by Mike Ashley
It was with these thoughts, therefore, that Myrddin, seeing the four Saxons attacking the two Britons, unsheathed his own sword and, giving a wild yell, rode down the hill to the swirling battle. He rode forward at full pelt, scattering the scrimmage. With surprise on his side, he was able to disarm one of the Saxons with a swift sword blow which sent the weapon flying from the man’s hand.
He turned swiftly to fend off the attack of another warrior who was the first to recover from his surprise and hastened to defend the man who had been disarmed. The younger Briton was also pressing the attack on another of the assailants but, to Myrddin’s dismay, he saw that the elderly man had been wounded. He was slumped forward in his saddle with blood staining his cloak. His sword had already fallen from his nerveless hand. Myrddin perceived this in no more than a split second before he closed up with his opponent and metal rang against metal.
There came a scream from another Saxon and Myrddin saw that the young Briton had struck the man’s sword arm, almost severing it. The scream distracted his own opponent allowing Myrddin to knock aside the man’s weapon and plunge his own fully into the undefended stomach.
One of the two remaining Saxons gave a cry of rage and would have renewed the attack. He was a young man, not much older than Myrddin himself. He had been the warrior whom Myrddin had been able to disarm but he had now retrieved his sword. However, his companion, a hawk-faced warrior of more mature years, yelled at him.
“Back, my lord, Cynric! Back for your life! We cannot succeed here.”
Then the two were fleeing back into the cover of the forest. The third man, with the wounded arm, was left to escape after them as best he could.
Without a word, the young Briton had leapt from his horse and helped the elderly man from his mount, laying him gently on the ground.
Myrddin waited a moment, watching intently, in case the attackers regrouped and came back. Only when he was sure that the signs of danger were no longer there did Myrddin sheathe his sword and slide from his horse.
“Is the old man hurt bad?” he demanded. “I have some knowledge of healing.”
The young man glanced up at Myrddin.
Myrddin took an immediate liking to him. He was lithe in form but muscular. His features were even, the blue eyes wide and without guile and the hair was golden under his war helmet. His face, though anxiety was creasing it now, seemed more accustomed to smiling than to anger. Handsome was a word that seemed inadequate. Almost immediately, Myrddin felt a quiet charisma emanating from the natural command of the youth.
“He is hurt badly,” the youth replied. “See for yourself.”
Myrddin bent to one knee and examined the old man’s wound.
The old man stirred and gazed up at Myrddin with deepset, dark eyes. His features were strangely serene.
“I am dying,” he whispered.
Myrddin attempted a smile of reassurance.
“You still live.”
“Do not be an optimist, Druid,” replied the old man with a wan smile.
Myrddin allowed an eyebrow to rise in momentary surprise.
“How do you know who I am?”
The old man sniffed.
“Am I so senile that I do not recognize a ‘man of oak wisdom’? Come, I am dying. I was dying before the Saxon steel bit into my shoulder.”
“You cannot die, my lord!” It was an agonized cry from the younger man.
“Everyone has to die, Artio. That is the only thing we can be sure of in this world. Lowly servant and high-born noble, it all comes to the same thing in the end.”
Myrddin made a quick examination while the old man spoke.
“Well, young Druid?” demanded the old one. “Will I have until sundown?”
Myrddin grimaced. The old man expected honesty.
“No longer than that,” he admitted reluctantly.
The old man sighed.
“Then help Artio here secure me on my horse for I wish to die in my own fortress of Dinas Emrys this night.”
“Dinas Emrys?” Myrddin frowned, wondering why the name seemed so familiar.
The old man grinned wryly.
“This night shall pass the soul of Emrys, High King of the Isle of the Mighty . . .”
He groaned a little in pain.
“Is there nothing you can do?” demanded the young man who had been addressed as Artio.
Myrddin shook his head, trying to quell his astonishment at the identity of the old man. He had known about Emrys but had always pictured him as a strong, young warrior, not allowing for the passage of the years.
