The Silver Hand (51 page)

While I sang, the setting sun spilled red gold into the heavens. Clouds stained with rosy fire spread like fingers across the sky. It was the time-between-times, and I stood before a mounded dolmen, a hallowed place; words spoken at such times become sparks to inflame men's hearts. And I knew in my bones that the things of which I sang were yet to come; they would be.

39
O
RAN
M
ÔR

W
e rested and recovered our strength the next day. And that day was far spent when Cynfarch and Calbha summoned us to a council. “It is not right that the Great Hound's war band should live to draw breath among us while our swordbrothers lie cold in the ground,” Cynfarch said firmly. “Justice must be done.”

“He is right,” added Calbha. “The sooner we finish this, the better. I say we do it now.”

Llew turned to me. “What do you say, Tegid?”

I glanced from one king to the other; they were adamant and would not be appeased until justice had been served. “It is true,” I agreed, “the matter must be settled sooner or later. Let it be sooner.”

“Very well,” said Llew. “We will assemble at the lakeside.”

We left the crannog and went to the lakeshore storehouses where the captives had been held under guard since Meldron's defeat. We sat facing the lake on oxhides spread upon the ground; Bran took his place at Llew's right hand, and I sat to his left. Scatha settled beside me, and Cynan, Cynfarch, and Calbha completed our number. Many of Dinas Dwr's inhabitants gathered behind us—among them I noticed the slight figure of Nettles, hovering in the forefront, only just out of sight.

The Ravens brought the prisoners to stand on the shore before us: fifty warriors of the Wolf Pack and Siawn Hy—all that remained of Meldron's war band.

Their hands were bound with rope and their feet with chains. Their amulets containing fragments of the Singing Stones had been removed.

Cynfarch was first to speak. Gazing coldly at the prisoners, he said, “Is there anyone to speak for them?” When no one answered, he asked, “Who is leader among you?”

Siawn Hy raised his head. “How dare you pretend to sit in judgment over us. What gives you the right?”

“By the sovereignty of Caledon it is my right,” Cynfarch told him. “You and those with you have slaughtered the people and violated the land. You have raped and stolen and destroyed—”

“We followed our king!” Siawn spat. “We served him as your own warriors serve you. Yet you call our loyalty treason, and our fealty an offense against sovereignty.”

“You are thieves and murderers!” Cynan shouted. “You have destroyed everything!”

“We have done nothing that you yourselves have not done,” Siawn replied. “Who among you has not lifted sword against another? Who among you had not laid hold of a thing that did not belong to you?”

Both Cynfarch and Calbha were suddenly abashed. Siawn smiled with sly satisfaction. “You have done all this and more,” he said, with slow insinuation, “and you have justified them to yourselves saying, ‘We are kings; it is our right.' But when one like Meldron arises, you call him a murderer and thief. Weak men are all alike—they become cowards in the presence of the strong. You are angry and call it righteousness; you are weak and call it virtue. Yet any one of you would have done what Meldron did if you but had the courage. You were content with your small kingdoms, but only because you feared to take more.”

“Silence!” Cynfarch roared.

But Siawn Hy only laughed. “You see! It is true. You cry silence because you hear the truth and you cannot abide it. You condemn us for what you lacked: the will and heart to do yourselves what Meldron did.”

Calbha rose to his feet. “Liar!” he raged. “I will not listen to this.”

Siawn was not cowed. “How not, Calbha?” he demanded. “Have you forgotten your wars with Meldryn Mawr? Over an insult to hunting dogs as I recall. And you used that as an excuse to seize land in Prydain, did you not?”

Calbha glowered at the smooth-speaking prisoner before him, aghast that Siawn should remember such an old feud and lay it at his feet now. “That was different,” the Cruin king muttered.

I well remembered the quarrel Siawn Hy so astutely mentioned. Calbha and Meldryn Mawr had fought a series of battles which had begun over a remark about Meldryn's hounds. The truth of Siawn's assertion could not be denied. With one masterful stroke he had disarmed Calbha.

