The Wyrm struck. Alun whirled, throwing his flaming bale at the same time. The throw grazed the serpent’s jaw and bounced away as the head descended, knocking Alun off his feet and throwing him onto his back.
I seized a spear Tegid had readied and ran to Alun’s defense. Garanaw and Niall heard my shout, turned, and ran to his aid. Scatha’s warriors redoubled their attack. They drove in close, stabbing fearlessly. Scatha, by dint of sheer determination, succeeded in forcing a spear into a soft place between two scales on the serpent’s side. With a mighty lunge, she drove the blade in. I saw the shaft sink deep into the beast’s flesh, and I heard her triumphant cry: “Bás Draig!”
Spitting with fury, the red serpent hissed and the long neck stiffened; the two ridges on the side of its body bulged, then flattened into an immense hood, revealing two long slits on either side and two vestigial legs with clawed feet. The legs unfolded, claws snatching, and suddenly two great membranous wings emerged from the side slits behind the legs. These huge bat wings shook and trembled, unfurling like crumpled leather, slowly spreading behind the Wyrm in a massive canopy.
Scatha gave the embedded spear another violent shove. The serpent hissed again and swiveled its head to strike, but Scatha and her warrior band were already retreating into the darkness.
Meanwhile, Garanaw and Niall pulled Alun away. And I took advantage of the momentary lapse to position myself for another throw. Cynan, flaming spear streaking the night, ran to my side. As its evil head turned, the Wyrm’s mouth came open with an angry, rasping, seething hiss.
“Ready? . . . Now!” I cried, and twin trails of fire streaked up into the monster’s maw. Cynan’s spear struck the roof of the serpent’s mouth and fell away causing a little hurt; mine hit on one of the long fangs and glanced away. I ran back to the campfire. “Give me another spear,” I demanded. “Hurry!”
“It is not working,” Tegid began. “We must find another way to—”
“Hurry!” I shouted, grabbing the firebrand from his hand and setting it to the nearest bundle. I took up a spear and plunged it into the bale. “Cynan! Follow me!”
Scatha had seen us return for more bales and understood that we meant to try again. As we flew once more to our positions, she launched another attack on the Wyrm’s side. This time both she and one of the warriors with her succeeded in forcing spears between the thick scales. Two other warriors broke off their attack and leapt to Scatha’s side, adding their strength to help drive the shaft deep into the serpent’s flesh.
Scatha’s success inspired the Ravens, who raced to repeat the feat on the opposite side. Drustwn and Garanaw charged in close, working their weapons into a crack between scales. They, too, succeeded in wounding the beast.
Yr Gyrem Rua screamed and flapped its enormous wings; its forked tail thrashed from side to side like a whip.
Cynan and I took up our positions. Placing the butt of the spear in the palm of my metal hand, I stretched my other hand along the shaft as far as I could reach. As the Wyrm’s head veered toward me once more, I crouched low, my heart racing. The flames flared; sparks fell on my upturned face and singed my hair.
“Come on, you bloated snake,” I growled, “open that ugly mouth!”
The massive neck arched. The hideous head tensed high above me. I saw the fireglint in a hard black glittering eye.
With a shout of “Die, dragon!” Cynan took his place slightly behind and to the left of me. The serpent shrieked, and the sound was deafening; its awful wings arched and quivered, and clawed feet raked the air. My stomach tightened. I clenched my teeth to keep from biting my tongue.
“Strike!” I taunted. “Strike, Wyrm!”
The enormous mouth opened—a vast white pit lined with innumerable spiked teeth in a triple row. Two slender fangs emerged from pockets in the upper mouth. The blue-black ribbon of a tongue arched and curled to a frightful screech.
And then the awful head swooped down.
I saw the fangs slashing toward me. My body tensed.
“Now!” cried Cynan. His spear flashed up over my shoulder and into the descending mouth. “Llew!”
I hesitated a rapid heartbeat longer, and then heaved my flaming missile with every ounce of strength I possessed. My metal hand whipped up, driving the missile into a high, tight arc.
Cynan’s spear pierced the puffy white flesh and stuck fast. My spear flashed up between the two fangs, over the teeth, and into the throat.
The red serpent recoiled. Its mouth closed on the shaft of Cynan’s spear, driving the spearhead even deeper into the soft skin and forcing the mouth to remain open. The creature could not close its mouth to swallow, which would have allowed it to quench the flames now searing its throat.
The Wyrm began thrashing violently from side to side. With great, slow strokes, the terrible wings beat the air. Burning lichen rained down on our heads. The lethal tail slashed like forked lightning, striking the ground with killing clouts.
“Run!” Cynan shouted, pulling me away.
We fled to the fire where the Ravens now stood shouting and cheering. Bran lay on the ground bleeding from a wound on the side of his head. Alun sat slumped beside him, white-faced, a foolish, dazed expression on his face.