“If he was not so old, if the wound were an inch to the right . . . he will not see sunrise, of that I am sure.”
Artio suppressed a sob.
“Then help me secure him to his horse. I will take him back to Dinas Emrys to die.”
In silence, Myrddin helped the young man lift the elderly High King on to his horse. By use of leather thongs they secured him so that he would not fall and Myrddin picked up his sword and replaced it in its scabbard. He stood silently as Artio swung into his own saddle.
“Where are you going?” Artio demanded.
“To the east,” Myrddin pointed.
“That way lies Saxons,” frowned the youth. “Did you hear the name that passed the lips of one of our attackers?”
Myrddin, who had learnt many languages from the lips of his tutor, Fychan, nodded, for he understood well the Saxon tongue.
“The man called the youth Cynric.”
“And Cynric is newly anointed king of the West Saxons. There must be a strong raiding party nearby. I would have a care and avoid going further east.”
“But that way lies my destiny,” replied Myrddin, undeterred.
The young man, called Artio, frowned and gazed closely at him.
“Is it true what my lord said – are you of the old faith, a ‘man of oak wisdom’?”
Myrddin bowed his head.
“I am a Druid,” he admitted with pride, quite forgetting the Venerable Fychan’s counsel.
“Then tell no one of what has passed on this road, Druid. We were already on our journey to Dinas Emrys to meet the princes and chieftains of the Isle of the Mighty so that Emrys, who felt himself too feeble to continue to hold office, could appoint his successor as High King. Unless he can do so before his death, I fear that anarchy and despair will stalk this land.”
“No one shall hear of his passing from my lips,” Myrddin vowed.
The young warrior gazed at the young Druid for a moment or two. Then he smiled and reached forth his hand.
“I thank you for your assistance. Say a prayer to your gods, Druid,” he said. “For this night at the fortress of Emrys the soul of the last High King of the Isle of the Mighty will pass on into the Otherworld. Who then will protect us against the Saxons?”
“Another will come,” replied Myrddin.
But the two riders were already moving away with the young warrior leading the old man’s mount by the reins. They moved north-westward towards the distant mountains.
“Another will come,” Myrddin said again firmly, though half to himself, as he mounted his own horse. “The Venerable Fychan has said so.” He paused a moment to look after the disappearing pair of riders. Then he turned his horse and nudged it gently along the eastward trail.
V
The moon was rising to its zenith.
Myrddin threw a few more sticks onto the fire which he had set to warm him for the night was chilly. He stretched languidly before it and yawned deeply. It had been a long and tiring day. In the distance, he heard wolves baying at the moon. They did not trouble him. He knew enough of the behaviour of wolves to know that they would ignore him unless he annoyed them. They were hunting in a pack and looking for bigger game such as the deer herd he had passed in a forest clearing shortly before dusk.
He had tethered his horse nearby and unrolled his blanket and cloak before the fire. Now he lay at his ease, hands clasped behind his head, staring through
the swaying branches of the canopy of the trees, beyond to the dark blue sky, the white smudged face of the round moon with the myriad of twinkling silver stars around it. A new moon. The start of new beginnings.
He was about to close his eyes when something attracted his attention. He frowned and sat up. Through the trees he caught sight of a luminescent glow, a light which seemed to pulsate, flickering between the trees.
Myrddin was curious. What manner of phenomenon was this? It was not another camp fire nor was it the light from a lantern. He had never seen such a light before.
He rose to his feet and made sure his sword was in his hand. Then he glanced at his horse which stood unperturbed and at ease. Myrddin was reassured by this for if there were danger threatening from nearby then his horse would be showing signs of distress and skittishness.
Inquisitively, Myrddin walked slowly towards the pulsating glow, moving quietly between the trees and skirting the undergrowth so that it might not rustle and give warning of his approach.
