Tegid and Cynan had in fact returned to camp before us and were waiting for our arrival. The sun broke above a gray horizon as we entered the still-smoldering circle of the protective fire. Upon stepping across this threshold of ashes, I was overcome with exhaustion. My legs became leaden and my back ached. I stumbled and almost fell.
Tegid grabbed my arm and steered me to a place at the campfire. “Sit,” he commanded and called to a nearby warrior. “Bring a cup!”
I stood swaying on my feet, unable to make the necessary movement. The ground seemed very far away.
Cynan, none the worse for lack of a night’s sleep, hastened to Scatha’s side, put his arm around her shoulders, and brought her to where I stood.
“Sit, brother,” the bard urged. “You are dead on your feet.”
I bent my knees and promptly collapsed. Scatha, dull-eyed and pale from our all-night ordeal, crumpled beside me.
The cup arrived. Tegid pressed it into my hands and helped me raise it to my lips. “What happened to you?” he asked as I drank.
The ale was cold and good, and I all but drained the cup before recalling that Scatha was thirsty too. I passed the cup to her as I replied, “We lost you in the dark. We called for you—we could not have been more than ten paces apart. Why did you leave us?”
“But we heard nothing,” Cynan declared, mystified. “Not a sound.”
“No?” It did not surprise me in the least. “Well, when we could not find you, we made for the edge of the mound.”
“We were chased by hounds,” Scatha said, shivering at the all-too-fresh memory.
“Then the dogs came and drove the hounds away,” I told them simply. “Bran and Alun arrived a few moments after that and brought us back.”
“Tell me about the dogs,” Tegid said, kneeling before us.
“There were three of them—long-legged and lean, with white coats. They came through the wood and drove the others away.”
Scatha supplied the details I had neglected. “The hounds had red ears and there was a man with them. I did not see him, but Llew did.”
“Is this so?” the bard asked, raising his eyebrows.
Before I could reply, Alun answered, “It is so. I saw him too. He was wearing a yellow mantle and running with the dogs.”
Bran confirmed Alun’s report. “I saw the dogs; they circled the camp three times and then led us to the very place where Llew and Scatha were hiding.”
Tegid shook his head slightly. “What of the hounds?” he said.
I did not want to speak of them. I saw no point in planting yet more fear in the warriors’ hearts—there was enough already.
“Well,” I said slowly, “there is not much to tell. They were big, ugly beasts. Fierce. If Bran and Alun had not come when they did, we would not be here now.”
“The man with the dogs, you mean. He saved you. We came after,” said Alun, dragging the facts before us once more.
“The point is,” I said, “we could not have survived much longer.”
“The hounds,” Tegid persisted, “tell me about them.”
“They were just hounds,” I replied.
“They were sluagh,” Scatha informed him.
Tegid’s eyes narrowed. He did not ask how we knew this, but accepted it without comment. For this, I was grateful.
“The same as attacked our horses?” Cynan demanded.
“The same,” Tegid replied. “The sluagh change bodies to suit their prey.”
“Changelings!” Cynan shook his head and whistled softly between his teeth. “Clanna na cù. It is a fortunate man you are, Llew Silver Hand, to be drawing breath in the land of the living this morning.”
Tegid said nothing, his expression inscrutable. I could not guess what he was thinking.
But Cynan was eager to talk. “After you and Scatha wandered away in the dark,” he volunteered, “we found a grassy hollow and settled to wait there until sunrise. Oh, but the night was black! I could have seen no less if I had been struck blind. By and by the sky began to pale and the sun came up. We came on to the camp then. Indeed, we were no great distance away—but did we ever see the fire? No, we never did.”
Tegid rose abruptly. “This mound is cursed. We cannot stay another night here.”
“I agree. Send out scouts—two parties of four each, one to ride east and the other west around the perimeter of the mound. If they see any sign of an encampment two are to keep a lookout, and two are to return here at once.”
“But they must not be long about it,” Tegid added. “We will leave at midday.”
“It shall be done,” the Raven Chief said, rising to leave.
“I will send Gweir to lead one of the parties,” Cynan offered, “and they will return the swifter.”