Blood oozed from Bran’s head, and Alun’s eyelids fluttered as he fought to remain conscious. Rage seized me and spun me around. I saw the winged serpent slam down its head as if to bite the earth. The force of the blow splintered the spear holding open its mouth. The huge jaws closed, the throat convulsed, and up came my spear with the smoldering bale still attached.
Wings beating a fearful rhythm, the serpent slowly lifted its flat head and upper body, loosed its coils and began half-flying, half-slithering away. Our campfire guttered in the gale of its retreat.
“It is fleeing!” shouted Drustwn, lofting his spear in triumph.
“Hie-e-ya!” crowed Emyr with a jubilant whoop. “Yr Gyrem Rua is defeated!”
“The Wyrm is conquered!” Cynan shouted. He grabbed me and clasped me to his chest. I saw his mouth move, but his voice had become the irritating buzz of an insect. His face creased with concern; sweat gleamed on his skin in the firelight. The glint of each bead became a needle of stabbing light, a naked star in the frozen universe of night. The ground beneath my feet trembled, and the earth lost all solidity.
And I felt my spirit expand within me; I was seized and taken up, as if I were no more than a leaf released from a branch and set sailing on a sudden gust of wind. My ears pounded with the blood rush; my vision hardened to a sharp, narrow field: I saw only the winged serpent—scales gleaming bloodred in the shivered light of our fire, grotesque wings stiffly beating, lifting that huge body to the freedom of the night sky. I saw the Red Serpent of Oeth escaping; all else around me dimmed, receded, vanished.
A hand grasped my shoulder, and then two more laid hold to my arms. But Ollathir’s battle awen burned within me and I would not be held back. Power surged up in a mighty torrent. Like a feather in a flood, lightly riding the currents, upheld by them, I became part of the force flowing through me. The strength of the earth and sky was mine. I was pure force and impulse. My limbs trembled with pent energy demanding release. I opened my mouth and a sound like the bellow of a battlehorn issued from my throat.
And then I ran: swift as the airstream in the wind-scoured heights, sure as the loosed arrow streaking to its mark. I ran, but my feet did not touch the earth. I ran, and my silver hand began to glow with a cold and deadly light, the etchwork of its cunning designs shining like white gold in the Swift Sure Hand’s refining fire. My fist shone like a beam of light, keen and bright.
A gabble of voices clamored behind me, small and confused. But I could not be bound or deflected. Can the spear return to the hand that has thrown it?
I was a ray of light. I was a wave upon the sea. I was a river beneath a mountain. I was hot blood flowing in the heart. I was the word already spoken. The Penderwydd’s awen was upon me and I could not be contained.
The serpent’s bulk rose like a curving crimson wall before me, and I saw Scatha’s spear buried midshaft in the creature’s side. Grasping the shaft with my silver hand, I pulled myself up. My flesh fingers found a crack between scales, and my foot found the spearshaft. One quick scramble and I reached the serpent’s back.
Solid beneath me, but fluid, like a molten road undulating slowly over the land, the red beast fled, fell wings stroking the air. Moving with the quickness of a shadow and the deftness of a stalking cat, I skittered over the sinuous backbone, over scales large as paving stones. A notched ridge down the center of the creature’s back made good footing as the earth dropped away below. The foul beast had gained the air, but I heeded it not.
With the uncanny skill of a bard’s inspiration, I climbed toward the vile creature’s head and passed between the buffeting wings. Keen-eyed in the night, I glimpsed a fold of skin at the base of the serpent’s skull and, above it, a slight depression where the spine met the skull; thin skin stretched tight over soft tissue.
The Wyrm’s body stiffened beneath me as it rose higher. Mounting to the bulging mound of muscle between the two wings, I planted myself there and, raising my silver hand high, I smashed it down hard.
The metal broke the skin and slipped under the ridge of bone at the base of the serpent’s skull. I stabbed deep, my metal hand a thrusting blade—cold silver sliding as in a sheath of flesh, plunging, piercing, penetrating the red serpent’s cold brain.
A blast like the wind scream of a Sollen gale rent the night. The wingbeats faltered as the immense leathery wings struggled to the sprung rhythm of a suddenly broken cadence.
“Die!” I shouted, my voice the loud carynx of battle. “Die!”
I slammed my fist deeper, metal fingers grasping. My arm sank past the elbow, and my fingers tightened on a thick, sinewy cord. Seizing this cord, I ripped up hard and my fist came out in a bloody gush. The left wing faltered and froze. The Wyrm slewed sideways, plunging deadweight from air. I clung to the bony rim of scales and held on as the earth rushed toward me.
My feet struck the ground with an abrupt bone-rattling jolt. I rolled free and stood unshaken. The Wyrm convulsed, recoiling, rolling over and over, wrapping itself in itself, pale belly exposed in twisted loops.
The Red Serpent began striking its underbelly. The poisoned fangs slashed again and again, sinking into the exposed flesh. I laughed to see it and heard my voice echo in the empty depths of the nearby shrine.