The forest ended abruptly after a hundred yards or so, at the base of a sudden outcrop of rocks which constituted a small cliff face. It was a precipitous thrust of granite breaking aside the surrounding trees of the forest and creating a small hill. Myrddin’s eyes grew rounded as he gazed up for there, some twenty feet or more above his head, came the pulsating light. It seemed to shine out of a small aperture, an opening in the rock.
Sheathing his sword, Myrddin moved to the rock face. He did not question the fact that it was dark and even with the bright, new moon, hanging low in the sky, he could hardly see any prospective foothold. Some instinct, perhaps the training of his senses – for a Druid was taught to use his senses just as much as his reason – caused him to run his hands over the dark granite and then launch himself upwards.
It took him a while, with one or two false moves which grazed his shins and arms. Myrddin found himself heaving his body over the edge of the rock and into the aperture. It was tall and narrow, just big enough to take a moderately sized man. Myrddin found himself grinning in reflection; in no way would Mawr the giant warrior have been able to pass through it.
Myrddin moved forward towards the pulsing light which began to respond more rapidly until it pulsed in time to his very heartbeat, its light growing stronger, brighter with each footstep he took towards its source.
He could not count how long it took him to move along that small confining passage for time seemed immeasurable. Then he stood in a great cave, but so strong was the pulsing light that he had to close his eyes to prevent himself from being blinded.
“Name yourself, stranger!”
The voice was a thin, reedy wail.
Myrddin tried to locate its owner but the light was too strong.
“I am Myrddin, foster son of Fychan,” he replied.
“The Venerable Fychan?” demanded the voice.
“The same.”
“Then answer three questions, Myrddin, and then you may enter here. What is the depth of a river?”
Myrddin frowned.
“The depth of a river?” he echoed stupidly.
“Yes, yes, yes!” The voice was annoyed. “Can a foster son of the Venerable Fychan be so stupid?”
Myrddin suddenly realized what was expected of him and he suppressed a smile, for he was well practised in such riddles.
“The distance from its surface to the river bed.”
“What trees are there in this forest?”
“Two kinds; the green and the withered.”
“What is sharper than the point of the sword you carry?”
“Understanding.”
Suddenly the light dimmed and Myrddin blinked rapidly. He was in a large cave, and in the middle of this cave was a huge granite slab whose surface was encrusted with curious stones of milky-white substance that glowed with a soft light. Myrddin realized that these stones must have been the source of the strong, pulsating light for even now they still pulsed and glowed.
Yet it was the object which stuck out of the top of the granite block which caused him to stare in surprise. It was the hilt of a sword. The hilt was attached to a blade which seemed to be buried in the granite block. The hilt itself was encrusted with precious metals and stones.
Myrddin swallowed hard.
“What manner of place is this?”
The voice cackled with laughter.
Myrddin became aware of a figure seated on a chair which was placed on a dais just behind the granite block. The figure was clothed in a white robe, with a silver half-moon necklet of the Druidic brotherhood hanging around his shoulders, stretching down to his chest. The man was old, the face so lined and creased that it was not possible to say how old; it might have been centuries which witnessed the furrowing of such lines. The hair was long and as white as snow.
“You seem startled, Myrddin.”
“I am . . . puzzled.”
The cackle of laughter came again.
“Then let me give you knowledge. You are in the Cave of the Sword. For centuries, no, for eons, this sword has awaited a rightful claimant. It was shaped by Gofannon, the smith-god, and brought to this land by the mighty Lleu Llaw Gyffes from the mystical city of Gorias, where the ancient gods and goddesses once dwelt. The sword is named Caladfwlch, which means the hard dinter, the sword of gods and heroes. Centuries ago Lleu plunged that sword into the living molten rock when this world was forming and decreed that only a great hero could pluck it forth in the cause of truth and justice for his people.”
“What has this to do with me?” demanded Myrddin, feeling some awe in spite of himself as he gazed upon the great slab of granite.
“Easy to say; when it felt your presence the jewel-encrusted granite began to pulse with light and send out its emissions to attract you to this spot.”
“Why? Am I to be such a hero? Is the sword mine to have?”
The old man gave a wheezy laugh and shook his head.