Bran and Cynan moved off to begin organizing the scouts. I lay down to rest until the scouting party returned. But I did not bear the waiting easily, for I fell into an anxious reverie over Goewyn. Where was she? What was she doing at this moment? Did she know I was searching for her?
I entertained the idea of building a tremendous signal fire to let her captors know that we were here. In the end, I decided against the notion, however. If they did not know, we might yet surprise them; and if Paladyr and his thugs knew already, it would be better to keep them guessing our intentions.
Near midday, Tegid came with some food for me. He placed the bowl beside my head and then squatted at my side. “You should eat something.”
“I am not hungry.”
“It is not easy to fight demons on an empty stomach,” he told me. “Since you are not sleeping, you might as well eat.”
I raised myself on one elbow and pulled the bowl toward me. It was a thick porridge of oats flavored with turnip and salted meat. I lifted the bowl and sucked down some of the mush. Tegid watched me closely.
“Well, what is on your mind, bard?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I replied. “But I cannot rest. I keep thinking of Goewyn.”
“Goewyn will not be harmed.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because it is you they want, not her. She is the bait in the trap.”
Tegid spoke frankly. His calm manner allowed me to speak my deepest fear: “If that is true, they might have killed her already.” My heart skipped a beat at the thought, but it was spoken and I felt the better for it. “We would not know it until we walked into the trap and by then, of course, it would be too late.”
Tegid considered this for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “No.” His tone was direct and certain. “I do not think that is the way of it.” He paused, looking at me, studying me—as if I were an old acquaintance newly returned and he was trying to determine how I had changed.
“What is it, bard?” I said. “You have been inspecting me since I walked into camp this morning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched into an awkward smile. “It is true. I want to hear more about this man with the white dogs—the man with the yellow mantle.”
“I have told you all I know.”
“Not all.” He leaned toward me. “You know him, I think.”
“I do not know him,” I stated flatly. Tegid’s look of reproof was quick and sharp. “I have seen him before,” I confessed, “but I do not know him. It is not the same thing.”
“Where did you see him?”
Anger spurted up like bile into my mouth. “It is nothing to do with any of this. Leave it.”
But the bard did not desist. “Tell me.”
Tegid’s probing was making me remember my life in the other world, and I resented it. I glowered at him, but complied. “It was not in this worlds-realm,” I mumbled. “It was before, when I was with Simon—Siawn Hy—in the other place; he had gone into the cairn, and I was waiting for him to come out. I saw the man nearby.”
“Describe this cairn,” said Tegid. And when I had done so, he asked, “Did you also see the white dogs?”
“Yes, I saw the dogs—white with red ears. But they were with someone else—a farmer, I think—oh, it was all so long ago, I cannot remember. They were all there, I think.”
The bard was silent for a long moment; at length he mused, “He was the same.”
“Who was the same?”
“With the dogs or without them, it makes no sense,” Tegid announced cryptically. When I asked for an explanation, he said: “Yellow Coat is usually seen with the dogs, it is true. But you saw the dogs and you saw him—together or apart, it makes no difference.”
“Bard, make plain your meaning.”
“Crom Cruach, Tuedd Tyrru, Crysmel Hen—he goes by many names and in many forms,” he said, his voice falling a note. “But in all he remains who he is: Lord of the Mound.”
Tegid spoke the name and I felt a clammy hand at my throat. “I do not remember any mound,” I said.
“When a warrior sees the Washer at the Ford,” Tegid said, “he knows that death is at hand.”
I had heard stories of this sort before. Typically, a warrior going into battle arrives at a river ford and sees a woman—sometimes wonderfully fair, sometimes brute ugly—washing bloodstained clothes in the water. If he asks whose clothes she is washing, the Morrigan will tell him that they are his own. By this the warrior knows his doom is near. I considered this, then asked, “Is it the same with Yellow Coat?”
“Only those whose affairs concern Crom Cruach may see him,”
Tegid replied with typical bardic ambiguity.
“Does it mean death?” I demanded bluntly.
He hesitated. “Not always.”
“What does it mean then?”
“It means that Crom Cruach has acknowledged you.”
This explanation fell somewhat short of full elucidation, and Tegid appeared reluctant to expand further. “Is this connected with me breaking my geas?” I asked.
“Rest now,” Tegid said, rising. “We will talk later.”
