‘We will soon have him free of those chains,’ Conor promised. Turning his head, he shouted, ‘Calbhan! Where are you?’
The cry was answered by a guttural groan and a soft thud. Conor spun toward the sound and saw that Morfran had fallen from his horse and was now in a crumpled heap on the ground. Eraint had seen him fall and dashed to his comrade’s side. Conor rushed to join him. ‘What happened?’ said Conor. ‘He was well enough a moment ago.’
Eraint pressed a hand to the stricken faéry’s chest and let it rest there for a moment. ‘It is the poison,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He has yielded.’
Conor took in the pasty, grey face—beyond exhaustion, it now seemed drained of all vitality. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It was that metal—the killing iron,’ explained Eraint. ‘He was too near the poison for too long.’
‘He never said anything,’ Conor muttered. ‘He should have said something. I could have taken the burden.’
Eraint dismissed this suggestion. ‘He knows what he is about. He is next in line of succession. It is his place to carry the king, not yours.’ The faéry lowered his head and put his ear close to Morfran’s mouth, then sat back and said, ‘The iron has been removed and he will rest more easily now. I think he will recover. I will stay with him.’ He raised a hand toward the shelter. ‘Please, see what can be done for the king.’
Conor left them where they sat and returned to the bothy where Rhiannon was trying to arrange Gwydion in a more comfortable position; together they straightened his limbs, placed a rolled fleece under his head, and covered him with a woollen cloak. While they worked, Donal and Olwen arrived; Donal helped the lady down and the two hurried to where Conor and Rhiannon knelt beside the body of the king. Conor had drawn some water from the leather bucket and Rhiannon was trying to get Gwydion to drink from a wooden cup. The water ran out of the sides of his mouth and down his chin; he swallowed none of it.
‘Any change?’ asked Donal.
Conor shook his head. Rhiannon said, ‘He is very weak. I fear he will not survive the night.’ She swallowed back tears as she spoke. ‘Perhaps not even that long.’
Conor jumped up and dashed from the shelter. ‘Calbhan! Hurry!’
A moment later, he saw the young warrior racing to him. In one hand he carried a small hammer and, in the other, a long iron spike. ‘Good! Good—’ Conor took the spike. ‘What is this? Where did you get it?’
‘We were using it to secure the picket line for the horses,’ explained Calbhan. ‘Médon found it. I don’t know where he—’
Conor snatched the hammer and ducked back into the shelter. Throwing off the cloak covering the king, Conor proceeded to try prising open the centre ring on the thick iron band encircling Gwydion’s waist; that ring held the band in place and also affixed the tether chain to the band. He plied the spike, working it this way and that, but could get no purchase secure enough to allow much leverage and, clearly, strength alone would not succeed.
‘Here,’ said Conor, ‘help me roll him to his side.’ Together, Donal and Conor eased the faéry lord over and onto his side which exposed the ring and brought it closer to the ground. After another attempt or two, he concluded, ‘This should work.’ To Calbhan, he said, ‘Go find me a stone—this big.…’ He showed him where he intended to use it.
‘The fire ring,’ he said, darting away. ‘I’ll get one from there.’
Conor turned back to his work. ‘Now, hold him by the shoulders and keep him steady.’ Rhiannon moved to kneel beside Donal; together they braced the unconscious Gwydion while Conor positioned the iron spike in the ring. Calbhan returned with three fair-sized stones and Conor chose one and wedged the stone beneath the exposed ring. Then, taking up the hammer, he struck the spike—once … and again. He examined his effort and saw that he had made very little impact on the ring: the two joined ends had not spread by so much as a hair.
He tried again, swinging the hammer harder and harder against the spike in an effort to force the two ends apart—just a little, just enough to allow the chain to pass through and free the band. Time and again the iron smashed against the stone. Sparks scattered with every blow. Conor started to sweat with the effort, but did not cease.
Rhiannon bit her lip and clutched her father’s body, steadying it against the blows Conor delivered. With each hammer strike, the spike bent a little more … but so, too, did the fixing ring.
‘It’s working!’ said Donal. ‘Let me take over.’
‘Wait!’ said Calbhan. As Conor sat back, wiping the sweat from his face with his arm, the young warrior removed the battered stone and replaced it with another.
