Hawk of May (10 page)

“If you truly do not wish to accept this sword,” said Lugh, “you may refuse it. I tell you, you can still serve the Light if you reject this.”

For an instant I wanted to accept this offer. But it was impossible. I could not disobey the Light immediately after it had saved me. If my new lord desired that I draw the sword, I must try to draw it. Surely, I comforted myself, the Light would not wish this unless I was able to do so without being destroyed. And whatever else is true, a warrior must obey his rightful lord. So I shook my head. “I will try to accept this gift.” My mouth was dry and my hands damp.

I did not see but sensed Lugh's smile. “Go then, and draw it.”

I walked over to it, each step heavy. My death could come here if I had not the strength to lift the sword…I was standing before it, and the light, warm, deep red, spilled over me. I dropped to my knees.

“Light,” I said. “My lord High King, the sea is round me and the sky over me and the earth under me, and if I break faith with you, may the sea rise up and drown me and the sky break and fall on me, and the earth open and swallow me; so be it.” The Threefold Oath was, I knew, unnecessary, but it was always sworn when one's lord gave one arms. I took a deep breath, reached out both hands, closed them on the hilt of the sword, and began to draw it.

It was hot, hot as flame, and my hands were burning. The light in the ruby leapt, rose, fierce and red, red as blood, as the blood which beat in my ears and shook my whole body with its pulse. I pulled at the sword, and light slid along the exposed part of the blade, still red. I was aware of my hands only as centers of pain, was certain that they were being burned off; could almost smell the stink of them…I drew the sword further and suddenly it was clear of the sheath, and I screamed because the light and fire of it suddenly ran along my very soul, and I was burning in it, and saw myself, all of myself, revealed in the light. All the Darkness I had known lay there, and all the Darkness that was a part of me shrieked at me to drop the sword before it slew me. And it was slaying me, for I was impaled by its light, and it was not a sword for mortals at all…but the Light wished me to draw it (oh,
Ard Rígh Mor,
Great High King!) so I held on, feeling the air rush white-hot into my lungs, searing every part of me, heart, mind consumed in a light that was no longer red but burning white as the heart of the sun. My strength failed me, and I retreated back into myself, seeking some power that would hold the sword in that agony. For an instant it seemed that I had none, that I would be annihilated, for it was too late to drop the sword…

And then I felt a sudden power within me rush into my limbs, clear and white hot, the core of my being, which had long before dreamed of this, and which before this I had barely suspected. I lifted the sword high above my head, the point raised to the sky, dimly aware how it now burned pure and brilliant as a star. I cried out in triumph, not knowing what I said, for I had conquered, and it was mine.

And then, suddenly, the pain was gone, and I was kneeling before the blank wall and the sword was dimming slowly in my hands.

“It is done,” said Lugh, very softly. “I am glad.”

I looked at the sword, then at my hands. They were not burned at all. I looked at the sword again. Its light had dimmed to a glimmer along the blade. I turned towards Lugh who stood, still, in the doorway, surrounded by a bright clear light, smiling. “The name of the sword is Caledvwlch, ‘Hard One,'” he said. “It had a different name before, but now it is yours, and a new name is given it for a new day.”

“It is mine,” I said, still bewildered. A wave of great joy flooded me. “My lord gave me arms.”

Lugh nodded. “You are the Light's warrior now. Do not forget that, Hawk of May. Now,” Lugh crossed the room and helped me to my feet, “our lord is engaged in a war, and you must use that weapon of yours.”

“Where is the battle?” I asked. “And what warband shall I join?”

“The battle will be about you. And take warning: it is not always to be fought with the sword, even with a sword like yours.”

“I understand, Lord. I have conquered my own Darkness, but cannot destroy it.”

He nodded, smiling. “And if you remember that, you will be wise. The Darkness can use your own will, and can use others when they are themselves ignorant of it. You have walked in the Darkness and chosen Light, and will be hard to deceive. But it will not be impossible. There is much sorrow on Earth, and the Darkness is very strong…” He stopped abruptly, and turned his eyes from the future to the present and me. “For warband, you will be able to recognize those who serve the Light. Arthur you already know of. Go to him, and accept him as your lord on Earth, if he will have you. But you will need to convince him that you have abandoned the Darkness, first: do not expect that it will be easy. Whatever happens, I am certain that great things will be done on the Earth in these days, for there is a great struggle taking place. What the end will be I do not know and cannot see, except that it will be strange and different from what is expected. But I think you will fight honorably. Now, come.”