“Calbha and Meldryn settled their dispute long ago,” Cynfarch retorted, coming to the Cruin king's aid. “It is of no concern to us now. It is Meldron who is under judgment.”

“And you have settled with Meldron,” Siawn replied. “Why do you now judge us for his offenses?”

“He could not have done what he did,” Bran said, “if you had not supported him.”

“Is it now a crime to support one's king?” demanded Siawn Hy. The Wolf Pack stood easier now, quickly recovering their confidence. “You abandoned your lord, and you think this gives you the right to judge me?”

Bran regarded Siawn as if watching a snake about to strike. “That is not how it was. You twist the truth to fit your lies.”

“Do I?” Siawn smirked. “I tell you that if Meldron had won, it would be you standing here answering for your treason. That is the truth. Deny it if you can.”

Llew leaned close to me. “You see how he is? He is a master of argument. He will have us surrendering to them, next.”

“What would you do?”

He frowned. “This was Cynfarch's idea, not mine,” he said. “I suppose we must wait and see what happens.” He glanced around quickly, as if searching for someone. “Where is Nettles?”

“He is near. Is it important?”

“Summon him—I think he should be here for this. We might need him.”

I rose and went into the crowd behind me. There were now so many more people than when the council had begun that I did not see him at first. But he saw me looking for him and pushed his way forward quickly. “Llew asked for you,” I told him. “He wants you to join us.”

He made no reply but nodded as if he understood; we returned to where Llew sat, and took our places beside him. Calbha was speaking again, so Llew turned to us and said, “Nettles, you are here—good.

Listen, there is not much time.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” replied the small, white-haired man.

“Good. I will try to keep it simple.” He indicated the prisoners ranged on the lakeshore before us, their shadows stretching long in the low-riding sun. “They are being judged—you understand?”

“War trial,” said Nettles, nodding again. “I understand.”

“Good,” said Llew, his eyes flicking to me. “Good.”

Calbha finished, and Scatha, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “You speak well of loyalty and right,” she said. “Yet you attacked Ynys Sci, breaking oaths of fealty that have endured for generations. For this we judge you.”

“Ah, yes, Scatha, Supreme War Leader, I bow to you—who taught so many warriors the art of slaughter,” Siawn replied, his voice a knife thrust. “So long as your arts were practiced on others, you were content. But as soon as your own realm was invaded, you cry injustice. You taught men to kill, you armed them and sent them out, yet you think it an offense when the skills you encouraged are employed. How petty and absurd you are, Pen-y-Cat.”

Siawn's ruthless reason mocked them all and his cunning tongue bettered them. Cynfarch and Calbha had not expected this and were unnerved by it. So certain of their course only moments before, they were far from confident now. The council fell to talking among themselves. Llew turned again to Nettles.

“That is Simon,” Llew said. “Remember him?”

The small man nodded, watching Siawn narrowly. He said something in his own tongue which Llew answered, and then said to me: “Nettles says that Weston and the others—the Dyn Dythri we sent back—were in communication with Simon. They were trying to reach him. Simon has endangered Albion from the beginning. He achieved his place with Meldron in order to exploit each situation for his own purposes.”

“Meldron's place is in Uffern now,” I pointed out. “I think it is time Siawn Hy joined his lord.”

Siawn, smirking openly now, called out in a loud voice. “You have no right to judge us! Let us go!”

Llew looked at me; I could see him weighing the decision in his mind. “You are the rightful king,” I told him, placing my hand over his hand of silver. He glanced down at the shining silver hand. “Justice is yours to bestow,” I said. “Whatever you decide, I will support you.”

Siawn Hy challenged the council again, and it was Llew who answered him this time. “You have said we have no right to judge you, but you are wrong. There is one blameless who calls you to account.”

“Who is the blameless one?” Siawn sneered. “Let him come forward to condemn us. The Wolf Pack followed Siawn's lead, calling for the blameless accuser to show himself, if he existed.

Llew stood. “I am blameless,” he said simply. “I have done no wrong, yet I have suffered evil and injustice at your hands. And for this and for every drop of innocent blood that you have shed, I do condemn you.”