Conor relinquished the hammer and took Donal’s place as Donal began to hammer at the fixing ring. Once more the blows rang out and sparks flew. Donal’s shoulders hunched, the muscles bulged on his arms, and his eyes narrowed with the intensity of his concentration. Slowly, the ring spread beneath the relentless onslaught. Finally, Donal gave out a shout and brought the hammer down with all his might, shattering the stone beneath.
‘Here,’ said Conor, bending to hand him the third stone. ‘Use this.’
But Donal turned, a broad smile spreading across his sweat-slick face as he reached down and pulled the chain away. The ring had broken in two.
‘You did it!’ cried Conor. ‘Well done, brother.’
Calbhan grabbed up the chain and dragged it away. Rhiannon took up Gwydion’s hand in hers; she kissed it, saying, ‘Bear it but a little longer, my heart. You are soon free.’ Then, turning to Conor, she said, ‘Please, please, hurry.’
Through all this the faéry king remained unconscious, his eyes closed, his mouth slack, half open, his breath light and airy—only the slow rise and fall of his broad chest and the occasional breathy moan let them know that he remained in the land of the living.
The thick band of heavy iron that passed around Gwydion’s waist, above the hips but under the ribs, was cinched into a tight ring the ends of which overlapped where the chain had been attached. Conor expected it to be a fairly straightforward affair to simply prize apart the overlapping ends to allow the band to be removed.
This proved to be much more difficult than anticipated, however; and, after a few unsuccessful attempts on his own, he called on both Donal and Calbhan to help. ‘You two take that side and I’ll take this.’ All three grasped the thick iron band and tightened their grip. ‘Ready?’ Donal gave a nod. ‘Pull!’
The three men reared back, straining at the metal band. It refused to bend. After the initial surge, they relaxed, renewed their grip and Conor cried, ‘Again!’
They reared back with all their might. Muscles bulging, backs and shoulders straining, their faces red with the exertion, they heaved and pulled before falling back in a panting, chest-heaving sweat.
‘It’s no good,’ muttered Conor. ‘We need more help.’ He looked around and, for the first time, realised someone was missing. ‘Where is Médon?’
Calbhan said nothing, but appeared apprehensive.
‘Where is he?’ demanded Conor. ‘Out hunting?’
Calbhan looked around as if he might see the missing Médon lurking among the nearby trees. Finally, with a shamefaced shake of his head, he admitted, ‘Nay, lord, not hunting.’
‘Do you mean to tell me that you are here alone?’ demanded Conor. ‘Where is he then?’
The young man lowered his eyes. ‘He has gone to Aintrén, I believe.’
‘Aintrén!’ Conor exploded. ‘Gone back to the Brigantes, you mean!’
The young warrior swallowed hard. ‘He was to have returned long since.…’ Calbhan looked around again. ‘I cannot think but that something has gone wrong.’
‘Something has gone wrong, aye,’ growled Conor between gritted teeth. ‘If he dares return now I will have the skin off him.’
‘Aye, but see now he thought—’
‘I won’t hear it!’ Turning to Rhiannon, Conor said, ‘The iron is too strong. We need help to bend it. Run
to the top of the ridge and see what has become of Fergal and the fianna. If you can see anyone, signal them to come running.’
The faéry princess nodded once, turned on her heel, and fled, moving with grace and speed that was wonderful to see.
Conor turned once more to the task at hand. ‘Again!’ he barked. And again the three men seized the cold iron; and this time—placing their feet sole to sole, their hands between their knees—they arched their backs and bulled their necks and pulled with all their strength.
To no avail.
When they could no longer endure the pain of their exertion, they fell back, lungs heaving, sweat streaming from red faces.
‘Again!’ said Conor after a moment’s rest, and they returned to their fruitless labour.
Gwydion, if he heeded the struggle taking place over his body, gave no indication. He lay ashen-faced and still, only the lightest breath of a sigh escaping his slack mouth. Where his rich tunic had ridden up, his white skin showed angry violet welts and blackened streaks from its too-close contact with the lethal metal.
Rhiannon came running back to say, ‘I saw them! I saw the horses. They are coming.’
‘Did they see you?’ asked Conor.
