We had divided the war band into three divisions each under the command of a battle chief; Scatha, Cynan, and I each led a band on foot. The Raven Flight alone was mounted, leaving Bran to range the battleground at will wherever need was greatest. As for the rest, I judged horses would not help us; without them we could make better use of the cover provided by the holes and heaps of crushed rock. Tegid, Gwion, and Nettles had stayed behind to look after the other horses. As in the battle against Meldron, the Chief Bard meant to oversee the fight and uphold us in the bardic way.
Cynan’s war band descended to the valley floor and worked its way toward the dam along the shore of the polluted lake; I led those with me on the upper road; Scatha and her warriors approached by way of the path on the far side of the lake, doing their best to blend into the pocked and mottled landscape. Bran advanced behind us, out of sight; when I paused to look back I could not see the Raven Flight anywhere.
The first shot came without warning. I heard the whine of a bullet and the dry ricochet on the hillside below us. A moment later the report echoed from below like the crack of a splitting tree trunk. I motioned to the men to lie down on the road. Several more shots dug into the hillside. Overanxious, undisciplined, our foe could not wait for us to come into range and had opened fire prematurely. This gave us a prime opportunity to fix the enemy’s position and assess their numbers without risk to ourselves.
Wisps of white smoke from their guns betrayed the enemy’s placement along the top of the dam. I scanned the valley and the far side of the lake to see that Scatha and Cynan had halted and were marking the place as well. The enemy had seen us on the road, as I intended, but had not thought to look elsewhere.
“Such stupidity should be rewarded,” I muttered to the man nearest me.
“Then let us be generous, lord,” the warrior replied dryly.
The bullets chunked harmlessly into the rock waste below us for a time, and then the shooting tapered off. I signaled to the men to keep low, and we advanced once more, slowly, listening for the bullet’s whine and watching for the tell-tale white puff that revealed an enemy gunman. I took heart from the fact that, as yet, the gunmen still concentrated all their attention on us; they had so far failed to notice Scatha and Cynan working their way ever closer below them.
If I could keep the enemy occupied but a little longer, it would allow the others a more protected approach.
Raising my hand, I halted my warriors. We were by now nearly within range of the guns. “Keep down!” I told those with me. “And wait for my command.”
Then I stood and, lofting my spear and shield, I began to yell. “Cowards!” I shouted. “Leave your hiding places and let us fight like men!”
I knew the enemy would not understand me. It was to encourage my own war band that I cried my challenge in Albion’s tongue. “Why do you crouch like vermin in your holes?” I taunted. “Come out! Let us do battle together!”
My simple ruse worked. The enemy opened fire. The bullets dug into the slag-covered hillside below me, throwing up dust and splinters— but falling well short of the target. They were using small arms—handguns and light rifles. Larger-caliber weapons would have carried further, and with far greater accuracy.
“Where is your battle chief ?” I called loudly, my voice echoing back from the blank face of the dam. “Where is your war leader? Let him come and meet me face-to-face!”
This brought a further heated and wasteful volley from the dam. The warriors with me laughed to see it. I summoned them to rise, now that I knew it was safe to do so. And taking my lead, they too challenged the enemy to come out and fight like true warriors. The gunfire beat like a staccato tattoo, and the white smoke drifted up from behind the dam.
“How many did you count?” I asked the nearest warrior.
“Three fives,” he replied.
His tally matched my own. I would have thought that fifteen men with guns could have defeated threescore with spears—and we were far fewer than that. But without more battle-cunning than these fifteen had so far demonstrated, their weapons would not win the day.
Scatha, sharp as the blade in her hand, was not slow to turn our diversion to advantage. In two rapid, ground-eating advances, she and her war band reached the dam, crossed it, and descended the other side. Cynan followed her lead, disappearing behind the dam while we jeered and danced like madmen, drawing the enemy’s fire.
All through this commotion, the mud-covered slaves toiled away, scarcely pausing to raise their dull heads as the bullets streaked above them. Were they so far gone that they no longer knew or cared what was happening around them?
