The Endless Knot (39 page)

“And I will drain that cup,” Tegid replied, gazing at the fire. He drank and, setting the cup aside, pressed his eyes shut.

“What of Alun?” I asked again.

Ignoring me, Tegid said, his voice cracking, “The wound was but a scratch—as Alun said. But it has sickened, and the sickness has spread into the shoulder and arm. I cut into the wound and pressed much poison out of the flesh. I bathed the cut with water and wrapped it with a poultice to keep the poison draining.”

“Yet he will recover,” Cynan declared flatly, willing it to be so.

“He is sleeping now. Scatha will sit with him through the night. She will rouse us if there is any change.”

“Why did he let it go untended?” I asked. “He should have said something.”

Tegid rubbed his face with his hands. “Alun is a brave man. He thought the hurt but small, and he did not wish to slow us. Until he collapsed on the road, I do not believe he knew himself how ill he had become.”

I asked the question uppermost in my mind. “Will he be able to travel tomorrow?”

“I will examine the wound again in the morning; I may see more by daylight. A night's sleep can do much.” He rubbed his face again. “I mean to see what it can achieve myself.”

With that, he rolled himself in his cloak and went to sleep.

We did move on the next day. Alun seemed to be stronger and professed himself much improved. I made certain that he did not walk, and Tegid gave him healing draughts, which he made with the contents of the pouch at his belt. In all, Alun looked and acted like a man on the mend.

So we journeyed on—growing more footsore and hungry by the day, it is true, but more determined also. Two days later, we noticed that the forest was thinning somewhat. And two days after that we came to the end of the forest. Despite the lack of food, our spirits soared. Just to see blue sky overhead was a blessing.

And though the land beyond the forest rose to bald hills of rocky and barren peat moor—as wide and empty as the forest had been dense and close—the warriors began to sing as we stepped from the shadow of the last tree. Tegid and I were riding at the head of the column and we stopped to listen.

“They have found their voices at last,” I remarked. “I wonder how long it has been since such a sound was heard in Tir Aflan?”

Tegid cocked his head and favored me with one of his prickly sidelong glances.

“What have I said now?”

He straightened, drew a deep breath, and turned to look at the road ahead—stretching into the hill-crowded distance. “All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass,” he intoned, “who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire.”

It was the Banfáith's prophecy, and I recognized it. With the recognition came an arrow-pang of regret for Gwenllian's death. I saw again the dusky shimmer of her hair and her bewitching emerald eyes; I saw her graceful neck and shoulders bent to the curve of the harp, her fingers stroking the strings, as if coaxing beauty from thin air.

“Rise up, Men of Gwir!” I said, continuing the quote just to show Tegid that I remembered. “Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men in your midst!”

Tegid supplied the final section: “The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.”

To which I replied: “Bring it on. I am ready.”

“Are you?” the bard asked.

Before I could reply, we heard a shout. “Tegid! Llew! Here!”

I swiveled in the saddle and saw Emyr running toward us along the side of the road. I snapped the reins and urged my mount forward to meet him. “Come quickly!” he said. “It is Alun.”

We raced back along the high road to where two riderless horses waited. A cluster of men stood at the roadside, the Ravens among them. We pushed through the press and found Alun lying on the ground. Bran and Scatha bent over him, and Cynan was saying, “Lie still, Alun. You are ailing, man. It is no shame to tumble from the saddle.”

“I fell asleep,” Alun protested. “That is all. I fell asleep and slipped off. It is nothing. Let me up.”

“Alun,” said Tegid, hunkering down beside him, “I want to look at your shoulder.”

“But I am well, I tell you.” Alun's insistence fell somewhat short of absolute conviction.

I motioned to Cynan, who leant his head toward me. “Move the men along. We will join you as soon as we have finished here.”

“Right!” said Cynan loudly. He rose and began turning men around. “It is for us to move on. We can do nothing for Alun—standing over him like trees taken root. The road grows no shorter for stopping.”

Reluctantly, the warriors moved along, leaving us to examine Alun's wound. Tegid deftly unfastened the brooch and drew aside the cloak. The siarc beneath was caked with dried blood.