‘I cannot say,’ she replied. ‘I hope so. They are picking their way up the mountain. But they are coming.’ She glanced at the body of her father and stifled a gasp. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’
‘The iron is just too strong,’ Conor told her. ‘I think we must wait for help.’
By way of reply, she glanced toward the hilltop. ‘I will send Eraint to summon them more quickly.’ She spoke a lilting word to her handmaid who nodded and darted away, as light as a cloud shadow slipping over the rocky ground. A few moments later, Eraint ran to his horse, mounted, and rode off, disappearing up and over the crest. ‘He will go and bring them as fast as can be,’ Rhiannon explained, gazing at her father’s lifeless body upon the ground, hands clenched beneath her chin.
Conor, Calbhan, and Donal returned to the task at hand. Once again the three warriors gripped the unbending metal and again they strained against it with every nerve and sinew and all that sheer brute force would provide, cursing the Scálda and willing the cold hard iron to yield. And, if will alone had been power enough, that encircling band would have bent like soft butter. In the end, it was their own flesh that gave out first when, with hands torn, the skin of their palms greasy with blood, they at last fell back on their elbows in defeat.
‘It is no use,’ said Conor, blowing on his hands to soothe the pain throbbing there. ‘When the others get here, we’ll try again.’ Rhiannon rushed forward just then and threw herself down where Conor had been kneeling. ‘Fergal and the others will soon be here,’ he told her, ‘and then we’ll have strength enough to—’
‘They will come too late,’ intoned Rhiannon in a strained, unnatural voice. Her hands were shaking and her eyes were closed, but her head was erect and her shoulders straight.
‘Too late?’ Conor pushed himself up beside her. ‘What—’ he began, and then saw what Rhiannon already knew.
Gwydion ap Llŷr, Lord and King of the Tylwyth Teg, was dead.
26
Despite their strenuous exertions on his behalf, Lord Gwydion had succumbed to the slow toxin of the Scálda iron. Even as they watched, the king’s once-regal body was already beginning to decompose in the bizarre and eerie way of faéry flesh. The pale skin withered and cracked like ancient leather worn thin through untold ages as the muscle and sinew beneath the skin desiccated, shrinking away into a thin, fibrous mass; here and there, rents opened to reveal the skeletal bones. Then these too began to melt away, crumbling into tiny, cinderlike fragments of ash.
Conor and Donal rose and stood bereft over the rapidly crumbling corpse, their throbbing hands limp and powerless at their sides. Calbhan gaped in disbelief, his expression one of awed dismay at the mystery transpiring before his very eyes.
The noble king’s clothing disintegrated, rotting away to mere threads and then to fine dust. For a moment, the outward shell of the corpse held its rough semblance of form and then the fragile crust collapsed in a flurry of snow-white ash to scatter on the evening breeze. There was a muffled cry and the onlookers turned to see Rhiannon slumped upon the ground, her face pressed to the earth, her slender shoulders heaving with silent sobs.
Within moments, the transformation was complete. By the time Eraint and Olwen returned with Fergal and the fianna there was little left to see but a heavy iron band and a powdery body-shaped depression in the damp grass. The fianna stared at the telltale residue in bewildered amazement; the two faéry went to Rhiannon and the three knelt together, their arms around one another, their bent heads almost touching.
‘Ach, well, that is a very pity,’ observed Fergal, turning to Conor with a question in his eyes. ‘If we had come sooner…’ He sighed. ‘A very great pity.’
‘It is that,’ agreed Conor, turning his eyes away from the chalky shape in the grass. ‘And a grievous wrong, aye.’
‘I’m sorry, brother. If we had been here, we might have saved him. We might have—’
Conor was already shaking his head. ‘Without a blacksmith’s tools and a blacksmith’s craft, Lord Gwydion was lost—whether you were here or not. The fault is mine, not yours.’ Conor lowered his head, and it seemed as if every one of Eirlandia’s myriad troubles had settled on his shoulders, crushing him down beneath an intolerable weight. ‘I brought him into this, and I failed him,’ he muttered, shaking his head slowly. First Mádoc and Huw, and now Gwydion … was everyone doomed who trusted him?