The gunfire eventually ceased. But by then the trap was set.
“Now we must find a way to draw them out of hiding so that Scatha and Cynan can strike,” I said, thinking aloud.
“The battlelust is on them,” said the warrior next to me. “They are greedy for the kill.”
“Then let us see if their greed will make them foolish. We will form the shield line.” I gave the order and the warriors took their places beside me. We formed a line, shoulder to shoulder, and began slowly advancing along the road.
“Raise shields!” I called, and we put our shields before us, rims overlapping. We continued walking.
The enemy gunmen held their fire. We had advanced as far as we dared, and still they did not shoot.
“Halt!” I raised my silver hand. The bluff had not worked; we had not drawn the enemy into the open. Any nearer and a well-aimed shot might easily penetrate our oak-and-iron shields.
“Cowards!” I called down to the dam. We were close enough to see the shallow holes the men had dug along the top of the dam. “False men! Hear me now! We are the Gwr Gwir! Leave your hiding holes, and we will show you what true warriors can do!”
At this, the warriors began striking their shields and taunting the hidden foe. The clash of spear upon shield became a rattling roar. The gunmen could not resist such obvious targets: they began firing again. The bullets struck the stone flagging at our feet. I ordered the line to move two paces back.
The temptation proved too strong—they were drawn from cover at last—all fifteen of them, shouting as they came.
The initial volley tore into the stones a few paces ahead of us. One warrior turned away a glancing shot off the pavement; a slug struck the bottom of the shield. I felt the wood shiver as it ripped through. It was time to retreat.
“Back!” I cried. “Three more paces.”
The line fell back and halted; the jeering catcalls continued. Seeing that we would come no closer, the enemy gunmen attacked.
They had no sooner abandoned their hiding holes than Scatha and Cynan materialized out of the drifting smoke behind them. The gunmen were neatly trapped.
They whirled in sudden panic, shooting wildly. Two of their number were down—victims of their own incompetence. One of Cynan’s men took a shot through his shield and fell. The gunman paid for his last act as a streaking spear sank to its shaft in his belly. The man fell to the ground writhing and screaming.
At this single casualty the fight went quickly out of the rest, and they began crying surrender and throwing down their weapons.
“It is over!” I shouted. “Let us join our swordbrothers!”
We hastened down the road to the tip of the dam. I cast a quick backward glance for the Ravens, but they were still nowhere to be seen. What could be keeping them?
“Splendid, Pen-y-Cat! Well done, Cynan!” I called. Scanning the throng of warriors, I was surprised to see the man who had been shot standing in the forerank once more. His shield had a chunk bitten out of the upper left quadrant, he was pale and bleeding just below the shoulder, but he was clear-eyed and undaunted staring grimly at his enemy.
The wounded gunman was not so fortunate. The spear had done its work. The man lay silent now, and quite still.
I detailed my war band to dispose of the enemy guns. “Gather their weapons,” I told the warriors. “Cast them into the lake
.”
Scatha and Cynan had lined up the twelve remaining gumen in a row. “Where is Weston?” I demanded, using their own speech.
No one made bold to answer. I nodded to Cynan. He stepped swiftly forward, striking the nearest man in the center of the chest with the butt of his spear. The man dropped like a stone to the ground, eyes bulging with pain, mouth agape, unable to breathe.
“I ask you again: where is the man called Weston?”
The prisoners glanced anxiously at one another, but made no reply. Cynan moved along the line. He stopped and raised his spear again. The man cringed. “Wait! Wait!” he screamed, waving his hands.
Cynan paused, his spear still hovering.
“Well?” I demanded. “Speak.”
“Weston is at the mill,” the man sputtered, gesturing wildly in the direction of the smokestack behind him. “They are guarding the mill.”
“How many are with him?” I asked.
“Three or four, I think,” the man replied. “That’s all.”
“Is there anyone else?”
