This Present Past Page 7

  ‘So are you going to kill me, Majesty?’ Tiernan raised his pale blue eyes to appeal for mercy. ‘I will never tell anyone what I saw.’

  ‘You are never going to tell anyone that you saw a dragon?’ Brockwell challenged the boy. ‘That’s going to be very hard, don’t you think?’

  ‘I didn’t see a dragon,’ Tiernan replied. ‘Dragons don’t exist.’

  ‘Good lad.’ The King ruffled his hair. ‘I think it might be time I hand you over to Lord Gilmore’s charge.’

  ‘You mean it?’ The lad exploded with excitement.

  ‘Are you questioning the word of your king?’ Owain replied and the lad became deathly serious for a second.

  ‘No, Sire. But . . . yay! Am I dismissed?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Thank you, Majesty! You won’t regret this!’ The lad went running off down the track towards the camp, dying to tell anyone he saw along the way. ‘Did you hear that?’ he queried Morvran as he passed.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said the beast.

  It appeared that only at that moment did Tiernan register that he was usually afraid of the Otherworldly warrior. ‘Thanks.’ He bowed out of the conversation politely and doubled his speed of departure.

  ‘Is no one the slightest bit concerned that we just unleashed a dragon into the middle kingdoms?’ Creirwy appealed to the King and his warriors.

  ‘Well, you don’t expect we are going to be able to catch it?’ Brockwell walked backwards a way, motioning to the sky above that was fast clouding over. ‘It could be right over us and we wouldn’t know it! But it’s more than likely halfway to the moon by now.’

  ‘Besides,’ Owain chimed in, walking backwards alongside his brother-to-be. ‘It’s your mother’s pet. I’m sure the Goddess will have a far better idea of how to coax it back to the Otherworld than we do.’

  They both turned about and kept moving.

  ‘They might be right on that count.’ Gwion could plainly see how agitated Creirwy was.

  She looked to him, appearing so fragile. ‘I should never have set foot in Annwn.’

  ‘I am of the same mind,’ Gwion assured.

  ‘You had no choice.’ The Lady resigned herself to the dragon’s loss and slowly moved to pursue the rest of the party.

  ‘There is always a choice. I could have fled.’ Gwion meandered along beside her – for she seemed in no hurry to escape the conversation.

  ‘And damn half the army of your king in the process? You are far too compassionate and loyal for that, Gwion, son of Gwreang.’

  He loved that she did not refer to him as Bach. ‘You have known me little more than a day, Lady; how could you understand what kind of a man I am?’

  ‘It is not the man I estimate but the soul within. We are all more than the forms we inhabit in our unconscious moments.’ She forced half a smile, and he knew she was inviting him to ask about her change of form inside Annwn, but truth be known Gwion didn’t care, he was too intrigued by the words she spoke.

  ‘So you believe this life is as unconscious as a dream?’

  ‘For most people, yes.’ She seemed pleased by where he chose to steer the conversation. ‘What soul would consciously put themselves through the torturous existence of the physical world?’ She laughed as she thought on this, and it was a delight to see her happy. ‘There is only one soul, that I am aware of, brave enough to volunteer for this plight . . . and that would be you.’

  ‘Me?’ Gwion knew she was toying with him now. ‘I am no one.’

  ‘And to know that is truly wise,’ she concluded – but observing the frown on Gwion’s face, she laughed. ‘I am so glad we met; you are a shining light in an otherwise shadowy world.’

  Gwion could feel his cheeks burning. He didn’t know how to respond as he’d never been so flattered. ‘I had thought the same of you,’ he ventured coyly.

  Creirwy’s merriment lessened to a weak smile. ‘Before we entered Annwn, you mean?’

  ‘No.’ She’d mistaken his meaning entirely. ‘If anything my regard for you has increased, not lessened.’

  Creirwy now appeared fit to weep. ‘You did not see how truly monstrous I am—’

  ‘I believe the folk have made you believe that you are an abomination, but it’s simply not true, Creirwy . . . I mean, my Lady—’

  She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Forget I am a lady, just keep speaking,’ she appealed, appearing desperate to know his mind.

