Tegid was thunderstruck. He knelt in the long grass with his hands resting on his thighs, staring blankly at the bare hump of weatherworn rock protruding from the ground. Cynan used his sword to hack away some of the turf while Scatha and I looked on. The wind gusted fitfully around us and the horses whickered uneasily. I noticed that though the grass was long and green, the horses refused to eat more than a few mouthfuls.
Cynan sliced with the edge of his sword and rolled away grass and earth in a thick mat. Then he dug with his hands. When he had finished, a portion of gray stone lay exposed to view. The flat, smooth surface of the stone was incised with lines deep-cut and even—the remains of the saining symbols originally carved into the pillar stone.
We all stared at the peculiar marks and struggled to imagine how the great standing stone would have appeared to those who had built the mound and raised it. A relic of the remote past, before the Fair Land declined, the broken stone seemed to defy understanding even as it commanded veneration. It was as if we were confronted by a presence that both overwhelmed and beguiled. No one spoke. We just stood looking on . . .
Tegid was first to shake off the unnatural fascination. Rising slowly, he staggered and made an arc in the air with his staff. “Enough!” he said, his voice thick and sluggish. “Let us leave this place.”
As he spoke, I felt a sudden and virulent resentment at his suggestion. I wanted only to be allowed to remain as I was, quietly contemplating the broken pillar stone. Tegid’s voice reached me as a grating annoyance.
“Llew! Cynan! Scatha!” he shouted. “We must flee this place at once.”
Into my mind came an image of Tegid lying on the ground bleeding from his nose and mouth; I could feel his staff in my hands. I was seized by an urge to strike the bard down with his own staff. I wanted to punish him for disturbing me. I wanted to make him bleed and die.
“Llew! Come, we must—”
His face swam before me, concern creasing his brow. I felt his hands, grasping, clawing . . .
“Llew!”
I do not remember moving—nor raising my silver hand at all. I saw a shimmering blaze out of the corner of my eye and felt a jolt in my shoulder. And then Tegid—lurching, falling, hands clutching his head . . .
Bright red blood on green grass, and Tegid’s staff in my hands . . .
. . . and then Cynan’s arms were around me and I was struggling in his grasp as he lifted my feet off the ground.
“Llew! Let be!” Cynan’s voice was loud in my ear. “Peace, brother. Peace!”
“Cynan?” I said and felt myself returning as if from a great distance, or emerging from a waking dream. “Release me. Put me down.”
He still held me above the ground, but I felt his grip loosen somewhat. “It is over, brother,” I reassured him earnestly. “Please, put me down.”
Cynan released me and together we knelt over Tegid, who was lying dazed on the ground, bleeding from a nasty gash over his temple.
“Tegid?” I said. His eyes rolled in his head and came to rest on me.
He moaned. “I am sorry,” I told him. “I do not know what happened to me. Can you stand?”
“Ahhh, I think so. Help me.” Cynan and I raised him between us and held him until he was steady on his feet. “That metal hand of yours is harder than it looks—and quicker,” he said. “I will be better prepared next time.”
“I am sorry, Tegid. I do not know what came over me. It was . . . uh, I am sorry.”
“Come,” he replied, shaking off the assault. “We will speak no more of it now. We must leave here at once.”
Cynan handed Tegid his staff and threw me a wary glance. “The horses have strayed. I will bring them,” he said, but seemed reluctant to leave.
“Go,” I said. “I will not attack Tegid again.” Still, he hesitated. “Truly, Cynan. Go.”
As Cynan indicated, the horses had strayed. Indeed, they had wandered far across the plain and were now some distance from us. “They must have bolted,” I observed, watching Cynan stride away. “But I do not remember it.”
Wiping blood from his face with the edge of his cloak, Tegid squinted up at the sky and announced, “We have lingered here longer than we knew.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, following his gaze skyward. I tried to gauge the position of the sun, but the bright morning had faded and thick clouds now gathered overhead. How long had we stood there?
