I saw the glint again, though it might have been the sunlight on a ripple. But Meldron stared. His arm faltered as he beheld a marvel.

Goewyn was first to see it from the shore. Her cry of astonishment sounded like a ringing harp note across the water. With my inward sight I beheld her—eyes wide in awe, features alight. I turned to look where her gaze rested, and saw a wonder:

A man's hand rising from the water.

Others saw it too. They cried out with elation and relief. But their jubilation ceased at once. The shouts died in their throats as the onlookers saw that the hand was not flesh: it was cold, shining silver.

38
S
ILVER
H
AND

A
hand of silver, lustrous white and gleaming, rose from the still, black water. Up from the dead lake it ascended, and I saw that the hand was attached to a naked arm.

“It is Gofannon!” shouted a man. “It is Llyr!” cried a woman clutching an infant. People gasped in astonishment as a head and shoulders emerged. But it was neither Gofannon nor Llyr; it was Llew's head and shoulders rising from the lake.

His eyes were closed as he surfaced; I thought him dead. Then his eyes flew open: with a sudden inhalation of breath, he shook the putrid water from his face and began swimming.

The crowd recoiled. Their minds filled with the fresh memory of those who had perished in the poisoned river, they expected agony and death. But Llew lived!

Meldron was no less stricken than any other, but he quickly recovered. I heard the metal ring as he drew his sword and I saw the sunlight shiver on its naked blade.

He leapt on the prow of the boat, swinging the sword high. “Die!” he shrieked.

Down he struck. Down he slashed. Both hands on the hilt—his face twisted with hate and rage.

“Llew!” I cried.

Llew turned in the water. Whether warned by my cry, or by a warrior's instinct, he swung to meet the sword stroke falling upon him and raised a hand to fend off Meldron's murderous blow.

Fearfully swift the sword stroke fell. Llew's silver hand flicked up to meet it.

“Look out!” Cynan bellowed from the strand.

That hand . . . that hand of metal grafted to a stump of flesh . . . Meldron struck. The silver hand caught the falling blade. The sound pealed like a hammer striking the anvil.

The killing blade shattered; glinting shards spun into the water. The blade broke, and Meldron's arm with it.

The bone snapped with a loud crack, and Meldron looked in horror as his sword arm buckled and bent between wrist and elbow. His anguished cry sounded sharp surprise in the air as the sword hilt fell from his grasp. But even as he clasped the fractured arm to him, he began to fall.

“Jump!” cried Siawn Hy.

A leap might have saved him, but it was already too late. The boat tipped and, unbalanced by the reckless sword stroke, Meldron pitched into the tainted water. His eyes bulged wide with terror and his mouth gaped in a desperate scream as he toppled from the boat.

He richly deserved his reward, but Meldron's death throes brought no joy to anyone looking on. He flailed wildly as the black ooze sucked him under. As with so many of his hapless men before him, his skin puckered and cracked raw as welts and bloody ulcers formed where the poison touched him, scouring flesh from sinew, and sinew from bone.

He thrashed furiously and screamed in agony, clawing at his own flesh as if to tear it from him. A hideous howl burst from his throat. He writhed and twitched as if spears were piercing him, and his hair fell from his scalp in rotten clumps. Opening wide his mouth, he gasped for breath to utter a last tortured shriek. But the water, the vile corruption, had entered him and he choked on the scream. His head jerked obscenely as death seized and shook him.

Then Meldron slipped beneath the black water. A moment later his corpse bobbed to the surface, floating silent and still, dead eyes staring at an empty sky.

Llew turned toward the shore; he swam a short way, until his feet found a solid footing beneath him, and then stood. His clothes were gone, and the ropes that bound him with them—the mordant poison had stripped all from him—and now he stood immaculate and unblemished before us. His skin was flawless, clean and whole, his limbs straight and sound. He raised the silver hand and gazed at it in amazement. He stepped forward. Meldron's warriors drew back from his advance. I felt the hands upon my back slacken and relinquish their hold. I scrambled to my feet and ran, stumbling, over the stony shingle. I called to Llew as I ran.

He was yet a small distance from the shore, dripping wet, and still somewhat bewildered by what had happened to him, when he halted. I reached the place opposite him on the strand and shouted again.