The Silver Hand

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Six warriors,” Llew observed sourly. “Not much of a flock, is it?”

  “It will grow,” I told him. “You will see.”

  “I will tell you what I see,” Llew replied, accusation sharpening his tone. He stopped walking and turned me to face him. “You are determined to bring about this prophecy one way or another. You know that it cannot be, and yet you stubbornly persist in making me the center of it.”

  “No more stubbornly than you persist in denying it,” I remarked. “The prophecy was given to you. The Chief Bard’s awen was given to you.”

  “Yes!” The word was a vehement hiss. “And this was given to me too!”

  I did not need eyes to see that he was shaking his stump at me.

  “I did not come here to be king of anything. I came to take Simon back,” he snapped, “and as soon as I can think of a way to do it, that is what I am going to do. And that is all I am going to do.”

  He turned away abruptly and started climbing the slope. From somewhere high above, I heard the ragged squawk of a raven. At once my inner vision awoke. Into my mind came the image of a raven perched upon the back of a throne made of stag antlers—the image from my vision. And with the first raven, I saw others—many others, a flock, circling the throne, circling, soaring. Even as I watched, more ravens gathered in the way that ravens will—the first drawing more to their numbers, and yet more, until an immense cloud filled the sky, their black wings flashing in the sunlight, their black eyes deadly and bright.

  “Llew!” I called after him. “Let us settle this now and be done with it.”

  I heard his footsteps halt, and then begin again as he retraced his steps to me. “How?”

  “Are you willing?”

  “I am willing,” he declared. “What do you suggest?”

  “The warriors who have come to us,” I began, “we will let them be the test.”

  “How so?”

  “I tell you they are the Flight of Ravens whose coming has been foretold to us.”

  “The prophecy again—”

  “Yes, the prophecy again. The prophecy is the path. Gofannon, the cylenchar, and now the Ravens—these are the lights along the way. By them we know the path is true.”

  He did not reply, so I pressed him. “If the prophecy can be proved true, will you put aside your doubt and follow the path set before you?”

  Llew took his time considering. “It is a hard thing,” he said at last.

  “Harder than a one-handed man becoming king?”

  “No harder than that, I suppose.”

  “Then why do you worry?”

  “Very well,” he agreed, reluctance dragging down his voice like a weight. “Let us put this prophecy to the test once and for all. Tell me now who you believe these men are.”

  I replied without hesitation, trusting to the insight that had come to me. “They are Rhewtani.”

  “Perfect.” Llew spat the word. “Just what we need.”

  “But they are not spies or traitors. They are honorable men. Indeed, they have placed honor above their lives. For, when their false lord made disgraceful alliance with Meldron, they chose to live as outcasts rather than serve the traitor.”

  “They have abandoned their lord. That does not sound very trustworthy to me.”

  “Do not say they have abandoned their lord,” I replied. “Say rather that they are seeking a lord worthy of their loyalty.”

  “Rhewtani,” Llew mused. “Most interesting. But that is not enough. What else?”

  “You will find that the one who addressed you is the battle chief, and those with him are the best of the Rhewtani war band. If you tell them who you are, and what you mean to do in this place, they will pledge themselves to you.”

  “Better . . .” Llew replied, and I could sense him warming to the challenge. “Something more—but it has to be something difficult.”

  “Would anything less satisfy you?” I said and paused to think, holding the image of the ravens in my mind. “By this,” I said at last, “you will know the path is true: they are the Ravens.”

  “You told me that already.”

  “Yes, but they have not heard it. And it is their true name,” I explained. “When you ask of them they will tell you: ‘We are the Ravens.’ Now then, do you agree?”

  Llew drew a deep breath, and I knew he was squaring himself to the test. “I agree. Let it be as you say.”

  17

  GLORIOUS SCHEMES

  The strangers were making a picket for their horses among the trees when we joined them at the camp. Llew waited until they had finished and invited them to sit with us. The six ranged themselves on the ground around the fire ring.

