Through Maffar’s long days of warmth and bliss, the Year’s Wheel slowly revolved. Rhyll came on in a shimmering blaze, but the golden days and sharp, cool nights quickly dulled. The high color faded and the land withered beneath windy gray skies and cold, drenching rain.
Our harvest, so bountiful the previous year, yielded less than anticipated due to the rain. Day after day, we watched the skies, hoping for a break in the weather and a few sunny days to dry the grain. Rot set in before we could gather it all. It was no disaster, thanks to the bounty of the last harvest, but still a disappointment.
Progress on the mill slowed, and I grew restive. With Sollen’s icy fingers stretching toward us, I was anxious to get as much finished as possible before the snow stopped us. I drove Huel and his workers relentlessly. Sometimes, if the rainfall was not heavy, I made them work through it. As the days grew shorter, I grew more frantic and demanding. I had torches and braziers brought to the site so that we could work after dark.
Tegid finally intervened; he approached me one night when I returned shivering from a windy day in the rain. “You have accomplished a great deal,” he affirmed, “but you go too far. Look around you, Silver Hand; the days are short and the light is not good. How much longer do you think the sky will hold back the snow? Come, it is time to take your rest.”
“And just abandon the mill? Abandon all we have done? Tegid, you are talking nonsense.”
“Did I tell you to abandon anything?” He sniffed. “You can begin again as soon as Gyd clears the skies once more. Now is the time for rest and for more pleasurable pursuits indoors.”
“Just a few more days, Tegid. It is not going to hurt anyone.”
“We neglect the seasons to our peril,” he replied stiffly.
“There will be plenty of time for lazing around the hearth, never fear.”
Riding out to the building site early the next morning, I regretted those words. We had worked hard, very hard, but the mill had been begun late in the season and now the weather had turned against us. It was absurd of me to expect men to work in the dark, wet, and cold, and I was a fool for demanding it of them.
Worse, I was becoming a tyrant: self-indulgent, insensitive, obsessive, and oppressive. My great labor-saving boon had so far produced nothing but plenty of extra work for everyone.
My wise bard was right. The time-honored rhythm of the seasons, of work and play and rest, served the purpose of balance in the sacred pattern of life. I had tipped the scales too far, and it was time for me to put it right.
The day dawned crisp, the sunlight thin, but bright; the chill east wind tingled the nostrils with the fresh scent of snow. Yes, I thought as I came upon the vacant site, it was time to cease work for the winter. I dismounted and walked around, inspecting the excavations, waiting for Huel and his builders to arrive.
Despite the incessant delays, we had made good progress on the construction: a shallow weir had been dug and lined with stone; the foundations, both timber and stone, for the mill house had been established. In the spring, we would quarry the huge grindstones and set them in place—the mill house would be raised around them. The wheel would be built and then the shafts and gears attached. If all went well, I reflected, the mill would be ready to grind its first grain by harvest time next year.
Preoccupied with these plans, I wandered around the diggings and slowly became aware of a peculiar sound, faint and far away, but distinct in the crisp autumn air: a slow rhythmic thump—like stones falling onto the earth at regular intervals. What is more, I realized with a start that I had been hearing it for some time.
I glanced quickly toward the ridge trail, but saw no one. I held myself completely still and listened. But the sound was gone now. Intrigued, I remounted my horse and rode up the slope of the ridge and into the wood. I paused to listen. There was nothing but the whisper of the wind in bare branches.
Turning away, I thought I heard the soft thudding pat of running steps on the path ahead—just a hint and then the wind stole the sound away again. Raising myself in the saddle, I called out, “Who is it?” I paused. No answer came. I shouted again, more loudly, “Who is there?”
Lifting the reins, I rode forward, slowly, through the close-grown pines and came upon one of the many tracks leading to the top of the ridge. Almost at once, I came upon a footprint in the damp earth. The print appeared fresh—at least, rain had not degraded it overnight; a swift search revealed a few more leading into the wood.
I turned from the trail, proceeding cautiously toward the edge of the ridge, and immediately came upon an enormous heap of timber: fallen branches and logs fetched from the wood and thrown into a pile at the very edge of the ridge. The place was well chosen, screened from the trail behind by trees, yet open to the valley beyond. There was no sign of anyone about, so I dismounted and walked to the woodpile.
