Flames were spreading along the boat from the bow. One sack after another of clothes, bedding and kindling ignited.
“What can I do?” September cried scrambling onto her knees, stone and sword still gripped in her hands.
“Water, get water,” Cynddylig called. September thrust the sword into its scabbard and dropped the starstone to hang between her breasts. Where was the cooking pot, a bucket, anything to scoop water into? She glanced up at the bow. Through the smoke and flames she saw the last Adarllwchgwin flying towards them. It was low, its talons almost in the water. Its great wings beat slowly but with great force. The rider was almost standing on its back, its fiery spear raised and aimed. The boat lurched to the right as Cynddylig wrenched the tiller and September fell again. The bird swooped past and turned tightly, its wingtip brushing the water. Now they were broadside on as it soared towards them again.
September was half kneeling half lying across the boat, but the stone was in her hand again.
“Be gone!” she cried, again and again blue light flashed from her hand. The beam hit the bird’s head. With a roar of thunder and an explosion of light the bird disintegrated into smoke that fell around them. September blinked and covered her nose and mouth to avoid the sulphurous stink. They were about to hit the wall of the gorge when Cynddylig thrust on the tiller and steered the boat back on to its course. The cloud began to thin and September smelled the burning wood of the boat. She hoped that perhaps the attack was over but still her birthmark burned. There was something in the mist behind them. She squeezed her eyes to see more clearly.
“No,” she whispered, “it can’t be.”
“What? What is it?” Cynddylig tried to turn to look behind him.
Striding towards them over the water was the figure of a man. The trousers and tunic were familiar and so were the hair and the face.
“Tudfwlch?” September stared. Tudfwlch approached rapidly, taking huge strides that barely touched the surface of the river. It was Tudfwlch, she was sure, somehow still alive. Her heart reached out to him, she so wanted him to be living.
“It’s not him, it’s a Pwca,” Cynddylig said, “get rid of it. Use the stone.”
“Do I have to kill him again?”
September stared but slowly it dawned on her that the fog had affected her sense of perspective. As the figure got closer he loomed taller and taller, a giant Tudfwlch, with a red torrent pouring from the wound in his side.
“By the absent Cemegwr! It’s not him, I say.” Cynddylig appealed to her.
The figure opened its mouth and its deep voice resonated down the gorge towards them.
“September, September. Help me.”
“Don’t listen to it. It’s not Tudfwlch.”
“But how can it say my name? It must have Tudfwlch’s memories.”
“Perhaps, but they are not part of Tudfwlch anymore. It’s the Adwyth.”
“September, give me the Maengolauseren.” The giant figure appealed reaching out its hand. It was only a few metres behind them now.
“Oh, stars above!” Cynddylig said.
“What now?” September turned away from the approaching facsimile of Tudfwlch to look forward. Smoke and flames obscured her view but emerging out of the fog were the galloping figures of three pale Ceffyl dwr; their turquoise manes and tails streaming out behind them and their pounding legs stirring the water up into a great wave that was rushing towards them.
“Give it to me.”
September looked up to see the gigantic figure of Tudfwlch bending down over her, stinking mud dripping from its mouth. Its hand reached towards her. She raised the stone in her hand.
“No, you won’t have it,” she bellowed. The blue beam shot out and hit the Tudfwlch figure in its chest. It let out a huge sigh and began to topple forwards. The body hit the water, its head just short of the boat’s stern and dissipated with a blast of hot air and a wave that lifted the boat and surged it forward. September fell again.
“Cludydd!” Cynddylig cried.
She rolled over to see the flames half way along the boat and beyond, the blue-green horses. The great wave was almost on them. The horses reared up, their huge hooves pawing the air, and the wave rose and rose above the boat. Lying in the bottom she struggled to raise the stone into the air. She screamed.
“Ymadaelwch!”
Intense, dazzling light filled the gorge and there was a great roaring noise of a tornado. The three horses blew apart in three fountains of water that reached up to the top of the cliffs as the wave hit the boat.
The bow of the boat rose, tipping Cynddylig off the stern with September slipping and sliding into the river after him. The wave broke and crashed down on top of them. September sank into the boiling, writhing, foaming water, pulled down by the weight of the sword and its scabbard attached to her belt. She tried to breathe, took a mouthful of water and clamped her lips closed. The swirling vortices flung her around and around until she was dizzy and her chest was aching. And then, calm. September fought her way back to the surface despite the weight tugging her down. At last she gasped air.
The Ceffyl dwr and the Pwca that was Tudfwlch were gone. The ripples on the river were dying away but there was no sign of their boat. September found the river current was pushing her along and she was sinking again. She kicked her legs and waved her arms but her head kept being pulled under water. Her hand struck rock. The side of the gorge was sheer and there were no hand holds but she was able to push her head to the surface. She peered through water-filled eyes and saw the gorge rising up over her. The current dragged her, bumping along the rock face as she tried to grasp something, anything. Through her bleary vision she caught sight of something ahead; a shadow in the wall. It was one of the landing stages, a part of the cliff gouged out to make a flat platform. It was above her head and she was going to be swept past it. Stretching an arm up, her fingers found the edge and although they scraped against the rock, gradually she slowed. Her other hand found the ledge and she strained to lift herself out of the clinging embrace of the water. For moments she hung half out of the water, half in. Her arms ached. The river was pulling her back down to sink forever. With all her remaining energy she willed her body to rise. She swung a leg to the side. A knee found the rim. She levered herself up and, with a final heave, rolled onto the ledge. Exhausted, she lay still, panting.