I finished my meal and tried to sleep. But Tegid’s dark insinuations and the bustle of the camp kept me awake. After a time, I gave up and joined the waiting men. We talked idly, avoiding any mention of the disturbing events of the previous night. Cynan tried to interest the warriors in a wrestling match, but the first grappling was so halfhearted that the game was abandoned.
The morning passed. The sun, almost warm, climbed through its low southern arc, trailing gray clouds like mouldered grave clothes. Just before midday, the first scouting party returned to camp to report that they had discovered no sign of the enemy. The four who had ridden east, however, did not return.
We waited as long as we dared, and longer than was wise. Tegid kept one wary eye on the sun and muttered under his breath while he stomped around impatiently. Finally, he said, “We cannot stay here longer.”
“We cannot desert them,” Cynan said. “Gweir was leading. I will not leave my battle chief and warriors behind.”
The bard frowned and fumed a moment, then said, “Very well, we will go in search of them.”
“What if it is a trap?” put in Bran. “Perhaps that is exactly what Paladyr expects us to do.”
“Then we will spring his trap and be done with it,” Tegid snapped. “Better to face Paladyr and his war band than spend another night on this accursed mound.”
“True,” agreed Bran.
“Then we ride east,” I said.
We rode across the plain following the trail of the missing scouts through the coarse grass—granting the stubbed pillar stone a wide leeway— and reached the eastern rim as daylight dwindled. We stood looking out across the treetops at the land beyond: all brown and mist-faded gray, what we could see of it below the low-hanging clouds.
“This is where the trail ends,” Bran said, his voice low.
“Ends?” I turned to look at him. His dark aspect was made darker still by the thick black beard he was growing; he seemed to be slowly changing into a raven.
He pointed to a trodden place in the grass; the snow was well trampled with hoofprints, but there was no sign of a skirmish of any kind. “The scouts stopped here, and here the trail also stops. They might have gone down into the wood,” he said thoughtfully.
“But you told them not to do that.”
“Yes, I told them.”
We started down the long wooded slope. The dense wood made our going difficult. We had not ridden far, however, when we were forced to dismount and blindfold the horses. As before, the animals stubbornly refused to be ridden into the wood, and we had to lead them on foot in order to continue. Even so, this did not slow our progress much, the undergrowth was so thick and the tangle so impenetrable.
Bran led, ranging the Ravens on either side of him in the hope that we might raise the trail of the missing scouts. But by dusk we had not seen a single footprint, much less any sign of a trail. We moved with maddening slowness, hacking a halting path through the underbrush with our swords. And despite this exertion, I noticed that the further down the slope we went, the colder it got—so that by the time we began looking for a likely place to camp, we were all wrapped chin to heel in our cloaks, and our breath hung in frosty clouds above our heads.
We made camp under a great gnarled oak beneath whose twisted limbs we found a reasonable clearing. Brushwood was gleaned from round about and heaped into three sizeable piles from which we would feed three good fires. Tegid lit each fire himself, saying, “With three, if one goes out there are always two with which to rekindle it.”
“Are you thinking the fires will fail?” I wondered.
“I am thinking that it is dangerous to be without a fire at night,” was his reply. Accordingly, we appointed men to tend the fires through the night just to make certain they did not falter.
The night passed cold, but uneventful, and we awakened to nothing more sinister than a dull dogged rain. The next day brought no change, nor did those that followed. We pushed through an endless succession of barbed thickets dense as hedge, hauling ourselves over fallen trunks, wading through mud and mire, scrambling over and around great rocks. By day we shambled after one another in a sodden procession; by night we did our best to dry out. With every step the air grew colder so that by the fifth day the rain changed to snow. This did nothing to improve our progress, but the change was welcome nonetheless.
We walked in silence. Scatha, grim-faced and morose, spoke to no one; nor did Tegid have much to say. Cynan and Bran addressed their men in terse, blunt words, and only when necessary. I could find nothing to say to anyone and slogged along as mute and miserable as the rest.
The slope flattened so gradually that we did not realize we had finally left the mound until we came to a slow-moving stream fringed with tall pines and slender birches. “It will be easier going from now on,” Bran observed.
