Once on the high road, we journeyed with something approaching speed—a mixed blessing, as it soon exposed the loss of our horses. Those on foot could not keep pace, and we were constantly having to halt the mounted column to allow the stragglers to catch up. Thus we were obliged to rotate the men, foot-to-saddle, with increasing frequency as the swifter pace began to tell.
At the end of the day, we had traveled a fair distance. Since we planned to camp right on the road itself, we pushed on until it became too dark to see more than a few hundred paces ahead. There were stars shining in the sky and, though still cold, the air seemed not so sharp as on other nights. This served clear notice that time was passing. The weather was changing; Sollen was receding, and Gyd would soon arrive.
I begrudged the time—every passing day was a day without Goewyn and empty for the lack. I felt an urgency in my spirit that nothing, save the light in Goewyn’s eye, could appease. I was restless and craved the sight of my beloved. The infant was growing now within her, and I wondered if it had begun to show. I repeated her name with every step.
As Cynan and I walked together, taking our turn on foot, I asked, “Do you miss Tángwen greatly?”
His head bent low. “My heart is sore for yearning, I miss her so much.”
“You never say anything,” I prodded gently.
“It is my heartache. I keep it to myself.”
“Why? We share in this pain together, brother.”
Cynan swung his spear shaft forward, rapping the butt sharply on the stone, but kept his eyes fixed on the road. “I keep it to myself,” he repeated, “for I would not grieve you with my complaint. Bad enough that Goewyn is stolen; you do not need my troubles added to your own.”
He would say no more about it, so I let the matter rest. His forbearance humbled me. That Cynan could forswear the very mention of his own hurt lest it increase mine, shamed me; doubly so, since I had scarcely given his suffering a second thought. How could I be worthy of such loyalty?
That night we came to the end of the little grain that remained, and it was a sorry meal.
“The sooner we leave this accursed forest, the better,” grumbled Bran Bresal. We sat at council around the fire while the men ate, wondering what to do. “It cannot go on forever.”
“Nor can we,” I pointed out. “Without meat and meal, we will soon grow too weak to travel.”
“We have meat on the hoof,” Scatha suggested delicately. “Though every horse we take means that another warrior must walk.”
“I have never eaten horsemeat,” Cynan muttered. “I do not intend to start now.”
“I have eaten horse,” said Tegid. “And I was glad to. It warmed the belly and strengthened the hand to fight.”
I remembered the time Tegid meant: the flight to Findargad in the mountains of northern Prydain. Then, as now, it was winter. We were pursued by the Coranyid, Lord Nudd’s demon host, while making our way to Meldryn Mawr’s high stronghold. Freezing, starving, we fought our way step by faltering step to the safety of the fortress. We were not freezing this time, but the starving had begun.
“Nothing good can come of eating a horse,” rumbled Cynan, pressing his chin to his chest. “It is a low endeavor.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Scatha, “but there are worse.”
I stirred at the sound of footsteps, and Emyr appeared, anxious and uneasy. He spoke directly to Tegid. “Penderwydd, it is Alun. I think you should come and see him.”
Rising without a word, Tegid hurried away.
“What has happened to him?” asked Cynan, jumping to his feet. Bran had risen at Emyr’s approach and was already following.
We fell into step with Emyr. “Garanaw found him sitting back there,” the Raven said, indicating the road we had that day traveled. “He took his turn walking, but he did not join us when we stopped to make camp. Garanaw rode back to look for him.”
Alun sat slumped by the campfire. The other Ravens hovered near, quietly apprehensive. They did not speak when we joined them, but gathered close as Tegid stooped before their stricken swordbrother.
“Alun,” began the bard, “what is this I hear about you taking your ease by the road?”
Alun’s head came up with a smile, but there was a pain behind his eyes, and his skin glowed with a mist of perspiration. “Well,” he replied in a brave tone, glancing around the circle of faces above him, “I have not been sleeping as well as I might—what with one thing and another.”
Scatha knelt beside him. “Where is the hurt, Alun?” she asked, and put her hand on his shoulder. The touch, though gentle, brought a gasp from the Raven. The color drained from his face.
Gently, she reached to unfasten the brooch that held his cloak. Alun put his hand over hers and shook his head slightly. “Please.”
“Let us help you, brother,” Tegid said softly.
He hesitated, then closed his eyes and nodded. Scatha deftly unpinned the cloak and loosened the siarc. Alun made no further move to hinder her, and soon the shoulder was exposed. A ragged welt curved over the top of the shoulder toward the shoulder blade.