She stayed lying on the stone, her head almost over the edge, her eyes nearly closed, watching but not seeing the river flow by. Something floated into her view. At first she wasn’t sure what it was, a log, a sack. Then she realised. It was a body. The head was almost submerged but with grey hair floating in the current. It was swept swiftly by.
“Cynddylig, oh, Cynddylig,” September sobbed.
Still unmoving, unable to move for a time that she could not estimate, September just breathed, feeling fatigue in every limb. Eventually her senses told her that the fog had cleared and the Sun’s rays were reaching down to the bottom of the gorge to warm her. She rolled over painfully, sat up and examined herself. She felt sore all over but apart from some grazing on her fingers she seemed to be uninjured and the pain had gone from her hip. Her search also told her that she still had her damp clothes and the cloak around her, the Maengolauseren and the phial of arianbyw were still around her neck and her knife, pouch and Tudfwlch’s sword were still attached to the belt around her waist. She was whole but alone.
September opened up the damp leather pouch and took out the copper horn. It seemed undamaged. She raised it to her lips and blew. A weak cracked note sounded. The echo bounced back and forth across the gorge, a sad, forlorn sound, fading to silence.
“Cludydd? Is that you?” The Mordeyrn’s distant, concerned voice answered.
September sighed and sobbed.
“Yes, it’s me, but Cynddylig is gone. The boat’s gone.”
“What happened? Where are you?”
Through her sobs, word by word, she recounted the attack.
“It all h
appened at once. The horses, Tudfwlch. I couldn’t cope with them all together. The boat was overturned, we fell into the river and Cynddylig’s gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“I saw his body. It just floated by, he wasn’t moving. His face was under the water.”
“But you are safe? You have the Maengolauseren?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I’ll get someone to you. Stay where you are.”
September looked around the small ledge, at the overhanging cliff and the river flowing by.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
21
September sat on the rock ledge with her head resting on her knees and the cloak of tin and lead wrapped around her. She rocked forwards and backwards trying to dismiss the memory of the attack by the Malevolence and the loss of Cynddylig. Now she felt completely alone despite the Mordeyrn’s assurance that help was on its way. Both the companions she had been with for nearly the whole of her time in Gwlad were gone. Why couldn’t I save him, September muttered to herself, why did I delay? If I had got rid of the monster Tudfwlch I could have destroyed the water horses before they overturned the boat.
It was past noon now and while she was in shade the air was warmed by the sunlight that reached the bottom of the gorge. She watched the water moving smoothly by. There was no sign of the turmoil that had scattered all their stores and belongings and had drowned Cynddylig. September remembered how he had seemed gruff and negative when they had first met but she had grown to respect his knowledge of the river and his doubts about the fight against the evil that was growing in the Land.
September was hungry and thirsty but all she could do was sit and wait and rock and think.
“Hey there!”
September looked up. A boat was turning against the flow of the river and heading towards her. It was barely longer than the boat the three of them had travelled in but was broader and was being rowed by four bare-chested, muscular men sitting two abreast. What drew September’s eye though was the figure standing in the bow. She was a tall young woman with long blonde hair that blew out behind her. She had a pale face and wore a long white gown that shimmered in the sunlight. A golden brooch was fastened between her breasts. She looked like a princess but September reminded herself that as far as she was aware, there were no princesses in Gwlad. September unfolded her legs and got to her feet. She straightened up, the folds of the silver grey cloak falling around her.
“Cludydd,” the woman called, “I have come to take you to Dwytrefrhaedr.”
“You are from the Mordeyrn?”
“I am Heulwen, daughter of the Mordeyrn Aurddolen.” The distance between the boat and the shore became smaller. A thought entered September’s head.
“How do I know you are who you say you are and not servants of the Malevolence?”
“My father will vouch for me.”
September fumbled in her pouch for the horn and blew into it. Before the echo had faded, the voice of Aurddolen emerged from it.
“Cludydd, has my daughter found you?”
“She says she is your daughter, but how can I be sure that she is not some monster that has taken on her form?”
September was sure she heard the Mordeyrn chuckle.
“I am sure Heulwen would not appreciate being likened to a vile servant of the Malevolence but you are right to be wary after your experiences. She wears a brooch of aur. Look at it and tell me what you see.”
The oarsmen fought the current and manoeuvred the bow of the boat close to the landing stage. Standing on the edge of the ledge September was just an arm’s reach from the imposing young lady. She looked at the golden brooch shaped as a disc with flames around it like an image of the Sun. It began to glow brightly. The disc of light expanded and while still bright became clouded. An image appeared, of the Mordeyrn Aurddolen, his golden hair like flames around his head. He held his great gold plate in his hands. The image faded and the brooch returned to its former appearance.