Although we had not been attacked by the sluagh again, I felt a rush of relief wash over me once the mound was left behind. I sensed we had also left behind its preying spirits. We rested under the pines and followed the stream all the next day. The trees were old and the branches high; the undergrowth thinned considerably, which made the going easier. Gradually, the stream widened to become a small, turgid river, which wound between mud-slick banks among the exposed roots of the pines. From time to time, we glimpsed a desultory sun through breaks in the close-grown branches overhead.
As daylight faded in a dull ochre haze, we reached the end of the wood at last and looked out upon a wide valley between two long rock-topped bluffs. Snow covered the valley floor, but the snow was not deep. The river took on new life as it flowed out from the wood over a rocky bed. There were few trees to be seen, so we decided to stay the night at the edge of the wood where we would be assured of fuel for the fires. We spent all the next morning amassing firewood and loading the horses with as much as they could carry. Still, despite a late start, we made fair progress and by day’s end had traveled further than we had any day since coming to Tir Aflan.
The sun remained hidden behind a solid mass of low, swarthy clouds for the next few days as we traced a course along the river, stopping only to water the horses and to eat and sleep. The weather continued cold, but the snow fell infrequently, and never for long. We saw neither bird nor beast at any time; neither did we see any track save our own in the thin snow cover.
For all we knew, we were the only people ever to penetrate so far into the Foul Land. This impression lasted for a long while—until we began seeing the ruins.
At first it seemed that the blufftop on the left-hand side of the valley had simply become more ragged with impromptu heaps of stone and jagged, toothy, outcrops. But, as we pushed further down the length of the valley, the bluffs sank lower and closer to the valley floor to reveal the shattered remnants of a wall.
We looked on the ruined wall with the same mixture of dread and fascination we had experienced on encountering the mound. Day succeeded day, and with every step the wall grew higher and more ominous: snaking darkly along the undulating ridgetop above us, gapped where the stone had collapsed and slid down the sheer bluff sides into broken heaps below. On the sixth day we came in sight of the bridge and tower.
The tower sat on a bare hump of rock at a place where the valley narrowed. The remains of a double row of demolished columns stumbled across the valley floor and river to the facing bluff opposite. We proceeded to the huge round segments lying half-buried in the ground—like the sawn trunks of megalithic trees—sinking into the land under their own bulk and an enormous weight of years. Here we halted.
At some time in the ancient past, the river must have been a roaring torrent spanned by a great bridge—a feat for giants. And guarding the bridge at one end, a bleak, brooding tower. The same questions were on every man’s mind: who had raised the tower? What lay beyond the wall? What did they keep out? Curiosity grew too much to resist. We halted and made camp among the half-sunken columns. And then Cynan, Tegid, the Ravens, and I scaled the bluff side.
The tower was stone, comprised of three sections raised in stepped ranks. There were odd round windows, like empty eye sockets staring out across to the other side. At ground level was a single entrance with a gate and door unlike any I had ever seen: round, like the windows; and the door was a great wheel made of stone, not wood, banded with iron around its rim and set into a wide groove. The surface of the gate and door were covered with carved symbols which were now too weathered to comprehend. The remains of a stone-flagged road issued from the gate and ended where the bridge had once joined the bluff. Judging from the width of the road, the bridge would have been wide enough for horsemen riding four abreast.
The wall joined the tower level with its first rank, easily three times a man’s height. There was no way in, except through the round gate, and there was apparently no way to budge the great stone door. But Alun and Garanaw grew inquisitive and began examining the gate. It was not long before they put their shoulders to it, and between the two of them got it to move.
“It will roll,” cried Alun. “Help us clear the groove.”
The track in which the stone rolled was choked with rock debris. In no time, with the help of Emyr, Drustwn, and Niall, they succeeded in removing the grit and stone. And then they turned their attention to the door itself. The five Ravens gave a mighty heave and pushed. To everyone’s amazement the stone rumbled easily aside, revealing a darkened chamber beyond.
After warily poking their heads inside, they reported that they could see nothing. “We need torches,” Tegid advised, and at a nod from their chief, Emyr and Niall scrambled back down the cliff to fetch a bundle each. We waited impatiently while Tegid set about lighting them. But soon the torches were kindled and distributed and, with pulses pounding, we passed through the imposing gate and into the strange tower.