I followed him from the room, carrying my sword, and he led me through a maze of passageways out, somehow, on to a kind of platform just below the roof of the feast hall, of the kind men use for trimming the thatch. We stood just beneath the roof of feathers and looked out to the west. The sun was going down, covering all the world with light, and it seemed closer and brighter than on Earth. Lugh pointed westward, and I followed the direction he indicated. I could see the whole of his island, right to the sea which circled it, and beyond that still into the sun itself. Just for a moment, it seemed to me that a light like a new star burned behind the sea, beyond the horizon; and in that instant, I felt that I understood the song in the Hall, and to what I had pledged my sword. I fell to my knees and raised the sword before me, whether in homage or in defence I am unsure. Lugh threw his arms up as in acclamation, and the light within him seemed to leap up. Then the sun touched the horizon, covering that other light, and he turned to me again.

“It is time that you go,” he said gently. “Perhaps you will return one day, when the Earth has passed, and then you can hear the end of that song. But till then, I fear, we will not meet, nor will you ever again come to my realm. So, kinsman, I give you my blessing,” and he rested his hands on my shoulders as I still knelt. “Carry it well in whatever battles are before you.” He helped me to my feet, then embraced me, more tenderly than my father ever had. “Go in Light,
mo chroidh
,
my heart, and do not wonder at what happens.”

Stepping back, he lifted his hands and spoke a word which the wind caught and repeated about me. The gold and bronze wall of the Hall, the setting sun on the feathers of the roof, dissolved into that sound; and the plains and woods and ocean of the Isles of the Blessed faded slowly with the wind. Last of all, Lugh himself, now standing afire with light, faded into a luminous mist, still smiling, and the last echoes of the magic word carried me back softly, ever so softly, to Earth and sleep.

A hawk was flying in slow circles through the air above me. I watched him tilt his wings, balancing on the wind, then drift up sideways into it. I let my mind drift with him, swinging slowly along the blue sky and not really watching the blur of memories that lay below. I felt light, strong, purposeful: that was enough.

Presently, however, it occurred to me to wonder what had happened, and why I had this strange feeling of confidence, and I looked into my memories.

Llyn Gwalch. I had ridden there, with a demon riding after me through the night. I had stayed there for a day, and afterwards…no, a long blaze of color and light, pain and glory and ecstasy. A song overwhelming everything, and a sorrow too deep for words. And an oath, a commitment. The Isles of the Blessed. Tir Tairngaire, Land of Promise, the Silver Land, the Land of the Living: a crowd of names for it rushed to me. Lugh of the Long Hand—no, it had to be a dream. Indeed, it had the strange enchanted feeling of a dream, in which colors are too bright and time and distance changed, alien and meaningless. Llyn Gwalch, then. I had certainly been there, so presumably I still was, here. Later in the day I would have time to consider the feeling of being changed, but for the moment I had better try to find something to eat.

I sat up, yawning, and looked about me; went rigid.

I was on a hilltop, seated in the low grass and heather that covered it. To one side the hill swept down, up into another range of hills, then clothed in an incredible shadowing of forest bright green with the spring. On the other side, the hill continued into a range of taller hills. The sky was an unimaginably clear blue, and seemed to rise for ever.

“No,” I said out loud. “It is impossible.” There were no hills this tall in all the Orcades, and no forests. It was not spring, but autumn.

But the earth and sky were indisputably real. I clutched my head, terrified. Where was I? This could not be a dream, but if it were not, then…the other couldn't have been a dream either.

“Do not wonder at what happens,” Lugh had said before he sent me back to Earth. I remember the words clearly, and remembered his face as he said them, and the west spread out below the roof of his Hall. I remembered the room beneath the Hall, and the agony of drawing the sword; the joy and power when I had drawn it. The sword…my hand fell to my side.

It was there.

I closed my hand about the hilt, and it seemed to flow into and become a part of me. I lifted it, looked at it. It was real. The whole voyage had been real, and the magic of Light was no less real than the power of Darkness. I had sworn fealty to the Light, and it, he, had given me arms. I held in my hand a weapon not forged on Earth.

I laughed, gripping the hilt with both hands, doubt and terror departing without leaving a trace behind them. I sprang to my feet and lifted Caledvwlch to the sun.

“My lord, Great King!” I shouted. “I thank you for this, and for delivering me from my enemies, and taking my oath!” As I spoke, the sword blazed again with light, but this time it did not burn me; rather, it seemed to radiate my own joy. I lowered it slowly, looking at it. “And I thank you, too, kinsman, Lord Lugh,” I added, “for your hospitality.” The light burned a little while longer, then dimmed until it seemed as though I held an ordinary, if very fine, sword in my hands.