  “I see you are men used to better lodgings,” Llew said. “Yet it may be that a sky-roof shared with honorable men is more to your liking then a king’s hall and the company of traitors.”

  “That is the pith of it,” replied the foremost warrior. “We would live as outcasts rather than sit at meat with false lords and wicked schemers.”

  “We are not unlike, then,” Llew assured him swiftly. “We, too, have abandoned hearth and kin rather than suffer injustice or further the shameful aims of evildoers.”

  The warriors shifted uneasily. Their leader hesitated, and then asked, “Do you know us, lord?”

  “I do know you,” Llew replied with conviction. “I believe you are Rhewtani warriors.”

  “That is true,” replied the warrior chief. “We are the Ravens of Rhewtani!”

  “Clanna na cù!” Llew murmured.

  I heard a slap, and knew the man had smacked his arm with his open hand. “This was once a mark of honor—”

  They all wear the blue on their sword arms, Rhoedd had said, the image of a bird . . .

  “—but it has become hateful to us. It is a mark of disgrace.” The warrior slapped the tattoo again, his voice grew sharp with bitterness. “We would cut it out if we could.”

  “No,” Llew told him, “let it remain a mark of honor. For you have given up rank and esteem rather than serve a faithless king. Meldron may have stolen the respect of your king, but you did not allow him to steal your honor as well. For that, you are welcome here.”

  At Meldron’s name, the strangers murmured in amazement.

  “Who are you, lord, that you know these things?” asked their chief, mystified.

  “I am called Llew. And the man with me is Tegid ap Tathal, Chief Bard of Prydain.”

  The warriors exclaimed at this revelation. Their leader said, “But we have heard of you!”

  “We have heard you were dead!” added another.

  “Not so dead as some would wish,” Llew replied.

  “It is also said you were the king of Prydain,” the warrior asserted, making his words a challenge.

  “I was—” Llew admitted. “But no more. Meldron has made certain that I can no longer press that claim.”

  “What do you here, lord?” another asked.

  “We came seeking refuge and will stay to build a fortress,” replied Llew and quickly explained about making alliance with the Galanae in the south.

  “Then you will require men to help you,” the Rhewtani champion stated firmly. “We will stay, if you will have us.”

  The man’s words amounted to a pledge. And as he spoke my inner vision quickened. There was a rustling of clothing as the warriors rose one by one to address us. “I am Drustwn,” said a low, solemn voice. I saw a thick-necked man of somber mien, self-possessed and confident.

  “I am Emyr Lydaw,” said another, and in my mind’s eye I saw a fair-haired man with a huge cooper carynx slung over his shoulder on a wide brown leather strap.

  “I am Niall,” said the third in a light voice. I saw a dark warrior with quick, clever eyes and a mouth ready to laugh.

  “I am Garanaw,” the fourth man said in a voice to strike sparks from steel; a man of restless vitality, wide-shouldered and strong, with reddish-brown hair and beard.

  “I am Alun Tringad,” s
aid the fifth; his voice was lively and full-spirited. Into my mind came the image of a lean, long-limbed man with a high, noble brow and blue eyes, as eager for a fight as for amusement.

  “And I am Bran Bresal,” the leader said, pride in his men making his tone expansive. He came before my inner eye as a big man with long dark hair and beard neatly braided, black hair thick on his arms and the backs of his hands. He gazed at Llew with steady black eyes. “We beg the freedom of your hearth, lord,” he said, spreading his arms to include his men.

  I stepped forward and replied, raising my hand over my head, “Your coming has been foretold, and your welcome three times granted. May it be well to you with us, and may it be well to us with you. May you find among us all you seek.” I lowered my hand. “I would summon the welcome cup, but there is no cup, and no ale with which to fill it.”

  “Your welcome is refreshment enough to us,” Bran Bresal said. “You will not find us burdensome guests. We mean to do our share—”

  “More than our share!” one of the men put in—Drustwn, I think.