Scores of footprints tracked the damp earth, and on closer scrutiny I observed the prints of at least three different people. The immense size of the heap astonished me. It was the work of many days—or many hands. Either way, I did not like it. An intruder had raised a beacon on our very threshold.
I whirled from the beacon-heap and vaulted into the saddle. I snapped the reins and urged my mount to speed, skirted the beacon, and galloped along the ridgeway until I reached a place where I could look down on either side of the ridge: on one side, the valley with its brown fields and the long slate-gray lake with the crannog in the center; on the other side, the gravemound beside the river, and the empty plain spreading beyond.
I released my breath through clenched teeth. I had half-expected to see Meldron’s massed war host, risen again, streaming into the valley. But all was still and silent.
Even so, I sat in the saddle for a time, looking and listening. The clouds shifted and the light dimmed. A cold, misty rain began drizzling out of the darkening sky. The wind caught it and sent it swirling. I turned away from the ridgeway and started back down the trail to the lake. I had almost reached the lake path when I met the workmen coming up to the mill.
“Go back to your families,” I told them. “Sollen has begun; it is time we took our ease.”
The workmen were much relieved to hear me say this. So it surprised me to have Huel instantly appeal against the decision. “Lord,” said the master builder, “allow us but one more day to secure the site against the snows to come. It will save much labor when the sun returns and work resumes.”
“Very well,” I told him. “Do what you think best. But after today there will be no more work until Gyd.”
Leaving them to continue on their way, I returned to the crannog. Tegid was standing at the hearth in the hall, and I sent Emyr to fetch Bran. The bard noticed my agitation at once. “What has happened?” he asked.
I thrust my hands toward the fire. My silver hand glowed with the light of the flames, and my flesh hand began to warm. I looked at the gleaming silver, cold and stiff as a chunk of ice on the end of my arm. Why was it so cold?
“Llew?” Tegid placed a hand on my shoulder.
“There is a beacon on the ridge.” I turned to regard him. His dark eyes were intense, but he showed no other sign of alarm. “It is on the ridgeway above the mill.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Not a soul. But I heard a sound—wood thrown onto the heap, I think. And I saw footprints: three men at least, maybe more. Someone has gone to a great deal of effort, Tegid.”
Bran arrived just then, and I repeated what I had just told Tegid. The bard stared at the flames, stroking his chin. Bran scowled as he listened and, when I had finished, said, “I will take the war band and search the woods and ridge. If the footprints are fresh, the men cannot have traveled far. We will find those who have done this and bring them back to face you.”
The Chief Bard continued to gaze into the flames. Bran was waiting for an answer. “Yes,” I told him. “Raise the war band at once. We will begin at the beacon—”
Tegid raised his head. “It is not for you to go,” he said softly. I started to object, but he gave a slight shake of his head; he did not like to contradict me in front of Bran. Recalling our previous discussion about kings chasing criminals, I understood his hesitation and relented.
“Ready the men,” I commanded and told him where to find the beacon. “You can start there.” The Chief Raven gave his assent and made to turn away. I caught him by the sleeve. “Find them, Bran. Track them down, and bring them to me. I would know who has done this and why.”
A moment later Bran’s voice resounded through the hall as he chose the men who were to accompany him. A group numbering twenty or so left the hall at once—to startled speculation all around.
Turning once more to Tegid, I said, “I will ride with them only as far as the beacon.” The bard turned his eyes from the fire and regarded me with a skeptical look. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“You say it is a beacon,” he said. “Why?”
“I know a beacon pile when I see one, brother.”
“That I do not doubt,” he replied quickly. “But you assumed an enemy had made it.”
“You think otherwise?”
“I think you have not told me all.” He had not raised his voice, but his gaze grew keen and accusing. “If there is something I should know, tell me now.”
“I have told you all I know—just as it happened,” I began, but he cut me off with an impatient twitch of his mouth. I stared hard at him. Why was he behaving like this?
“Think!”