“What did you see?” Heulwen asked.
“I saw the Mordeyrn holding his gold dish. But I thought that had been destroyed.”
“Alas, that is true,” The Mordeyn’s voice whispered in September’s ear, “the image is from an earlier time. Does it convince you that the brooch and its bearer are linked through the power of Haul to me?”
“Um, I suppose so.”
“Then be assured that the bearer is my daughter, Heulwen, and she will escort you first to Dwytrefrhaedr and then to join me here at the Arsyllfa.”
Heulwen reached out her hand. September grasped it and stepped onto the boat. She stood in front of the young woman. They were a similar height and they looked into each other’s eyes, examining and wondering. There was a wooden chair behind Heulwen. She sat down.
“Please sit,” she said. September looked for somewhere where she could settle comfortably. There was no other seat so she lowered herself into the bow of the boat and rested both arms on the gunwales. She watched as the oarsmen sculled the boat into the river and then with long strokes turned against the current. Soon they were moving smoothly upstream.
“So, you are the Cludydd o Maengolauseren,” Heulwen said, her eyes scanning over September.
“So I’m told,” September felt uncomfortable being examined.
“You are as my father described; the image of the Cludydd from the stories.”
“You’ve got one on me there because he never mentioned you. He said he would send a guide.”
“And that is what I shall be for you. I will guide you into the presence of the Mordeyrn and assist you in your task.”
“But he never said the guide would be his daughter.”
“He didn’t intend it to be me. If you had arrived as expected at the twin towns another of his minions would have guided you into the hills, but this, ah, emergency changes things. I was in the town and thought it would be entertaining to come and find you.”
“Entertaining?”
“Well, you seem to have had an exciting journey,” Heulwen smiled sweetly. September felt anger and pain like a solid lump in her chest.
“That excitement cost me two friends, to say nothing of a whole village and the crew of a boat who have died because of the Malevolence.”
“Ooh, you are upset. Surely the power of the Maengolauseren in the hands of the Cludydd could overcome the powers of the Adwyth.”
September turned away and looked upstream. This woman, this girl, this ‘princess’, may have rescued her but September felt her temperature rising at her taunts. She turned back to glare at the girl sitting smugly on her little throne.
“Well, yes, perhaps I am to blame that Tudfwlch and Cynddylig are dead. Perhaps if I had a better idea about what this stone was supposed to do I could have saved them, and everyone else. But that was why I was on this journey – to learn from your father.”
“My father certainly has a lot to teach you. I am sorry about your friends. I am sure you did everything you could.” Heulwen smiled again, a condescending smile with her lips; her eyes remained gazing coldly and contemptuously at her. “Would you like a drink?” She reached down to pick up a leather water bottle and passed it to September. September took it and grunted an ungrateful thank you. She put it to her lips realising how thirsty she was after the hours sitting on the ledge.
“We’ll be in Dwytrefrhaedr in a couple of hours. The men are strong.”
September handed the bottle back and watched the oarsmen taking their long powerful strokes in rhythm. She turned again to look forward, searching the sky for Adarllwchgwin and the river for Ceffyl dwr but the sky above the cliff top was blue and the water was smooth and dark green. The Malevolence seemed to have given up its attack.
September didn’t feel in the mood to engage in conversation with this daughter of the Mordeyrn who had suddenly appeared and treated her as if she was a weak girl who had to be rescued and protected. Her opinion of her may have been correct, September reflected – she was a silly
girl with no talent to speak of – but Heulwen’s manner was hardly designed to boost her confidence. Heulwen seemed content to journey in silence too.
After a time following the river’s course through the gorge September began to notice something. It was a sound. At first it was faint, almost inaudible above the sound of the river and the oars dipping into the water, the sound of the sea heard in a seashell. She wasn’t sure whether it was a real sound or if it was just the sound of her own blood rushing through her arteries, but it slowly became louder. It was the sound of a running tap, of water rushing down a pipe.
“What is that noise?” she asked turning to face Heulwen. This time the girl smiled with all her face.
“You will see soon enough. Nothing I could say will prepare you for it.”
September recalled Cynddylig saying something similar and her eyes filled with tears.
The noise continued to build in volume and September noticed that the gorge was widening, the vertical walls receding little by little. Now the noise was a constant roar, filling her ears.
“Whatever it is it must be really close,” she shouted to Heulwen who merely smiled back.
September stared ahead looking in vain for a source of the sound. She was convinced it was rushing water, but how could it make such a noise? Still it grew louder until it felt as if her head was being pummelled by a torrent of water, and then the boat turned a bend. The sight ahead made September stop breathing.
The gorge opened out into a semi-circular lake surrounded by the white cliffs. Ahead the passage was blocked by a black wall of rock over which poured a thousand metre high waterfall. The incessant pounding of the water as it fell into the lake was the source of the noise. September stared at the curtain of white water, the clouds that hung over it and the maelstrom at its bottom. She began to breathe again but was still speechless. She took her eyes off the deluge and looked around the lake. To the left on the south side there was a cluster of stone buildings huddled against the cliff. Having entered the lake the boat turned towards the town.
Seventh Child Page 20