An upwelling of rage flooded through him—rage at the injustice, rage at the futility of his best efforts, rage against the senseless brutality and wickedness of the Scálda. His ruby birthmark flared like a hot poker applied to his cheek. Stooping suddenly, he seized the iron band that had leeched away the faéry king’s life and, with a growl of angry frustration, hurled the cruel thing away. It sailed, spinning slowly, into the trees at the edge of the wood.
Conor watched it disappear into the brushy undergrowth, and muttered, ‘I failed him—and it cost him his life.’
‘Never say it!’ said Rhiannon breaking in just then. Lifting her head, she drew herself up, climbed slowly to her feet and came to stand in front of Conor. ‘I will not hear you reproach yourself over my father’s death. You did what you could for him. I know that.’ She took his hand and turned the palm up to reveal the raw, bleeding wound there. ‘I see the sweat and blood of your attempt to free our king from the death the Scálda decreed for him. You tried with all that was in you, my friends. No one could have done more—of that I have not the slightest doubt. And I will not hear any one of you reproach yourselves or regret offering your aid.’
Morfran, all but carried by Eraint, hobbled forward to take his place beside the princess, and Olwen moved to her shoulder. ‘It is as the princess has said,’ Morfran declared, his voice hoarse, his manner grave and solemn. ‘We hold you and your people in the highest esteem. Nothing that has happened in these last days will change that. But I tell you now that the Tylwyth Teg will never be party to this hateful war of yours. It would be cruelty to allow you to think otherwise.’ Placing an arm around Rhiannon’s shoulders, he said, ‘Our ship awaits our return on the eastern coast. We will go there now and board that ship, and that will be the last you shall see of us or any of our people in this worlds-realm.’
In Conor’s sorrowful state, it took him a moment to fathom the significance of the faéry’s words. ‘You will not help us?’ he said.
Fergal spoke up. ‘You will not revenge yourselves on the enemy who killed your king?’
‘There is neither solace nor comfort in revenge,’ Morfran intoned. ‘And this war between the Dé Danann and the Scálda has been nothing but a plague to our kind from the beginning. We will go our own way and leave you to go yours.’
Donal spoke up. ‘Unless the Scálda are stopped, the attacks on you and your people will continue
and in time increase. You must see that. In helping us, you help yourselves.’
‘No,’ replied Morfran bluntly. ‘We are finished with all things mortal.’
Rhiannon, raising her voice, replied, ‘That is neither fair nor noble, uncle. This is the second time these good men have put their lives at risk for ours. We cannot sever the ties of friendship so easily.’
‘Our friendship with Conor and his people will remain intact and unchanged. Indeed, he and his men will be welcomed into our halls and celebrated in story and song as long as we have breath to sing their praises. But,’ his manner, already grave, grew haughty as well, ‘we will no longer place ourselves between these two enemies. In the end, the only outcome for us is suffering no matter which side gains the victory.’
With that, he gestured to Eraint. ‘We will go now.’ The faéry pilot, stunned by the loss of their king and Morfran’s adamant stance, glanced helplessly at Rhiannon. ‘Eraint! We are leaving,’ Morfran said. The two hobbled away again. Olwen, standing mute beside her mistress, took Rhiannon’s hands in hers and bent her head.
‘Morfran is distraught,’ Rhiannon said softly. ‘He did not mean what he said.’
‘We are all distraught,’ agreed Conor sadly. ‘But he knew well enough what he meant. Nor do I blame him. I, too, wish to be finished with this endless fighting.’
‘I will speak to him again when he has had a chance to regain his better counsel.’
‘Thank you, Lady Rhiannon.’
‘What is done is done,’ interrupted Fergal. ‘But I think we will not be entirely safe until we put a fair bit of distance between ourselves and the borderlands.’ He jerked his head to the high hills rising behind him. ‘The dog-eaters may soon be on our trail. We should move on while we can.’
Conor accepted the wisdom of Fergal’s counsel and ordered Calbhan to ready the horses to ride out. To Rhiannon, he said, ‘Come with us at least as far as Mag Belach. It’s half a day’s ride and it will be safer for you. We will part company there.’
The faéry princess glanced uncertainly at her uncle. ‘Conor is right, my lady,’ Fergal told her. ‘You ride on ahead with Conor. Donal and I will see to things here and follow when our horses have been fed and rested.’ He hurried off to tell the others.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 25