“I am thinking, Tegid!” My voice echoed in the hall. I bit back the words and clamped my mouth shut. Why did I assume an enemy? A beacon is a signal made to be seen from a distance; a beacon is . . . I looked at my silver hand almost touching the flames and felt the chill still tingling there. And I remembered the last time I had felt such a chill . . .
Raising my eyes, I said, “You are right, Tegid. It happened so long ago I had forgotten. I did not think it important.”
“Perhaps you are right. Tell me now.”
With that, I told him about the beacon fire I had seen on the night we camped on the plain below Druim Vran. “I am sorry, brother,” I told him when I had finished. “I should have told you then. But the next day we were home, and I guess I assumed the beacon had been lit for our return, and I forgot about it—until now.”
“That is not the reason you did not tell me,” he stated flatly. “You allowed your impatience to obscure your judgment. In your eagerness to see Dinas Dwr, you did not want to believe anything could be wrong, so you hid this from yourself, and from me.”
My Chief Bard was most astute. “I am sorry. It will not happen again.”
He dismissed my apology with an impatient gesture. “It is done and cannot be undone.”
“So you think we have been watched since our return?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it likely.”
“I think it certain.”
“But why?”
“That we will learn when Bran returns with those who have been watching.”
So we settled back to wait, and I found the waiting hard. I wanted to be out on the trail with my men, dealing directly with the threat instead of sitting in the hall doing nothing. One day passed, and then another. I kept my misgivings to myself. As the third day waned— and still no word from the tracking party—I voiced my mounting anxiety to Tegid. “They should have returned by now. It has been three days.”
He did not look up from the basket of leaves he was sorting into a bowl. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.” He stopped sifting the leaves and raised his head. He was bothered by Bran’s absence too; I could tell. “What would you have me say?”
“They have run into trouble. We should go after them.”
“They are twenty worthy warriors,” the bard pointed out. “Bran is more than a match for any encounter. Leave it to him.”
“Three days more,” I said. “If we have heard nothing by then, I am going after them.”
“If we have heard nothing in three days,” he agreed, “then you can go after them. And I will ride with you.”
Nevertheless, I rode to Druim Vran the next day, just to learn if there was anything to be seen from the high ridgetop. Though cold, the day was bright, the clouds high and white. Goewyn rode with me and, though we pursued the ridgeway east a fair distance, we saw no sign of any trouble.
Before starting back, we paused to rest the horses. Sitting together on a rock overlooking the valley below, a fresh wind stinging cheeks and chin, I draped my cloak around us both and held her close as we watched the mist flowing down the hillsides to blanket the glen.
“We should be getting back,” I said, “or Tegid will send the hounds after us.”
We made no move, however, content to sit and watch the valley fill with thick, gray mist. The light began to fail at last and, although luxuriating in Goewyn’s nearness and warmth, I nevertheless forced myself to stand. “It will be dark soon,” I said. “We should head home.”
“Mmmm.” Goewyn sighed and drew her feet under her, but did not stand.
Moving to the horses, I pulled the tether pegs and gathered the reins. “Llew?” Goewyn said. Her voice struck a note that made me turn at once.
“What is it?”
“There is something moving down there—along the river . . . in the mist.”
In three strides I was by her side and gazing into the quickly fading glen. “I do not see anything,” I said. “Are you certain?”
She stretched her arm to point out the place. “There!” she said, without taking her eyes from the spot.
I looked where she was pointing. The mist parted somewhat and I saw what appeared to be three dark shapes moving along the riverbank. Whether afoot or on horseback, I could not say. I saw only three swarthy, shapeless bulks moving along the riverside . . . and then the mist took them from my sight.
“They are coming this way,” I concluded. “They are coming to Druim Vran.”
“Is it Bran, do you think?”
“I cannot say. But something tells me it is not Bran—or any of those with him.”
“Who, then?”
“That I mean to find out.” I reached a hand down to Goewyn and pulled her to her feet. “Ride back to Dinas Dwr and alert Tegid and Scatha. Tell them to assemble a war band, and show them where to come.”
Goewyn clutched my arms. “You are not going down there.”
“Yes, but only to keep an eye on our visitors.” I squeezed her hand to reassure her. “Do not worry, I will not challenge them. Go now— hurry.”