  ‘You didn’t have to endure donning that form you so despise; you did so to aid us.’

  ‘But I didn’t aid any of you, I made an oath to serve Gwyn ap Nudd, and by so doing have condemned us all to be his puppets.’ She rejected his selfless impression of her.

  ‘So why did you make that pact?’ He didn’t want to pry, but clearly she was in a personal turmoil that was not going to be placated politely.

  ‘Because someone I thought I loved put me up to it.’ The remorse on her face said it all. ‘I am a stupid, stupid girl.’

  Gwion assumed that someone was Owain, and there was no need to pry any further. ‘Such a mistake is only human, it doesn’t make you a monster. Quite the contrary, in fact.’

  The Lady’s smile was forced now as her demeanour was sheathed by sadness. ‘How I wish I was as you see me. Unfortunately, such a wish would be very difficult to solicit and quite heartbreaking to see granted.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ It made Gwion’s heart ache to see her cold face return – but now he realised her indifference masked deep-seated insecurities. Was she secretly still harbouring feelings for the young king? Gwion so wanted to relieve her of whatever was at the core of her woes, and see her smiling and happy always.

  ‘It doesn’t matter . . .’ She resumed her walk back to camp. ‘It is your wellbeing that is of more immediate concern. Restoring thousands of the undead to life is going to take a toll; I can brew a remedy to help you maintain vitality.’

  ‘I am honoured by your concern.’

  ‘I am not prepared to lose you on a young and foolish king’s whim.’ She eyed the path King Owain had taken with contempt. ‘And neither is Mother.’

  Gwion didn’t know what God had smiled upon him to bring him into the favour of the noble family of Llyn Tegid, but he was grateful to have others who cared if he lived or died; he was not alone in the world any more.

  LLYN TEGID

  The healing of the King’s army commenced upon their return to camp.

  One by one, the mind-dulled walking corpses were ordered by their king to kneel before Gwion, and with a touch, his combrogi had their senses and lives restored. It wasn’t long before Gwion fell into a torpor and was forced to recline to perform his duty – drifting in and out of consciousness.

  King Owain and his healer were showered in praise by all those delivered from the abyss, but not everyone was overjoyed by the proceedings.

  ‘We cannot keep going.’ The Lady Tegid lifted Gwion’s head to feed him the stimulating brew that she had been administering to him between every visitor to the chief house.

  ‘I’m not in any pain, I’m just so tired,’ he mumbled – even his lips were too weak to function properly.

  ‘Shh.’ She fed him more of the warm, thick brew – earthy and floral in taste, with a burning bite, that shot him back to consciousness and left him in a delirium once there.

  ‘You can see clearly the drain this has on him . . .’

  Gwion heard her whisper – there wasn’t anything wrong with his hearing.

  ‘These effects could be permanent.’

  His head was gently lowered back onto a pillow.

  ‘He’s not complaining.’

  Was it the King Creirwy was speaking with? Gwion couldn’t get his eyes to focus.

  ‘He has no idea what is happening right now; he’s drugged out of his mind! But when these drugs wear off, I can’t imagine how his depleted form shall ail him.’

  ‘We are over halfway there, he can make it.’

  ‘Let them wai
t a day, give him time to recover some—’

  ‘No. My brother needs aid on Mon yesterday! I cannot delay another day, I need these men and that sword.’

  That was why Brockwell had come – to implore Owain to move his force to the western battlefront.

  ‘You think one man’s life for the sake of Cymru is worth it,’ the Lady outlined. ‘And were this any other man you would be right. But I assure you, no soul on earth is more precious or more anticipated in all the middle kingdoms than this one.’

  ‘If you do not tell me what is so special about this man, how can I make a verdict?’

  ‘I am forbidden to tell you.’ The appeal in her voice made it plain that Creirwy knew it was a weak argument.

  ‘The Night Hunter?’

  ‘Of course. He fears this man reaching his ultimate potential.’

  The King gave half a laugh, sounding unsure if she were joking. ‘What difference will a day make to the result?’

  ‘That is exactly what we need to discern . . .’

  Gwion fought to keep his eyelids from lulling closed – yet as they did, all the banter around him ebbed to blissful silence.