I had not really noticed the fashion of it before. It was a two-edged slashing sword, such as a man could use from horseback. It was somewhat longer and thinner than most such swords, and perfectly balanced. The hilt was very beautiful: the cross-piece far longer than usual, each branch coiled with gold which then intertwined up the grip to the pommel, which was set with a ruby. The blade, as the inner light died from it, caught the sunlight with the true “snake” pattern of well-forged steel. It was sharp, too: I drew the edge along my arm, and it cut every hair without pulling. It would be a fine weapon to use in an ordinary battle, without the addition of unknown powers against the Darkness.

Looking down, I saw that it had a sheath. This was very plain, of simple wood and leather, and fastened to a plain leather baldric. I set the sword down and put this on, then sheathed the sword and adjusted it. It was an easy weight to carry, since I felt lighter with it than without it.

The question now was, which way to walk? I had no idea where I might be. Lugh had said that I should go to Arthur, and Arthur was presumably fighting the Saxons somewhere in Britain, so I was probably in Britain, rather than in Erin or Caledon—or Rome or Constantinople, for that matter. Britain, though, is a large land, and there were few in any of her many kingdoms who would welcome strangers from the Orcades. Well, if Arthur was fighting the Saxons, presumably I had been sent to somewhere near him. That might mean I was near the border of one of the Saxon lands, but, again, it might not. A well-planned raid may strike a region over a hundred miles from the raiders. And most of the British kingdoms bordered Saxon lands on the east. Well then, at least I should not walk east. I checked my directions by the sun. The chain of hills lay directly to my west. These looked to be hard walking, and I was unused to travelling long distances on foot. I looked for easier country.

I looked again at the sky. The hawk I had seen earlier was still visible, circling slowly southward. That seemed as good a direction as any. I started off.

After three steps I had to stop again. My boots pinched dreadfully. Sitting down to check them, I saw that they were far too small. So, for that matter, was everything else I was wearing. I remembered then that Lugh had said that two and a half years had passed during my single day on the Isle of the Blessed.

I stared at the boots. Everyone must think me dead, would even have forgotten me. It was late spring. I must be fully seventeen.

Almost against my will, I recalled tales that are told of those who visit the Sidhe. Sometimes, returning only to look again at their homeland, such travellers crumple into dust when they touch mortal earth and their age returns to them. Or sometimes they themselves were left unchanged, but the world had known centuries since they left, and they wandered about earthly lands for years, asking for persons long dead and forgotten. I felt sick. Suppose that this had happened to me. Suppose that it was not just two and a half years, but ten, twelve, a hundred years? Suppose I went to the nearest farmstead and asked about Arthur the Pendragon, and the people said “Who?” and looked at me with strange eyes?

No, I told myself firmly. Lugh said two and a half years, and he would not deceive me. This is spring, and two and a half years from the time I left Llyn Gwalch. And if it is not so, then it is because the Light wills it not to be, and the Light is your sworn lord and you must accept and have faith in his judgements.

I unlaced the boots and took them off. I had been warned, after all, I told myself. And the advantages were great. I had grown somewhat before I left Dun Fionn but now I was fully adult, and could swear service to any lord in Britain—any that would have me, that is. Doubtless I was still a poor fighter.

This thought made me smile, albeit shakily, and I remembered Agravain and Lot and all those who had tried to train me at Dun Fionn, when I had still wanted to be a warrior. It had been hard then, bitterly hard. Now, at least, I knew what my road was and knew that it was good, even if it might be difficult. The ascent from Avernus apparently was not to be made in one step. I remembered suddenly the light I had seen at sunset in the Isles of the Blessed, and struggled to recall what it meant. I could not. But the song in the Hall I could remember, still sharp and brilliantly clear. Too clear: the sorrow flooded over me in a great wave, mingled with homesickness, and I crouched a moment, staring at the heather. Best not to think of that for a while.

I tossed the boots aside—I could easily go barefoot on that grass—and started down the hill.

It was a fine day for walking. It was warm, about as warm as it ever becomes in the Orcades (though it is often much hotter in Britain) and I first loosened, then took off my stained cloak. The sky was very clear and blue, and there was only the slightest of breezes to ripple the grasses. Skylarks dropped music from overhead, rabbits jumped off on all sides, and once, as I walked by the edge of the forest, a herd of deer leapt up and ran off before me in great startled bounds. Flowers abounded, in types I had never seen in the Orcades. The woods were a marvel to me, who had seen none before, and the play of sunlight through the leaves seemed too wonderful for words.