Once more I felt the hands of men on me. I was encircled in strong arms and lifted off my feet. Laughing, I was hauled from the path of the writhing serpent. I glimpsed men’s faces in the darkness, eyes wide with awe, mouths agape in fright and wonder as they carried me away from the writhing Wyrm and out of danger.
The death throes of Yr Gyrem Rua were harrowing to behold. The serpent screamed—curling, twisting, spinning, crushing itself in its own coils, clawed feet raking the soft belly, battered wings rent and broken. The forked tail lashed and stung, striking the earth in a violent frenzy.
The Wyrm’s paroxysms carried it to the portal of the palace shrine. The tail smashed the stone, loosened the ancient pillars, and knocked them from their bases. Chunks of stonework began falling from the time-worn façade. The serpent spun in a knot of convoluted wrath, shattering the forecourt of the obnoxious temple, which began to crumble inward like an age-brittle skull. The dying serpent squirmed, beating against the hard shell of its cavern sanctuary. Red stone crashed and red dust rose like a bloody mist in the moonlight. The frenzy gradually began to ease as the life force ebbed. The movements became languid and sluggish; the sibilant shrieks dwindled to a pathetic strangled whine, its last cry a monstrous parody of a child in distress.
Slowly, slowly, the potency of its own poison began to work its deadly effect. Even so, the red Wyrm was some time dying. Long after the thrashing had stopped, the forked tail twitched and a broken wing stump stirred.
As I stood watching, my eyesight dimmed and my limbs began to twitch. The trembling increased. I fastened my teeth onto my lower lip and bit hard to keep from crying out. I wrapped my arms around my chest and hugged myself tight to keep my limbs from shuddering.
“Llew! Llew!” a sharp voice assaulted me.
Pain exploded in my head. I felt hands on me. The taste of blood filled my mouth; words bubbled from my bleeding tongue and I prated in a language unknown to those around me. Faces clustered tight over me, but I did not know them—faces without identity, familiar strangers who stared in anguish. My head throbbed, pounding with a fierce and steady ache, and my vision diffused, dwindling to vague patterns of light and dark, shapes with no clear features.
And then I tumbled over the edge into senselessness. I felt waves of warm darkness lapping over my consciousness and I succumbed to oblivion.
I awoke with a start as they laid me on the ground beside the fire. The awen had left me like a gale that has passed, leaving the rain-soaked grass flattened in its wake. I struggled to sit up.
“Lie still,” advised Tegid. Placing his hands on my chest, he pressed me down on the oxhide.
“Help me stand,” I said; my words slurred slightly as my wooden tongue mumbled in my mouth.
“All is well,” the bard insisted. “Rest now.”
I had no strength to resist. I lay back. “How is Bran?”
“Bran is well. His head hurts, but he is awake and moving. Alun is unharmed—a scratch; it will heal.”
“Good.”
“Rest now. It will be daylight soon, and we will leave this place.”
I closed my eyes and slept. When I woke again the sun was peeping cautiously above the trees. The men had struck camp and were ready to go. They were waiting for me to rise, which I did at once. My arms and shoulders were stiff, and my back felt like a timber plank. But I was in one piece.
Tegid and Scatha hovered nearby. I joined them and they greeted me with good news. “We have scouted the high road beyond the shrine,” Scatha reported, “and it has been used recently.”
A spark of hope quickened my heart. “How recently?”
“It is difficult to know for certain,” the bard answered.
“How recently?” I demanded again.
“I cannot say.”
“Show me.”
“Gladly.” Scatha, haggard and near exhaustion, smiled and her features relaxed. “All is ready. You have but to give the command.”
“Then let us go from here,” I said. “It is a hateful place and I never want to see it again.”
We passed the ruined temple to reach the road. Little of the shrine remained intact. Scarcely one stone stood upon another; it was all a jumble of red rubble. In a twisted mess amidst the debris lay the wrecked body of Yr Gyrem Rua. A single broken wing fluttered in the wind like a tattered flag. The venom of its bite was quick about its grisly work of dissolving the muscled flesh; decay was already far advanced. The stink of the decomposing Wyrm brought tears to our eyes as we rode quickly past.
While it stood, the temple had hidden much of the road that could now be seen stretching out straight and wide, leading on through the forest and away from the river. It was, as Scatha had said, a proper high road: paved with flat stone, fitted together so closely and with such cunning that no grass grew between the joins.
“Show me the evidence of its use,” I said as Tegid reined in beside me.
“You will see it just ahead,” he replied. We continued on a short distance and stopped. Tegid dismounted and led me to the side of the road. There, nestled like round, brown eggs in the long grass, I saw the droppings of perhaps three or four horses. A little way beyond, the grass was trampled and matted where a camp had been established. There was no evidence of a fire, so we could not tell how long ago the travelers had sojourned there. Nevertheless, I reckoned it could not have been more than a few days. We returned to our horses, remounted, and moved out upon the high road with a better heart than at any time since entering the Foul Land.