“The day has passed us,” the bard declared. “It will be dark soon.”
“But that cannot be,” I objected. “We dismounted only a few moments ago.”
He shook his head gravely. “No,” he insisted, “the day is spent. We must make haste if we are to reach camp before dark.” He called Scatha and started off after Cynan.
Scatha made no move to join us. Her spear lay on the ground beside her. I retrieved the weapon and put my hand on her arm. “Scatha?” The skin was cold and hard beneath my touch—more like stone than living flesh. “Tegid!” I shouted.
He was beside me in an instant. “Scatha!” He shouted her name loud in her ear. “Scatha! Hear me!” He shouted her name once and again, but her eyes stared emptily ahead—wide and eerily intent, as if she were transfixed by something that demanded all her attention.
When she did not respond, Tegid groaned deep in his throat and, dropping his staff, seized her by the arms and turned the unresisting Pen-y-Cat bodily away from the stone. He shook her, but she did not respond.
“Let us take her away from here,” I suggested. “Maybe—”
The bard’s hand flicked out and struck her cheek. The sound of the slap shocked me, but brought no response from Scatha. He slapped her again and shook her hard. “Scatha! Fight it, Scatha. Resist!”
His open palm connected and her head snapped back. I could trace the print of his hand on her cheek. He shook her and raised his hand to strike again.
“No!” I said, catching his wrist. “Enough. It is enough. It is not working.” On a sudden inspiration, I suggested: “Here, I will carry her.”
Without waiting for Tegid’s assent, I swept Scatha into my arms and began moving away from the stone. Her body, at first rigid, relaxed as soon as I lifted her feet off the ground and turned my back on the broken stone.
She moaned softly and closed her eyes. In a moment, tears slipped from under her lashes to slide down the side of her face. I stopped walking and put her down. She leaned heavily against me. “Scatha,” I said, “can you hear me?”
“Llew . . . oh, Llew,” she said, drawing a shaky breath. “What is happening?”
“It is well. We are leaving this place. Can you walk?”
“I feel so—lost,” she said. “A pit opened at my feet—I stood at the edge and I felt myself falling. I tried to save myself, but I could not move . . . I could not scream . . .” She raised her fingertips to her reddened cheek. “I heard someone calling me . . .”
“This place is cursed,” Tegid said. “We must go from here.”
Supporting her between us, we began walking to where Cynan was laboring to catch the horses. They were skittish, and he was having difficulty getting close enough to grab the dangling reins. We watched as he stole closer, lunged, grabbed—only to have the horse shy, buck, and run away. Cynan picked himself up off the ground and stamped his foot as the horses galloped further out of reach.
“It is no use,” he said, as we drew near. “The stupid beasts are frightened and flee at shadows. I cannot get near them.”
“Then we must walk back to camp,” Tegid replied, moving off.
“What about the horses?” I asked. “We cannot—”
“Leave them.”
“We need our weapons, at least,” I maintained. Scatha had kept her spear, but Cynan and I had left ours beneath our saddles when we dismounted.
“Leave them!” the bard shouted, turning to confront us. His voice resounded emptily over the plain. “Believe me when I say that this mound is no safe place for us after dark. Our only protection lies
within the circle of the fire.”
He turned away again and began striding through the grass with long, swinging steps. Cynan, Scatha, and I followed. Tegid was right; the level expanse of the circular plain was unbroken by any feature we could use to advantage. There were no trees, no rocks, no hollows for hiding.
I glanced back at the stump of stone behind us and saw the eastern sky dark with fast-approaching night. How odd, I thought—I had never known daylight to fade so swiftly.
And with the advance of darkness, there arose a distant, wailing whine, like the howl of the wind in high mountain peaks—but there were no mountain peaks nearby, and it was not the wind I heard.