  A great oppressive force bore down on him – as though he’d been buried up to his neck in stones. The ache penetrated deep into his bones, urging Gwion to return to slumber.

  ‘Gwion?’ The Lady Tegid was still by him.

  ‘No singing this time?’ he wheezed, finding his mouth parched and throat sore.

  ‘I was afraid you’d never wake.’ She sounded so concerned that Gwion finally forced his eyelids open, just in time to see the Lady brush a tear from her cheek – if this was just one of the Fey imitating human emotion then it was a superb performance. ‘Here.’ She gently lifted his head and poured water from a bowl into his mouth.

  ‘Ahh . . .’ Although the liquid was welcome, the bones and muscles in the back of his neck screamed in agony from the stretch.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Another tear escaped her eye and fell upon his face as she lowered his head back to resting.

  He had to wonder how long the healing ordeal had lasted and how long he’d been unconscious – the Lady was clearly exhausted. ‘What have you to be sorry for?’

  ‘For allowing the King to abuse your gift like this.’ She set aside the drink and picked up a rag to wipe his face.

  ‘None of us have much say in the King’s decisions.’ The warm, moist cloth felt like heaven upon his skin, and his gratitude welled with every dab upon his face.

  ‘How right you are.’

  ‘So all the soldiers are restored.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sounded none too pleased about that.

  ‘Including the enemy?’

  ‘No.’ Now there was a hint of vindication in her tone. ‘The King plans to kill them all for Gwyn ap Nudd’s soul count.’

  ‘No! He cannot. What if their souls remain trapped in the abyss? He must restore them to their senses first – then slaughter them if he must.’

  ‘The effort would kill you.’ The Lady placed a hand on his shoulder, to urge him against moving.

  ‘The King does not have the sword yet, so will these deaths even count against its tally?’ Gwion’s brain was suddenly reeling.

  ‘I . . . I do not know.’

  ‘Did anyone keep track of the amount of souls I restored?’

  ‘Yes of course—’

  ‘Including Bran?’

  ‘I think so?’

  ‘It would be far better to know exactly when the King’s sword shall fail him, don’t you think?’ Gwion posed.

  Creirwy opened her mouth to respond, and hesitated. ‘To tell you the truth, I really don’t care. He deserves whatever he gets for making such deals in the first place.’

  ‘He is my sovereign,’ Gwion appealed. ‘Help me up, I must see him.’

  ‘No. You are not going anywhere.’ Creirwy stood back and folded her arms. ‘Your beloved sovereign just allowed thirty to forty years to be sucked from your life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at your hands,’ she urged, ‘if you can raise your arms.’

  With some effort he held trembling hands up before his eyes; it was surreal to behold the hands of his father on his person – it felt as if he’d swapped bodies with another man as he slept.

  ‘That’s why you ache so,’ she concluded. ‘You are not just weary from the ordeal, you are old.’

  The shocking news knocked the wind right out of Gwion. He raised his hands to feel his face – the contours and texture were foreign to his touch. His hair was long, grey and wiry. Gwion wished to be out of the Lady’s sight to mourn his lost youth. He may never have been handsome, but he was truly uncomely now.

  ‘It is reversing slowly. But if you attempt to restore our enemies to their former selves, you may not survive it.’

  ‘It was worse than this?’ Gwion was almost suffocating as his good conscience wrestled against his own instinct to survive. ‘You know what? It matters not.’ It was liberating and empowering to push his own ego into the background, or perhaps this was easier done with Creirwy watching. ‘I have to save their souls.’

  ‘Why should you suffer for the King’s mistakes?’ Creirwy shook her head, determined not to allow him to sacrifice himself.

  ‘Well we cannot have the King suffer for his mistakes, or we won’t have a king.’ He held out his hand, appealing for aid to rise.

  ‘Better no king than an imbecile.’ Resigning herself to his request, she gripped Gwion firmly about the wrist, and he did his best to grip hers.

  ‘Oh . . . dear . . . Goddess!’ he droned as he was pulled up to a seated position, every part of his body objecting, his lower back in particular. ‘Shall I need a walking stick, do you think? Crutches maybe?’