“You have been bleeding, Alun,” observed Tegid, his voice dry and even.

“Have I?” wondered Alun. “I did not notice.”

Tegid proceeded to draw aside the siarc, pulling it carefully away from the skin. A sweet smell emanated from the wound as the cloth came free. The whole shoulder and upper back were inflamed and discolored now, the flesh an ugly purple with a grotesque green-black cast. The scratch Tegid had opened was raw and running with a thin yellow matter.

“Well?” said Alun, twisting his head around to see his injury.

“I will not lie to you, Alun,” Tegid's tone was solemn. “I do not like this.” The bard pressed his fingers to the swollen flesh. “Does that hurt?”

“No.” Alun shook his head. “I feel nothing.”

“You should,” replied Tegid. He turned to Bran. “Take Garanaw and Emyr, and ride back to the forest. Cut some long poles and bring them to me. We will make a
cadarn
for him.”

Alun twisted free and struggled up. “I will not be dragged behind a horse on an infant's bed,” he growled. “I will ride or walk.”

The bard frowned. “Very well,” he agreed at last, “we will spare you that. But you will endure my medicine before I let you take the saddle again.”

Alun smiled. “You are a hard man, Tegid Tathal. Hard as the flint beneath your feet.”

“Leave us the horses,” Tegid instructed. “We will join you when I have finished.”

Bran and I left Tegid and Scatha there and returned to the column. “Tegid is worried,” Bran observed. “He does not want us to know how bad it is.” He paused. “But I know.”

“Well,” I replied lightly, doing my best to soothe the Chief Raven, “Tegid has his reasons. No doubt it is for the best.”

We took our places at the head of the line with Cynan. And though the men continued to sing, the good feeling had gone out of it for me.

The day ended in a dull, miserable drizzle. A cold wind whined across the rocky wastes and made us glad of the firewood we had collected to bring with us upon leaving the forest. The wind, mournful and cold though it was, made a welcome change from the stifling close silence and dead air of the forest. So we did not begrudge the chill and damp.

We ate thin gruel, mostly water, boiled with handfuls of a sort of coarse, spiky grass that we pulled from the side of the road. The grass lent a stimulating aromatic quality to the brew and served to flavor it somewhat, although it added little bulk. The water, collected from small rock pools, was far better than that which we got from the river. Some of the warriors scouted the nearest braes for mushrooms, but found none.

Tegid and Scatha watched over Alun through the night. At dawn I went to them to see how the patient had fared. The bard met me before I came near Alun. “I do not think he should travel today.”

“Then we will camp here,” I said. “We could all use the rest, and the horses have enough grass to graze. How is he?”

Tegid frowned; his dark eyes flicked away from me and then back. “It is not well with him.”

“But he will recover,” I asserted quickly.

“He is strong. And he is not afraid of a fight. Scatha and I will do all that can be done to heal him.” He paused. “Meat would help as much as rest.”

“Say no more. I will see to it.”

I chose one of the smaller horses, though not the youngest, whose meat might have been more tender. But I was not choosing for culinary value; I wanted to keep the more experienced warhorses as long as possible. Bran approved the choice, and Garanaw helped me slaughter the poor beast.

Cynan insisted he would have nothing to do with either killing or eating horses. He kept muttering, “It is not fitting for a king of Caledon to devour his good mount, his helpmate in battle.”

“Fine. Then just hold your tongue when the stew starts bubbling and the smell of roasting meat tempts your nostrils.”

Despite the cold, Garanaw and I put off our cloaks, siarcs, breecs, and buskins. We led the animal a little apart and made the swordthrust as quick and painless as possible. The horse fell without a cry, rolled onto its side and died. We skinned it quickly and spread the hide on a nearby rock. Then we began the grisly task of hacking the carcass into suitable joints. We were covered in blood when we had finished, but we had a fair amount of good meat stacked on the hide.

Niall, Emyr, and Drustwn, meanwhile, busied themselves preparing spits on which to roast the meat. Garanaw and I distributed the meat to the men, saving the choice pieces for Tegid's use. Shivering with cold by the time we had finished, we knelt beside a peaty pool and washed away the blood, dressed again, and hurried to warm ourselves while the meat cooked.