21
THE SLUAGH
Darkness overtook us as we hastened from the broken pillar stone. I do not think that even with our horses we could have reached the camp before nightfall. The way back was farther than I remembered it, and the weird twilight came on with unnatural speed. Horses could not have outrun it. Also, with the swiftly deepening night, the eerie wail increased, as if the source of the uncanny sound were drawing relentlessly nearer.
Tegid kept one eye on the sky as we hurried along. As soon as he saw we could not reach camp before night overtook us, he announced, “We must make for the nearest slope. There we can find fuel for a fire at least.”
“That is well,” Cynan agreed. “But where is it? I can see nothing in this murk.”
Tegid’s plan was a good one; the banks of the mound were thickly forested, and firewood abounded. But how could we be certain which way to go when we could not see two steps in front of us?
“We should be near the edge of the plain,” Tegid said. “The pillar stone marked the center, and we have been moving away from it—”
“Aye,” allowed Cynan, “if we have not been making circles around it instead.”
Tegid ignored the remark, and we rushed on. We had not advanced more than a hundred paces, however, when Scatha halted.
“Listen!”
I stopped, but heard only the weird wailing sound, which, apart from growing slightly louder, had not altered in any significant way. “What is it?”
“Dogs,” she said. “I thought I heard dogs.”
“I hear nothing,” said Cynan. “Are you cert—” The bark of a dog—short, quick, unmistakable—cut him off.
“This way! Hurry!” shouted Tegid, darting ahead.
No doubt the bard thought we were right behind him, following in his footsteps. But I turned, and he had already melted into the darkness. “Tegid, wait! Where are you? Cynan?”
A muffled answer reached us. “This way . . . follow me . . .”
“Tegid?” I called, searching the darkness. “Tegid!”
“Where have they gone?” Scatha wondered. “Did you see?”
“No,” I confessed. “They just vanished.”
The dog barked again—if dog it was.
“It is closer,” Scatha said, and the bark was immediately followed by another, a little farther off and to the left.
“Yes, and there is more than one.” I glanced this way and that, but could see nothing in any direction to guide us. Darkness had penetrated all, obliterated all. “We’d better keep moving.”
“Which way should we go?” Scatha wondered aloud.
“Any way will be better than standing here,” I replied. I put out my hand and grabbed hold of Scatha’s cloak; she took the end of mine. “We will stay together,” I told her. “Hold tight, and keep your spear ready.”
Clutching each other’s cloaks, we proceeded into the formless dark. I did not for a moment entertain any false hopes of eluding the beasts behind us. But I thought we might at least find a place to make a stand if we reached the slope of the mound before the creature on our trail reached us.
We went with as much speed as we dared. It is unnerving running blind. Every step becomes a battle against hesitation, against fear. And the steps do not grow easier with success. Indeed, the fear grows with every step until it becomes a dominating force.
But for Scatha’s presence beside me, I would have halted every few steps to work up my courage. But I did not care to appear weak or fainthearted in her eyes, so I braced myself for the inevitable bone-breaking fall—and ran on.
All the while, the barking of the dogs grew louder and more insistent as they drew nearer. Their numbers seemed to have increased as well, for I thought I could make out at least five individual voices— at least, there were more than the two we had heard before.
Whether we would ever have reached camp this way, I will never know. Likely it was as Tegid had said—that darkness held no safety for any creature alone on the mound, and fire offered the only protection. We did, however, reach the rim of the plain and fell sprawling over one another as the ground tilted away beneath us without warning.
I fell, half-tumbling, half-sliding down the unseen slope, and landed on my side, knocking the breath from my lungs. It was a moment before I could speak. “Scatha!”
“Here, Llew,” she replied, catching her breath. “Are you all right?”
I paused to take stock. My jaw ached, but that was from clenching my teeth as we ran. “I seem to be in one piece.”
From the plain directly above us came the sudden swift rush of feet through the grass—as that of an animal making its final rush on its prey.
“Quick!” I yelled. “Down here!”