  ‘You are a seriously deranged human being.’ She let go of him to place both hands on her hips.

  ‘As are you,’ he awarded and managed to coax a genuine smile out of her, which she immediately suppressed. The Lady was impressed by how quickly he’d recovered from his shocking blow – he could tell; he was rather impressed himself.

  ‘How can you joke? You are gambling with your life!’

  ‘Up until recently my life was just one long scavenge to stay alive. But now I understand that I am not just a fleeting, meaningless speck upon the land. After my father’s death, I wondered why I bothered, but now I have means to ensure that this matter is put to rest in a humane, orderly manner, that is not going to come around and bite us all in the—’

  ‘Future?’ Creirwy filled in the blank nicely.

  ‘Aye, something to that effect.’ Gwion groaned, swinging his legs off the bench he’d been lying on, quietly hoping that standing didn’t hurt as much as sitting did.

  ‘I could bring the King to you—’

  ‘I fear there is no time.’

  ‘You fear he will fob me off until it is too late, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He couldn’t argue with that reasoning.

  ‘I don’t have a walking stick for you at present, so I shall have to suffice.’ The Lady sat beside him and gently slid her arm about his waist while lifting his arm to rest over her shoulder. ‘Ready?’

  For the briefest moment Gwion revelled in being so close to her, but an instant later felt like a dirty old man. She would never look upon him in a romantic way, and that was the hardest part of his sacrifice to accept. ‘I am good . . . let’s hope I haven’t gained weight.’

  As they rose Gwion felt the full impact of his injuries, and had he not had Creirwy for support, he would have hit the floor. Yet she managed to keep him upright. Every step was an effort to stop his knees buckling beneath him as they hobbled towards the exit.

  ‘By the time we get outside it will be summer.’ He made light of their charge to see the King being so painfully slow.

  ‘Are you so impatient to see yourself dead?’

  ‘I am impatient to save the souls of those men. If I die in the process, promise me that you will hide that da
mned cauldron where no man shall ever find it.’

  He looked to Creirwy as they reached the closed flap of the chief house, and she nodded, and bowed her head to hide the tears in her eyes. ‘I will see it done.’

  He suddenly realised why she was so upset and attentive to him. ‘This is not your fault.’

  The statement drew her full attention – her beautiful grey eyes open wide – as though he’d read her mind.

  ‘Ultimately . . . no, it wasn’t. But I played my part.’

  ‘I have more than a sneaking suspicion Gwyn ap Nudd is behind all this mayhem.’

  ‘He wants you dead—’ The Lady gasped at the realisation and moved to retreat back into the chief house. ‘Oh, dear Goddess . . . he set this up beautifully.’

  ‘He is pitting us against each other, and the last thing we should do is cooperate.’ Gwion waylaid her retreat. ‘We just need to be a little smart about our next play.’

  All the undead enemy had been herded into a wooden structure. Owain had intended to set the structure ablaze but thankfully, after Gwion voiced his concerns, the King thought better of it.

  ‘The head count is an issue,’ the King agreed. ‘As no one seems to recall if in the count we have included Bran or not.’

  ‘Then we must recount.’ Gwion watched the young king wince.

  ‘Some of the men revived have fled already,’ Owain outlined the problem. ‘Not that I blame them; they’ve had quite a scare.’

  ‘So already the final fatal blow of your invincible sword is in question. Don’t you see, the Night Hunter wants you to become complicit, so that you will be taken off-guard when your debt to him is repaid.’

  The King mulled this over. ‘I see your onset of old age has not affected your mind, woodsman. So what would you have me do?’

  ‘Be very diligent with counting these men,’ Gwion referred to their captives. ‘They too have had quite a scare and shall be in no hurry to take up arms against the Cymry again. With any luck they will share their tales of horror with their comrades.’

  ‘You want me to let them go?’ The King looked to Gilmore, who was just as bemused.

  ‘Aye . . . it will add souls to your count. The way I see it, the longer you are indebted to Gwyn ap Nudd, the longer you remain living and breathing. It might be your only chance to ween a bit of an advantage from your covenant with the Night Hunter.’