Soon the wind carried the smoky-sweet aroma throughout our camp, dispersing any lingering qualms about our meal. When the meat was done, it did not look or smell much different from beef; and the men consumed it happily—not to say greedily. I could see Cynan's resolve wavering, but I knew if I asked him again, he would say no out of stubborn pride.

Scatha came to his rescue. She collected a double portion and sat down crosslegged beside him. “I always told my Mabinogi,” she began, chewing thoughtfully, “that a warrior's chief task is to stay alive and remain fit for battle. Any warrior who fails to do all he can to achieve this aim is no help at all to his kinsmen.”

Cynan frowned and thrust out his chin. “I remember.”

“I taught you to find birds' eggs and seaweed and”—she paused to lick the juice from her long fingers—“and all such that might make a meal for a hungry warrior away from his lord's hearth.”

The broad shoulders bunched in a tight shrug, but the frown remained firmly fixed.

“That is why I make certain to serve horsemeat to all my brood,” Scatha continued casually.

The redhead turned slowly. “You served us horsemeat?”

“Yes. I find that one taste and it—”

Some of those sitting near overheard this conversation and grinned. No one dared laugh aloud. Cynan's chagrin was genuine, but wonderfully short-lived.

Scatha raised a portion of roast meat and offered it to him. Cynan took it between his hands and stared at it as if he expected it to reproach him. “Never let it be said that Cynan Machae spurned the learning of his youth.”

So saying, he lifted the meat to his mouth and bit into it. He chewed grimly and swallowed, and the subject was never mentioned again. We slept well content that night, our stomachs full for the first time in many days. But my sleep was cut short. Tegid came to me and jostled me awake. The wind had risen during the night and was blowing cold from the north.

“Shh!” he cautioned. “Come quickly and quietly.”

He led me to where he and Scatha had made a place for Alun between two small fires, one at his head and the other at his feet. Bran stood beside her, leaning on his spear, his head lowered. Scatha had a rag in her hand, and a bowl of water in her lap; she was bathing Alun's face. His eyes were closed and he was lying very still.

Tegid bent over the ailing warrior. “Alun,” he said softly, “Llew is here. I have brought him as you asked.”

At this, Alun's eyes flickered open and he turned his head. The vile purple stain of the rotten wound had reached the base of his throat. “Llew,” Alun said, his voice little more than a whispered breath, “I wanted to say that I am sorry.”

“Sorry? Alun, you have nothing to be sorry about,” I replied quickly. “It is not—”

“I wanted to help you rescue Goewyn.”

“You will, Alun. You will recover. I am counting on you.”

He smiled a dry, fevered smile. His dark eyes were glassy and hard. “No, lord, I will not recover. I am sorry to leave you one blade less.” He paused and licked his lips. “I would have liked to see the look on Paladyr's face when you appeared. That is one fight I will be sorry to miss.”

“Do not speak so, Alun,” I said, swallowing hard. My throat ached and my stomach knotted.

“It is well with me,” the Raven said, reaching toward me with his hand. I took it and felt the heat burning in him. “But I wanted to tell you that I have never served a better lord, nor known a king I have loved more. It is my greatest regret that I do not have another life, for I would gladly give you that as well.” He swallowed, and I saw how much it hurt him. “I was ever keen for a fight, but never raised a blade in malice. If men speak of me in aftertimes, I would have that remembered.”

My vision blurred suddenly. “Rest now,” I told him, my voice cracking.

“Soon . . . I will rest soon,” he said; his dry tongue licked his dry lips. Scatha raised his head and tilted a little water into his mouth.

He gripped my hand almost desperately. “And remember me to Goewyn. Tell her it would have been the chief pleasure of my life to have fought Paladyr for her freedom. She is a treasure of Albion, Llew, and if you had not seen that at last, I would have married her myself.”

“I will tell her, Alun,” I said, almost choking on the words. “When I next see her.”

He swallowed and a spasm of pain wracked him. When he opened his eyes again, some of the hardness had gone—he was losing the fight. But he smiled. “Ahh, it is enough. It is sufficient.” He looked from me to Bran. “I am ready now to see my swordbrothers.”