The Silver Hand Read Free Page A

brought a murmur of approval from many standing near. It became clear to me how he had managed to gull his followers and to work Llew’s inspired achievement to his own advantage. He had claimed the gathered fragments of the song-bearing stones and had made of them a talisman of power.
    â€œYour courage is misplaced,” I told them. “The Song of Albion is not a weapon.”
    Siawn’s sword flicked out, the blade a streak in the shimmering torchlight. He leaned close and pressed the point against my throat. “We have other weapons,” he hissed, his breath hot in my face.
    His threat was rash and reckless. The people surged around us, uncertain which way to go. Attacking a bard before his people could only bring disaster. But Meldron, with his heavy-handed authority— backed by Siawn Hy and the Wolf Pack—had them cowed. They did not know whom to believe anymore, or whom to trust.
    I regarded Siawn Hy with icy contempt. “Kill me now,” I taunted. “For Meldron will never be king.”
    Siawn forced the sword point deeper. I could feel his strength gathering behind the point. The blade bit into my flesh. I gripped my staff and made ready to strike.
    A voice cried out from the crowd. “Look!”
    Another shouted. “The cairn!”
    Siawn’s eyes shifted to the grave mound. Surprise replaced malice and the blade faltered.
    I glanced toward the hilltop. In the torchlight I saw something move inside the cairn. A trick of fickle light , I thought; a flicker of flame, the smoke swirl from the upraised torches. I made to turn away but saw it again . . . something up there . . . moving in the darkness . . .
    As we strained forward, all saw the form of a man emerging from the cairn.
    A woman cried: “It is the king!”
    â€œThe king!” the people gasped. “The king lives!”
    A tremor of fear and wonder shivered through the host.
    In truth, I thought it was the king returned to life. But the thought vanished at once. It was not Meldryn Mawr struggling back to life.
    The man stepped from the grave mound, straightened, and began striding down the Hill of Kings toward us. I caught the golden glint of the champion’s ring on his finger.
    â€œLlew!” I shouted. “It is Llew! Llew has returned!”
    The name of Llew rippled through the gathered throng. “Llew . . . it is Llew . . . Do you see him? Llew!”
    Truly, the Otherworld traveler had returned. The Llwyddi melted before him, forming a shining path as he passed among them. He looked neither right nor left, but advanced with resolute steps down the hillside.
    I watched him and saw how the sight of him both astonished and heartened the people: they hailed him; hands stretched to touch him; torches were lofted before him. “Llew! Llew!” they shouted; how easily his name leapt to the tongue.
    I watched him striding down from the Kings’ Hill on the radiant way, and I thought to myself: On this frame the Swift Sure Hand may yet stitch a king.

2

R ETURN OF THE H ERO
    G reetings, brother,” I said, as Llew came to stand before me. I would have embraced him as a kinsman, but his jaw was set and there was dread purpose in his eye. “I am glad to see you.”
    He offered no greeting, but confronted Siawn Hy. “It is over,” he said—though he spoke quietly, his words were unyielding—“Put away that sword. We are going home.”
    Siawn Hy stiffened. The blade in his hand swung instantly from my throat to Llew’s. But Llew grasped the naked blade with his bare hand and jerked it aside.
    â€œTake him!” shouted Meldron, reaching for his knife.
    A dozen spears swung towards Llew. But the spearheads, still wrapped in their cloth coverings, wavered uncertainly. The warriors of Meldron’s Wolf Pack obeyed, although they were reluctant to assault their own champion. The crowd surged dangerously, pressing more closely; some shouted defiance