After noon, when I was becoming thirsty, I found a stream running from the hills into the forest. The water was sweet and clear. After drinking, I rested by it for a while, soaking my feet, which were already sore; then set off again, still southward.

As the day wore on, the hills became lower, finally blending into the surrounding countryside. The forest grew thicker, and marvellous as it was, I became uneasy with the trees so tall about me, and began to wish for the open hills of the Orcades and for the sea. My feet were cut and sore, and I was also growing tired and stopping to rest more frequently. I had seen no sign of human habitation all day, and I wondered where in this great land Arthur could be. When it was growing late in the afternoon, however, I found a road.

It astounded me. Never had I seen such a thing. It was paved with great stones, slightly arched in the middle, and the forest had been cleared for some distance about it—although loose scrub had grown since that clearing. It was a road wide enough for the largest cart and firm enough to withstand the fiercest rains and coldest winters. I had heard of the Roman roads, but had always thought their virtues exaggerated. Well, I now knew them to be real.

This road ran east–west, straight as a spear shaft. I walked cautiously from the forest on to it, then began walking west. It was easy walking after the forest, and I made good time.

When twilight was only an hour or so away I saw people coming down the road towards me. The setting sun was behind them, and I could not see them clearly. Nonetheless, I ran forward eagerly to meet them. They were the first humans I had seen since awakening—in fact, the first in two and a half years—and I felt the need of company after the strange forest and stranger things preceding it. Besides that, men meant houses, fire, food. And even more than the hunger, I felt a peculiar turning of my mind towards other men, an eagerness for them, almost as though all humanity was my clan, and I wanted their shared warmth against the vastness and awe of the powers of Light and Darkness. It is a strange feeling, but whenever I have been nearest the Light and, thus, farthest from common humanity, I feel so.

The party emerged as eleven men leading three pack-laden horses and driving a cow. The men were warriors. The sun glinted off the tips of their spears, limned the oval shields slung over their shoulders, and shone warmly on their steel topped helmets. I stopped, frowning. The warriors of the Orcades do not wear helmets, and none of the British warriors who had been attracted to my father's warband had done so either. Most warriors consider it cowardly to wear one, and besides, unless it is very well made a helmet merely blocks one's vision without providing much protection.

As I stood, stupidly staring and thinking this, one of the warriors hailed me, shouting in a language I did not know. Then I realized that I should have fled. I knew Irish, British, Latin, and some Pictish, all but one of the languages spoken in Britain. The one I did not know was the Saxon tongue—and Saxons also wore helmets. But I had hesitated too long, and now it was too late to flee. The warriors were almost upon me. I would have to try to bluff, and hope that the Saxon reputation for unthinking violence was mistaken, and that their reputation for lack of imagination and stupidity was correct.

The Saxon who had called before repeated his greeting. I nodded in what I hoped was a half-witted fashion and stood aside to let them pass.

They were all tall men, I saw now, and most had the oddly pale fair hair which is also a part of the Saxons' reputation, though three were dark. They were well armed with swords, throwing and thrusting spears, and the long knives, the
seaxes
,
which give them their name. The horses were laden with food: three pigs, grain, and some plain sacks containing either fruit or vegetables. The party walked towards me, more slowly now, and the leader suddenly stopped and frowned. He said something ending on a questioning note. I shook my head.

He took another step towards me, hesitated again, staring intently. He made a gesture with his left hand. One of his comrades made some comment in their odd guttural language, and the leader shook his head dubiously and asked another question. There was a strange note in his voice, of uncertainty, almost of fear, and his comrades had dropped the points of their spears. I shook my head again.

The leader glanced back at his friends, then spoke in British. He had a strange accent, speaking in the back of his throat, and coughing out harsh vowels and swallowing the ends of his words but I understood him well enough. “I said, greetings to you, whoever you may be.” He hesitated again, watching me, the whites of his eyes showing oddly, then continued belligerently, “Who are you, and why do you travel this road, so close to nightfall?”

“I…am travelling because I must,” I said. “Come nightfall, I will stop.”

One of the other Saxons stepped forward angrily, levelling his spear. “That is no answer, Briton! What do you in the domain of the West Saxons? If you be a thrall, where is your master? If you be no thrall, what do you?”

“Eduin!” said the leader in an alarmed tone; and in the abrupt and tense silence that followed he studied me again, as though he did not like what he saw. I stood quietly, thinking hard.

The second Saxon, Eduin, argued something quickly with the leader, gesturing eastward. The leader looked uncertain, chewing his moustache, then became angry, and turned back from his companion to me. “Where is your master, Briton?” he demanded.