Siawn's thin smile spread across his face in triumph. “Condemn me all you like, friend. You are not a king, therefore you do not possess the right to judge.”

“But I am a king,” Llew said. “Sovereignty can be granted by the Chief Bard alone. The kingship of Prydain was given to me by Tegid Tathal in the rite of the Tán n'Righ.”

Siawn's laugh was loud and harsh. The spite in his voice when he answered was staggering. “You! A king? You are a cripple, my friend! The maimed man cannot be king.”

But Llew simply raised his silver hand and flexed the fingers one by one. Everyone—myself included—stared in amazement at this marvel. The hand seemed real!

“As you see, Simon, I am no longer maimed,” Llew said. He turned so that all could see, and lifted his voice so that all could hear. “With this hand I take back the kingship that was stolen from me.”

“Who owns you king?” retorted Siawn Hy savagely, and I heard desperation creeping into his voice for the first time. “Who follows you?”

“I own him king,” said Bran quietly. “I follow and serve him.”

“You refused your king, Bran Bresal. You abandoned him when it suited you. Since you claim that right, I say that we should be given the same choice. Let us swear fealty to a new lord.”

This caused a discussion in the council. “Perhaps they should be given a choice,” said Calbha, a little uncertainly. “But could we trust them?”

“What choice did our dead have?” Llew said. “What choice did those whom they raped and murdered enjoy?” He regarded Siawn and the Wolf Pack with flint-hearted resolve. “Every time they drew their sword or lofted spear they had a choice, and each time they chose.”

“He is right,” said Scatha. “They have chosen many times over whom they serve.”

“I agree,” said Cynan. “If you want to give them a choice, let it be this: to die by their own hands, or by ours.”

Cynfarch and Calbha agreed. “Then it is settled,” Llew said and turned to the waiting captives. “For your actions in support of Meldron's wrongful reign, I do condemn you. And I demand that the blood debt be paid with blood.”

“Llew,” said Scatha, “allow me to serve you in this. Any who finds his courage lacking will find mine sufficient to the task.”

“So be it,” Llew replied.

The prisoners were marched along the lakeside, up across Druim Vran and out to the plain beyond. They were led to the burial mound of their kinsmen and made to stand in ranks before it.

We stood below the mound, the sun setting at our backs. Many of the people had come out to watch the execution, though many more had seen enough bloodshed and chose to remain at Dinas Dwr. Goewyn and Nettles were among those who accompanied us, however, and stood at the forefront of those looking on as, one after another, the condemned were given the choice: death by their own hand, or by Scatha's.

Thirty men took the sword into their own hands and fell upon it— some with a cry, others silent to the last. The rest refused the sword and faced Scatha's swift blade instead. Not once did she hesitate, nor did her hand tremble. When each man died, the body was hauled up the mound by members of Cynan's war band or Calbha's and there left on the ground around the dolmen for the birds and beasts to devour.

Then, as the sun glow lit the sky in the west, Siawn Hy's turn came to decide.

“Give me the sword,” he snarled. “I will do it.”

Garanaw and Emyr, who stood on either side of the condemned man, looked to Llew for his assent. Llew nodded. Scatha stepped aside as Garanaw pressed the hilt of the sword between Siawn's bound hands, and—

—before Garanaw had ever removed his hand, Siawn twisted the blade and swung it sharply down between his legs. The bindings on his feet split and fell away, and Siawn Hy dived forward as Emyr's sword sliced the air above his head. He rolled on the ground and came up running, darting for the river. He shouted something, but I did not catch the words.

Siawn reached the river before any of us could move. Still shouting, he tried to face us—a smile of triumph on his leering face. He raised the sword between his hands in mocking salute.

Bran's swift spear was already in the air—before anyone realized he had thrown it. The slender missile appeared as a blur in the gathering dusk, a blue-white streak in the fading light. The next we knew, Siawn's sword was spinning to the ground and he was staggering backwards, clutching at his chest where the shaft of Bran's spear suddenly appeared. The impact of Bran's throw carried Siawn Hy to the water marge. One foot in the water, one foot on the riverbed, he screamed again—words I did not understand—and he fell. In the time-between-times he fell.