The man grew reticent. Cynan aimed the butt of his spear once more.
“No!” he replied quickly. “No one else. I swear it!”
I looked toward the cluster of buildings below the dam. Weston with three or four gunmen holed up in the mill. Rooting them out could prove a difficult and costly undertaking. I raised my silver hand, summoning four warriors to take the gunmen away. “Bind them fast,” I ordered. “Guard them well. See that they do not escape.”
I summoned Scatha and Cynan to join me and related what I had learned. “What do you suggest?” I asked.
Cynan spoke first. “The lives of these strangers are not worth the risk of noble warriors,” he said with arch disdain.
“Even so, we have taken the men: we cannot allow their leader to go free.” I turned to Scatha. “What say you, Pen-y-Cat?”
Scatha was gazing thoughtfully at the smoking chimney. “Smoke will cure fish. It may also cure these foemen.”
It was a simple matter to scale the chimney and stuff down a few cloaks to block the flue. Before long, smoke was pouring from every crack in the crudely constructed building.
We advanced, crossing the compound warily. As we neared, I heard a door slam and a motor sputter to life, and a moment later a van broke from hiding behind the building and flew past us. The startled warriors stared aghast as the yellow vehicle, wheels churning up dust and gravel, sped away. Some of the closer warriors heaved stones as it passed, breaking two side windows, but the van gained the road, turned, and raced away, climbing from the valley by another route.
“We will never catch them on foot,” I observed, watching the vehicle disappear into the hills. Turning to Cynan, I ordered, “Send men to bring the horses.” To Scatha, I said, “We will follow them. If Nettles is right, they will lead us to Siawn Hy and Paladyr.”
We hurried on, following the vehicle’s trail. It soon became apparent that it was a well-used track. Wary of ambush, I sent scouts ahead on either side of the advancing war band. We hastened along the ascending track, which soon turned away from Cwm Gwaed and began climbing into the mountains once more.
I called a halt at the crest of a hill near a small stream. “We will rest here and wait for the horses,” I told them.
As we made to leave the valley, I turned and looked back one last time. “Where is Bran?” I wondered aloud. “What can have happened to him?”
“You need have no worry for Bran,” Scatha said. “He will be where he is most needed.”
“You are right, Pen-y-Cat,” I agreed. “But I would that my War Leader rode with me.”
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when we heard the sound of gunfire coming from the other side of the hill. Flying to the hilltop, we looked down to see the yellow van trapped in a narrow defile and stranded halfway across a shallow, rock-filled stream. Circling the stalled vehicle were Bran and the Ravens on horseback, shouting and flourishing their spears. Two men were firing indiscriminately from the broken windows of the vehicle.
We hastened to their aid, calling on the Ravens to retreat. The four in the van would be easy to deal with, and I did not want any of my warriors hit by a stray shot. Leaving the vehicle, they came to where we had taken up position, just outside the rifle’s lethal range.
The gunfire continued for a few moments and then stopped.
“I did not see you ride from the valley,” I told Bran. “I wondered what had become of you.”
“Paladyr attacked the camp as soon as we left,” the Raven Chief informed me. “We rode to Tegid’s aid and drove the enemy away. We pursued, but lost them in these hills. When we saw the tuthóg-ar-rhodau fleeing I thought to prevent their escape.”
The van’s engine whined, there came the sheering whir of grinding gears, and the vehicle jounced across the stream, wheels spinning, and fled the valley.
“Follow,” I told Bran, “and keep them in sight, but do not try to stop them and do not go too near. Their trail is clear; they cannot escape. I have sent men for the horses; we will join you as soon as they arrive.”
The Raven Flight flew off in pursuit, and as we made our way back to the hill to await the arrival of our horses, we were greeted by the dull drumming of hoofbeats, coming from the other side of the hill. “Tegid is here with the horses,” I told Cynan, and a moment later the first rider appeared over the crest of the hill directly above us.
But it was not Tegid who appeared, lofting a spear as he crested the hill, and the warriors mounted on horses behind him were strangers.