“That is not your destiny, Myrddin.”
“What then?”
“You will set the path for the hero to come. That is your destiny, son of the divine waters. You have gazed on this magical sword, Caladfwlch, you know its purpose. The hero is coming soon. He is the bear that will come out of the west to save his people at their time of greatest peril. He must pluck the sword from this stone and by its possession he will become invincible.”
“I do not understand this, old man. Our people have stood in as great a peril before this day. Why did Lleu Llaw Gyffes not bestow this gift on the heroes of the past, on the great Vercingetorix, on Cassivelaunos, on Caradog, or Bouddica or on Emrys? All were mighty heroes at a time of great peril for our people.”
“It was not their time. It was not their destiny. Go now, son of the divine waters, you have learnt what you must learn. That is enough. But tell the bear, whom you must bring here, that once he plucks the sword, it will serve him and bring him strength only while there is sincerity in his heart and goodness towards those of his kin. Once jealousy, desire or hate, the progenitors of injustice, enter his heart then the sword will no longer serve him. What the gods can bestow they can also take away.”
Myrddin shook his head in bewilderment. He was about to question the old man further when he realized, to his astonishment, that the old man had vanished. Gone also were the dais and the seat on which the old man had sat; gone as if they had all been some illusion, a phantasm from the past.
Yet the sword and the stone were still there. That was no illusion.
Myrddin walked slowly around it, examining the softly glowing milky-white stones set in the sides of the granite block.
Then the temptation came on him, an inquisitive desire which he could not refuse. He stepped swiftly to the block and seized the handle and tugged. The sword was set fast in the granite. He tugged again. Then, as he was about to tug a third time, a terrible pain seized his hands and arms. There came a blinding flash and Myrddin found himself being thrown backwards across the cave.
“D
o you doubt my word, Myrddin?” came a hollow voice. “You are only the conduit for he that follows. Now leave this place and do not tempt the anger of the gods again.”
Rubbing his hands and arms to restore some circulation, for they were quite numb, Myrddin reluctantly retreated from the cave. By the time he had traversed the narrow defile of a passage back to the entrance onto the cliff face, he was feeling strong enough to attempt the climb down again. His mind was a-tumble with thoughts but he finally exerted his Druidic training to still them.
He had been told all that he should know at this time. Only when the time came would he know more. Only when the time came would he recognize the one for whom this sacred artifact was destined.
When he awoke by his dying, smoky fire, in the early morning light, the episode seemed like some curious distant dream.
V
By the following afternoon, Myrddin had traversed the great expanse of forest which separated the foothills of the mountains of the west from the low-lying plains to the east. He had followed the Venerable Fychan’s suggestion, keeping to the eastward paths which would, he had been assured, lead him to a revelation of self and destiny. But Myrddin was growing irritable at the endless and boring journey. He was lonely and longed for the company of people, and even the excitement of the curious incident in the cave had waned. Myrddin now considered it a strange, hallucinatory dream. The young man even questioned the purpose of his journey, so bored with it had he become. He was, after all, a free man. Had he not passed the rigours of training and become a “man of oak wisdom”, as the Druids were euphemistically called? He could go anywhere and do anything. He no longer had to obey the solemn warnings of the Venerable Fychan.
He paused on the edge of a rolling plain of cultivated fields, with lips pursed, as he considered the position. Yes; he would return to more familiar territory, to the shores of the westward seas. It was futile moving eastward for there was naught but Saxons there.
Having made his decision, he glanced up at the sky and decided it lacked an hour or two to dusk and therefore it was better to make a camp on the edge of the forest than try to move on now. He was about to dismount when his eye caught a glimpse of a wisp of smoke rising in the distance. He stood in his stirrups and narrowed his eyes. Some way away, across the rolling cultivated fields, he saw signs of a habitation of sorts. Why trouble to build a camp when he could ask hospitality and perhaps sleep in a dry bed rather than on the floor of the forest? The thought made the youth cheerful again.