“Bring a torch,” the bard commanded, and a moment later Niall handed a firebrand forward. Tegid took the torch and, stepping behind the seated Alun, held the light near.
“Oh, Alun!” sighed Scatha. Several of the Ravens muttered, and Bran looked away.
“Fine brave warriors you are!” complained Alun. “Has no one seen a scratch before?”
There was a small rip in the siarc, and little blood; indeed, the scratch itself had already scabbed over. But the flesh beneath was red and swollen, with a ghastly green-black tinge.
Tegid studied the shoulder carefully, holding the torch near and probing gently with his fingertips. Then he placed his hand flat against the swollen shoulder. “The wound is hot to the touch,” he said. “It is fevered.”
Scatha reached a hand to Alun’s head and pressed her palm to his brow. She withdrew it almost at once. “You are roasting, Alun.”
“Perhaps I have been sitting too near the fire,” he laughed weakly. “And here I thought I was cold.”
“I will not lie to you, brother,” Tegid said, handing me the torch and squatting before Alun once more. “It is not good. The wound has sickened. I must open it again and clean it properly.”
Alun rolled his eyes, but his exasperation was halfhearted and mingled with relief. “All this fuss over a scratch?”
“Man, Alun, if that right there is only a scratch,” said Cynan, who could contain himself no longer, “then my spear is a pot sticker.”
“Bring fresh water—and clean cloths, if you can find any,” Tegid ordered impatiently. Cynan left at once, taking Niall with him. “I need a knife,” the bard continued, “and I need it sharp.”
“Mine will serve,” said Bran, pushing forward. He drew the blade from its place at his belt and handed it to Tegid.
The bard tested the edge with his thumb and gave it back, saying, “Strop it again. I want it new-edged and keen.”
“And hold the blade to the fire coals when you have finished,” I instructed. Bran raised his eyebrows at this, but I insisted.
“Do it,” said the Raven Chief, handing the knife to Drustwn, who hastened to the task. Tegid turned to the remaining Ravens. “Gather moss, and spread oxhides and fleeces; prepare a bed.”
“I will not need a bed, certainly,” Alun grumbled.
“When I am through,” Tegid replied, “one of us will be glad of a place to lay his head. I will use it if you will not.” He nodded to Garanaw and Emyr, who turned and disappeared at once.
Scatha and I retreated a little apart. “I mislike the look of this,” Scatha confided. “I fear the serpent’s poison is in him.”
“If the poison was in him, he would have been truly dead by now,” I pointed out. “Help Tegid, and come to me afterwards.”
Thus, I set about keeping myself and the rest of the men busy until Tegid and Scatha had finished. The horses were picketed and the fires banked high; Cynan and I positioned the guards and saw the men settled to sleep before returning to the fire to wait.
I dozed, and after a while Cynan nudged me awake. “Here now! He is coming.”
I yawned and sat up. “Well, bard?”
Tegid sat down heavily. Fatigue sat like a burden on his shoulders. Cynan poured a cup of water and offered it to him. “If I had a draught of ale,” Cynan said, “I would give it to you. As soon as I get another, it is yours.”
“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.”
Bran raised his head, nodded, and hastened away at once. Alun, still gripping my hand, though less tightly now, held me. “Lord Silver Hand,” he said, “I would make but one last request.”
“Anything,” I said, tears brimming in my eyes. “Anything, Alun; speak the word and it is yours.”
“Lord, do not bury me in this land,” he said softly. “Tir Aflan is no honorable place for a warrior.”
“I will do as you ask,” I assured him.
But he clutched desperately at my hand. “Do not leave me here alone. Please!” he implored; and then added more gently, “Please.” He swallowed and his features clenched with pain. “When you are finished here, take me back with you. Let me lie on Druim Vran.”
That such a noble warrior should have to beg so broke my heart. Tears began rolling down my cheeks, and I smeared them away with my sleeve. “It will be done, brother.”
This cheered him. “My heart belongs in Albion,” he whispered. “If I may not see that fair land again, I will go easier knowing that my bones return.”
“It will be done, Alun. I vow it.”
His hand relaxed and fell back. Scatha gave him another drink. Bran returned just then, bringing the rest of the Raven Flight with him: Garanaw, Emyr, Drustwn, and Niall. One by one, they knelt at the side of their swordbrother and made their farewells. Bran roused Cynan, too, who made his way to Alun’s side. All the while, Tegid stood looking on, head bent low, watching with mournful eyes, but saying nothing.
Bran was the last, speaking earnestly and low; he placed his hand on Alun’s forehead, then touched his own in salute. When he rose, he announced, “This Raven has flown.”