She did not like to leave me alone, but she did as I bade her. I returned to the lookout and gazed into the valley. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the invaders making their way along the river, before the mist closed over them once more.
Mounting my horse, I rode back along the ridgetop the way we had come; since the trail was high, it remained light enough to see well ahead, but Goewyn was already out of sight. I rode until I reached the main track leading down into the glen and started down, encountering the swirling mist about halfway to the valley floor.
I continued on—almost blind in the shifting, all-enveloping vapor—until I reached the bottom, whereupon I stopped to listen. Everything was dead still, the foggy murk muffled all sound—and yet, I thought that if there was anything to be heard I would hear it quite plainly.
Absolutely motionless, I sat in the saddle, straining forward to catch any stray sound. After a while, I heard the light jingle of horses’ tack and the hollow clop of horses’ hooves, moving slowly. I could get no sense of the distance, but the sound did not seem very close. I lifted the reins and urged my mount forward, very slowly, very quietly.
No more than ten paces further on, however, the mist swirled away and I saw a horseman directly in front of me. Ice water trickled down my neck and spine.
A distance of a spear’s throw separated us. I halted. Perhaps he would not see me.
The rider came on; I saw him raise his eyes from the track in front of him. His face was but a shadow under his cloak, which was pulled up over his head. His hands jerked the reins and his dark mount halted. He called something over his shoulder to unseen companions behind him. I heard his shout, sharp and urgent, but could not catch the words.
The fog moved in again on the fitful wind, and the rider was taken from sight. But just as the mist stole him from view, I thought I saw him turn his horse and bolt off the trail.
Drawing my sword from its place under the saddle, I took a deep breath. “Stop!” I shouted as loud as I could. “Stay where you are!” In reply I heard only the quick scramble of hooves as the horse galloped away.
Gripping the sword—and wishing I had brought a spear and shield with me—I rode forward cautiously and stopped at the place where the rider had appeared. He was not there, of course, and I could see but a few paces ahead in any case. I waited for a while, and when I heard nothing more, decided to return to the ridge track to await Scatha and the others. That way, I could guard the track if the riders tried to reach it by going around me.
Wheeling my horse, I made my way back to the place where the trail began to rise to the ridge and took up my position. Daylight had gone by now, and a murky twilight had settled over the glen. Soon fog and darkness would make it difficult, if not impossible, to ride at all. No doubt this was what the three intruders were counting on. I took some small comfort from the fact that what was difficult for one was difficult for all. Anything that would hinder me would hinder them as well; I was as much protected by the fog as they were.
I waited, watching and listening. I do not know how long I sat there—the fog, like damp wool, curled and shifted, obscuring and confusing all senses—but I gradually began to imagine that I heard the sound of horses once again. Because of the mist, I could not yet tell from which direction the sound reached me.
It might be the war band coming to join me, I thought, but they could not have had time enough to gain the ridgetop, much less descend. More likely, the invaders, having satisfied themselves that I had gone, were proceeding once more.
Listening with every fiber in me, holding my breath, I strained into the darkening murk for any sound that would tell me which way they would come. The sound of horses grew steadily louder as the intruders drew nearer. I turned my head this way and that, alert to any nuance of motion.
Then, swimming out of the fog: dimly glowing orbs of light . . . torches, two of them, no more than twenty paces away. I tightened my grip on my sword and shouted. “Stop! Go no further!”
At once the invaders stopped. The torches hung motionless in the air; I could not see anyone beneath the hanging lights, but I could hear their horses breathing and blowing, and the creak of leather as they waited.
Not wishing to show myself just yet, I continued speaking from where I sat. “Stand easy, friends,” I called. “If peace is your desire, your welcome is assured. But if it is a fight you want, you will receive a warmer welcome elsewhere. Get down from your horses.”
There was a moment’s silence before the intruder replied. I heard the impatient stamp of a hoof and a voice: “We are peaceful men. But it is not our way to obey commands from any man we cannot see.”
“Nor is it my way to greet travelers with a sword,” I replied sternly. “Perhaps we both find ourselves in unaccustomed positions. I advise prudence.”
There was a further silence in which I heard the hiss and flutter of the torches. And then the voice said, “Llew?”