We had blundered into a trap.
35
TREF-GAN-HAINT
Paladyr!” I shouted, halting in midstep.
The enemy hesitated, hovering on the crest of the hill. There came the clear call of the battle horn, loud and strong. And then they plummeted down the hillside in an avalanche of pounding hooves and whirring blades. We had only an instant to raise our weapons and they were on us. Scatha took measure of the situation at once. “We cannot fight them here!” she cried, whirling away. She dashed toward the stream: “Follow me!”
Cynan, spear lofted high, bellowed at his warriors to join him as he followed Scatha’s lead. I did the same, and we ran for high ground on the other side of the stream, the battle horn blaring loud in our ears and the dull thunder of hooves shaking the ground beneath our feet. Two of our warriors were ridden down from behind, and we lost another to an enemy spear. But our feinting flight had not been anticipated, and we succeeded in gaining the high ground before Paladyr, overeager for an easy victory, could stop us.
Though we were on foot against a larger force of mounted warriors, we now held a superior position: the horsemen would have to fight uphill on steep and treacherous terrain. Scatha’s unfailing battle sense had not only saved us, but given us a slight advantage.
“They are hungry for it!” shouted Cynan, watching the horses struggle up the loose scree of the mountainside. “Come, brother, let us feed our impetuous guests!”
Ducking under his upraised shield, he darted forward, slashing a wide swath before him with the blade of his spear, cutting the legs from under the nearest horse. The beast screamed, plunged, and spilled its hapless rider on the ground. Cynan struck down swiftly with his spear before the foeman could roll free of his thrashing mount.
Cynan threw back his head and loosed a wild war whoop of terrible delight. Two more enemy riders fell to his swift spear before they could turn aside. I dispatched another using Cynan’s trick, and when I looked around I saw that Scatha had succeeded in unseating three of the foemen in as many swift forays.
The first clash lasted but a few heartbeats. Gaining no clear benefit for his efforts, Paladyr soon signaled his men to break off the attack. They withdrew to the far side of the stream to regroup.
“This Paladyr is no fool,” observed Cynan. “He knows when to retreat, at least.”
Looking across the stream, I saw Paladyr, naked to the waist, face and ch
est daubed with blue war paint, the muscles of his back and arms gleaming with sweat. He clutched a bronze spear and shield and was shouting at his men, upbraiding them for their carelessness and incompetence. There was no sign of Siawn Hy among them, but this did not surprise me.
“He is not a fool,” I agreed, “but he is impulsive. That may prove his undoing.”
“Who is with him?” wondered Cynan.
I studied Paladyr’s war band. They were a raw-looking crowd, armed with ancient bronze weapons like those we had seen in the ruined tower. Their shields were small and heavy, their spears short, with blunt heads. Some wore helmets, but most did not. And only a few carried swords as well as spears. They moved awkwardly—as if they were unused to riding and uncertain of themselves. No doubt they had expected to overwhelm us in the first rush, and now they faced a more determined adversary than anticipated.
It came to me that this was not so much a trained war band as a gang of ill-disciplined cutthroats. They were mercenaries, chosen perhaps from among the laborers slogging through the mud in the valley beyond.
Though they had horses, it was obvious that they were not accustomed to fighting on horseback: their first disastrous sally proved as much.
“Llew!” shouted Scatha, hastening toward me. “Did you see him?”
“No,” I replied. “Siawn Hy was not with them. But what do you make of the rest?”
“It seems to me that Paladyr has tried to stitch himself a war band from very poor cloth,” she replied.
“That is just what I was thinking,” I told her. “And it will soon unravel in his hands.”
“A boast? From Llew?” crowed Cynan, scrambling back up the hillside. “Brother, are you feeling well?”
“Never better,” I told him.
The blare of the carynx signaled a second attack, and the enemy clattered across the stream once more. This time Paladyr ranged his men along a line, and they advanced together, hoping to spread our thin defense and separate us.