  “Yes, more than our share,” Bran continued. “Where there is work, that is where you will find us.”

  “We do thank you,” replied Llew. “But work can wait; rest now and take your ease. You will be tired from your journey.”

  Bran answered, “Tired, yes, and dusty too. A bath would be a blessing, lord.”

  “Then that you shall have,” Llew said. “Rhoedd has soap, and he will show you where we bathe.” The six warriors walked down to the lake with Rhoedd, leaving Llew and me to ourselves for a time. “Well?” I said when they had gone. “Do you accept the truth of the prophecy now?”

  “Is there nothing you do not know?” he asked.

  “Answer me,” I insisted. “Will you trust the path before you?”

  “That I will do, brother,” Llew replied and added, “but I want something from you in return.”

  “Name the thing you desire, and I will give it if I can.”

  “There is to be no more talk of kingship.”

  “Llew, that is—”

  “I mean it, Tegid. No more—understand?”

  I thought best to let the matter rest there for the time being and did not press it further. He had taken the first step on the path; that was enough for now.

  “Very well,” I agreed. “I will speak no more of kingship.”

  “The Ravens,” Llew muttered. “Who would have guessed it?”

  “Listen!” I said.

  We paused, and the sound that had caught my ear—at first broken and uncertain—resolved itself into song: the warriors had begun to sing as they made their way down to the lake.

  “Happy shall be Caledon,” I said. “The Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens—”

  “And ravensong shall be her song.” Llew finished the phrase. Indeed, as they reached the lakeshore their voices echoed strong and fine in the still evening air, filling the glen with a bold new sound. “They sing well, these Ravens.”

  Llew and I joined the men at the lake after they finished bathing. Llew showed them where we would build the fortress. They were captivated by the idea of the crannog and pledged themselves to its construction. I believe they would have begun building it right then and there if I had not pointed out that we had no tools with which to begin.

  Happily, that lack did not hinder us for long. The first of Cynan’s supplies arrived three days later, led by Cynan himself and accompanied by a party numbering more than twenty. He brought eight ox-drawn wagons of tools, provisions, and supplies; he also brought seven horses—five mares and two stallions to begin a herd—and four hunting dogs with which to breed a pack. Of the working party, eleven were builders, some of whom had brought their wives and children.

  “They are to stay with you here until the fortress is built,” Cynan explained when we had finished our greetings. “I told my father of your plans. He called it a glorious scheme—‘That is a fine and glorious scheme!’ says Cynfarch; and he has vowed to do all to sustain you until you are able to provide for yourself. He is eager to secure your goodwill and wishes to establish a strong ally in the north.” He paused as Bran approached. “And it looks to me as if that day will be soon upon us.”

  “This is Bran Bresal,” Llew said, “leader of the Ravens. They are staying to help us build Dinas Dwr.”

  I noticed that Llew neglected to mention the fact that Bran and his men were Rhewtani. “Let Cynan get to know them first,” he explained later. “Why borrow trouble?” In this, I considered, Llew showed a subtle discretion.

  Cynan and Bran exchanged greetings, whereupon Cynan called for the bowl, saying, “Let us drink to new friends and glorious schemes!”

  “Cynan, you are a wonder,” laughed Llew. “I would gladly summon the welcome bowl for you, but we have no ale, as you know.”

  “Do you not?” mused Cynan. “How is it that I see a vat foaming at your hearth?”

  The silver-torced prince had brought his own ale vat and had instructed his men to install it at the hearth. Even as Cynan spoke, I heard the plunge of the cup as the bowl was filled. “To us!” cried Cynan, “Báncaraid gu bráth!”

  “Sláinte môr!” we called in answer, as the frothy bowl was passed from hand to hand.

  That night we ate well and, as the fire leapt high, I sang the “Battle of the Trees”: a song of assembly and common cause, a song to stir men to action. The next morning, work began.