Diving, falling, rolling, down and down the slope we slid, until we came to rest in a sharp-thorned thicket. I made to disentangle myself, but Scatha said, “Shh! Be still!”
I stopped thrashing around and listened. I could still hear the dogs, but it sounded as if we had somehow managed to put a little distance between us and our pursuers. I was for moving on while we had a chance, but Scatha advised against it. “Let us stay here for a moment,” she urged, pushing deeper into the thicket.
Following her example, I wormed my way into the prickly embrace of the bush and settled down beside Scatha to wait. “Do you still have your spear?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” I said and wished yet again that I had remembered to retrieve my spear when we dismounted. And then I wished for a flint and striker to make a fire—if not that, then at least a single firebrand to light our way. But neither wish appeared likely to be granted.
Yet, as we sat in the inky darkness, waiting for we knew not what, the accursed night loud with the barking of dogs, I imagined that my silver hand began to shine. The merest gleam at first, the faintest wink of a shimmer. I raised my hand to my face . . . the gleam vanished. I lowered my hand and it returned.
I craned my neck to look up and, to my surprise, glimpsed a pale eye peering back at me: the moon. Cloud-wrapped, a cold, wan, and waxy blur in the Sollen-black sky, and fitful as a ghost, it gave me heart nonetheless, and I willed the light to stay.
The dogs were right above us on the plain. They were almost upon us. I expected them to be at our throats any moment . . .
Scatha shifted. The glint of her spear blade pricked the gloom as she crouched forward to meet the attack. I felt around me for a stick to use as a club, but found nothing.
Meanwhile, the sound of pursuit had risen to a pitched din. The dogs were all around us, their cry deafening. I drew a last deep breath. Come on, I thought, do what you will. Amidst the baying I discerned the quick scatter of feet tearing through the undergrowth, and then, as quickly as it had grown, the sound began to dwindle away. Clasping one another’s hands, we held ourselves deathly still, hardly daring to believe we had escaped. Only when the sound had diminished to a distant echo did we relax.
The moonlight grew stronger. I could see the glimmer of Scatha’s eyes as she gazed steadily up the slope toward the plain. She felt my stare, turned her face toward me, and smiled. In that moment, she looked just like Goewyn. My heart clutched within me. She must have sensed my distress, for she said, “Are you hurt?”
“No, I was thinking of Goewyn.”
“We will find h
er, Llew.” Her tone offered certainty, warm and confident. If there was any doubt at all in her heart or mind, she kept it buried deep within her, for I heard no trace of it in her voice.
It was now light enough to distinguish broad shapes on the slope. We waited, listening. I became cold sitting still so long. “We should move on,” I said at last. “They might come back.”
“I will go first,” Scatha said and began slowly disentangling herself from the thorns. She crept from the thicket and I followed, stepping free of the prickly branches to discover that we stood on the edge of an overgrown wood. In the faint moon glow, I could just about make out the rim of the circular plain a short distance above.
“The sky is clearing somewhat. We may be able to see the camp from up there,” I said, thinking that if we could not find Tegid, we might at least locate the camp.
Scatha agreed and we climbed slowly back up the slope, gained the rim, and stood gazing across the plain. I had hoped to see the yellow fire glow from the camp—the ruddy smudge of the blaze reflected on the low clouds, at least—but there was nothing. I thought of shouting for Tegid and Cynan, then thought better of it. No sense in alerting the dogs.
“Well,” I said, “if we stay close to the edge, we should reach camp eventually.”
“We can also retreat to the wood if need be,” Scatha pointed out. Quickly, silently, like two shadows stealing over the dull gray field, we fled. Scatha, spear ready in her hand, led the way, and I maintained a constant lookout behind, scanning the plain for any sign of the camp, or of Tegid—I would have been delighted to find either. We ran a fair distance, and I became aware of a spectral flicker out of the corner of my eye. Thinking I had seen the campfire, I stopped walking and turned . . . but if I had seen anything, it was gone.