  The builders assembled their tools and supplies on the meadow above the place I had chosen in the lake. Llew, Cynan, and I discussed our plan with the head of the workmen—a man named Derfal, who was King Cynfarch’s master builder. While we talked, his men cleared the ground for some huts. The warriors, meanwhile, were put to work felling trees for timber for the huts and also for boats. We would require six or eight sturdy, wide-hulled craft to carry stones and timber to the building site in the water.

  The first days we saw little more by way of activity than oxen hauling logs from the forest to the meadow. Then the builders’ huts were quickly raised, and the boats began to take shape. As the finished boats took to the water, and the construction work began in earnest, our once-serene forest camp became a hub of bustle and turmoil.

  From morning to night the forest rang with ax blows and the lowing of oxen. The camp bubbled to women’s voices as they set about baking bread and roasting meat to feed the ever-famished workers. The lakeshore echoed with the laughter of children and the barking of dogs. The air shimmered with eager sound; a rainbow of joy spread over the glen. I walked here and there, listening to all, and it seemed to me gladness itself. Happy Caledon, I thought.

  Long timber pillars were prepared, five carefully chosen oak boles, tapered and shaped, and then five more. With great heed and greater labor, these were floated to the site in the center of the lake and driven into the mud of the lake bottom so that their tops protruded above the surface. Then the builders and their helpers plied their boats ceaselessly, ferrying endless loads of stone from the lakeshore to the site. The stones were tumbled around each of the oak pilings, securing them in a thick bed of stone.

  The five pilings were joined together with the five remaining logs, which were lashed to the portion of the pillar extending above the water, forming a five-sided ring in the water. Lastly, a solid webwork of oak branches was woven between the five sides of the ring. This became a platform which was covered first with stone and then earth. Upon this earth-covered platform the first round timber dwellings would be erected.

  To this crannog would be added another, and then another, and more—until there were a score of small crannongs, all joined together by bridges and walkways and circled about by stout timber walls. No sooner was the first crannog finished than the second was begun.

  All this took place beneath Llew’s watchful gaze. He could always be found with the builders, laboring alongside them by day, and head-to-head with Derfal at night, discussing the next day’s work. Cynan, too, enjoy
ed himself enormously. Indeed, he looked upon the creation of Dinas Dwr as if it were his own undertaking. I think it was the first time he had had real work to do, work of substance and importance. Certainly, his father was an able ruler, and not the kind of man to place overmuch confidence in those around him; Cynan could not have many tasks of consequence to occupy himself in his father’s house. Thus, Llew’s venture became as much his own, and he gave himself to it as only Cynan could.

  Maffar passed in a haze of sweat and strain. Rhylla, the Season of Seedfall, arrived as a welcome relief with its cooler days and nights. We aimed to work as long as the weather held good, and there were yet many fine days before Sollen’s ice and wind would put an end to our activities.

  Cynan, who had stayed as long as he could, announced his return to the south. “Harvest will begin soon, and I will be needed to collect the king’s tribute,” he explained. “But I will return before the snow with provisions enough to see you through Sollen.”

  “You are a friend and brother,” Llew told him, as Cynan and his companions mounted their saddled horses; Cynan was taking four warriors with him, but the rest would stay. “Wait until the weather clears to return. I am certain we can survive until Gyd on what you brought the first time.”

  Cynan dismissed the offer without comment. “And I will bring word of the world beyond this glen of yours,” he said.

  “Go then,” Llew replied, “and farewell. Return when you may.”

  When Cynan had gone, we walked down to the lake. I heard the dull chunk of the incessant axes as the builders chipped and shaped the timbers. I heard the slow earth-tread of the oxen as they dragged the heavy logs to the wood yard. I heard the splashing of the children as they played at the water’s edge.

  We sat on the stones among pine-scented woodshavings and considered all that had been accomplished: two crannogs, finished—the first with two large dwellings and a storehouse—and a third begun; a cattle pen in the meadow for the oxen and horses, two builders’ huts for tools and supplies, and four ample dwellings on the lakeshore. It was a good beginning.