The Bwy Hir Complete Trilogy (77 page)

‘What did he say?’ Gwyn asked Anwen.

She swallowed before answering. ‘He says the dragon is coming.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Mab sat on her dais as she let the debate rage beneath her. The Pride were content to squabble and debate their opinions and Mab was content to let them. Only Olwyn, her daughter Blodwyn and Gwenllian remained silent. The Tylwyth Teg were conspicuous by their absence as was Taliesin.

Gwenllian sat
alone by the fire pit, feeding the flames while Olwyn sat nearby cradling Blodwyn on her knee, her attention focused on the skyline past the trees. No lanterns had been lit. The canopy above their heads was dark and heavy. Only the orange flicker of the fire lit the hollow, the crackling and spitting of the logs the only sound.

‘Can you feel anything?’ Gwenllian whispered
as he lifted another log onto the flames.

Olwyn closed her eyes
. ‘Power is being wielded. I cannot tell where or by whom … I saw a dragon circling high in the distance; the Host are searching … You have a gift with the Powlen ysbryd, Gwenllian Gwiddon?’

Gwenllian nodded
. ‘Usually I can use a Spirit bowl but the Ysbrydion have impeded me thus far – I tried earlier with little success.’

Olwyn turned her head to inspect the bent old woman s
itting in the firelight. At first the old woman had repulsed Olwyn; she was so withered, so old and wasted. Olwyn knew she was much, much older than the little woman sitting in front of her and that had made her sad; sad that Humans had such a short diminishing lifespan. Instead of repulsion Olwyn now felt compassion and a strange kinship. ‘Will you try again? We need to know what transpires on the outside.’

Gwenllian pressed her crinkled lips together and absently rubbed a gnarled finger over her bandaged hand that itched furiously under its dressing
. ‘I could try, I suppose, but if there are Ysbrydion in the waters then I’ll not attempt it.’

‘I can ask no more of y
ou,’ Olwyn replied graciously before raising her voice over the gathered Pride. ‘We have one who could consult the Powlen ysbryd – no other here has such talent – we should see what it reveals before any decisions are made.’

The Pride turned their hushed attention to Olwyn before fixing their eyes on Gwenllian. Their stares were akin to that of a hunter’s and Gwenllian folded her arms protectively.
‘I’ll go and fetch the bowl from Awel’s pavilion then shall I?’ 

She didn’t wait for a reply; she leaned over the fire pit and selected a branch only burning on one end and limped up the pathway grumbling and muttering under her breath
, pausing to catch her breath as she wheezed on her way leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.

On reaching the pavilion she set her torch to one of the unlit positioned on either side of the entrance, casting aside the burning branch and rolling it underfoot to extinguish the flame; it would not be well to set fire to the Dell while the Pride were away.

Holding the silken door flap aside she squinted into the dim interior; the Bwy Hir may have eyes as sharp as a cat but she did not and so could discern nothing in the darkness, taking another step forward her foot knocked into something and looking down she saw the outline of a lantern. With relief she retrieved it, lit the candle and stepped inside.

She hobbled to the back of the tent and entered the partitioned chamber to find everything was where she had left it. Her embroidered maps and crystal w
ere returned neatly to their wooden box, the vellum maps rolled up but stacked at hand ready for use and the bowl was still sitting on the table covered by a cloth. Setting the lantern down next to the bowl she lifted the cloth and peered inside. All quiet. Good.

Realising she would need to remove the water before carrying both the bowl and the lantern back to the fire pit, Gwenllian looked around for a suitable receptacle, only then did she notice the lid to her box was slightly ajar, a corner of embroidered map stopping the lid from closing fully. She scurried to the other side of the table, opened the lid and checked the contents: Anwen’s hair was missing.

Feeling unnerved and suddenly wary of the shadows she closed the box, placed the bowl on top, lifting them both in her arms and grabbed the lantern awkwardly with her good hand as it bounced spitefully against her knuckles. She scurried back to the comfort of company and a warm fire.

Setting the lantern down
on the edge of the fire pit alongside her box, Gwenllian busied herself in the preparation of the scrying bowl, setting it gently on the ground and filling it nearly to the rim from a wooden bucket set by the fire pit. Finally, when she felt she was ready she drew a circle around the bowl and knelt down within it, her aching bones grinding in protest. The Pride looked on with fascination, Mab leaned forward on her dais and waited expectantly.

Gwenllian looked to the skies, gauged the position of the moon and the stars and then closed her eyes. ‘
To the North,’ she said, lifting both her arms and leaning over the bowl, "I invoke from the North the strength and stability of Earth. I welcome you into my circle and ask your guidance and protection.’ She leaned to her right. ‘I invoke from the East the creativity and inspiration of Air. I welcome you into my circle and ask your guidance and protection.’ She leaned slightly backward, her face flinching in pain as her coiled back halted her movement. ‘I invoke from the South the vitality and passion of Fire. I welcome you into my circle and ask your guidance and protection.’ Finally, she leaned to her left. ‘I invoke from the West the wisdom and healing of Water. I welcome you into my circle and ask your guidance and protection.’

She dropped her arms as she opened her eyes and leaned over the bowl, peering within
its silvery surface. No Ysbrydion swam through the depths but still the water appeared cloudy, less than before, but definite wisps of mist hung deep within the bowl.

The Pride
waited and watched. Never before had they seen scrying performed in such a way. Most had no gift for it, only Awel had any real talent but she never used such rituals. ‘What can you see, Gwenllian Gwiddon?’ Mab called.

‘I see fire
… and the Cwn Annwn rushing, galloping ahead of the flames … smoke and fire in their wake …’ Her words were rushed and low, her eyes wide and searching. ‘There he is!’ her voice rose and the Pride gasped. ‘He comes in fury and desperation with death in his eyes! Foul, terrible beast, horned and twisted, bloodied and hateful … he searches, he searches!’

‘What for – whom for?’
Mab leaned so far forward she looked like she might topple over. ‘Who does he seek?’

‘He is close. He can smell their fear. Closer
… closer …’

‘Tell me, Gwiddon!’
Mab demanded. ‘Who is he seeking? Who will he find?’

Gwenllian closed her eyes and leaned back from the bowl, exasperation lacing her words
. ‘The water has cleared.’

‘Look again
– I must know!’ Mab was desperate. ‘Look again. Has he found the child?’

‘
I do not know. The bowl is dark. It is over. I may not look again.’ Gwenllian slowly heaved herself to her feet and shuffled around the circle, rubbing it out with her foot before tipping the water out of the bowl to seep into the soil. ‘It is done.’

‘Then use your map,’ Mab commanded, ‘show me where Atgas is.
Show me Anwen Morgan.’

‘I do not know for certain whether the arrowhead reveals Atgas or Cadno – not for certain,’ Gwenllian snapped back, vexed at being ordered about like a servant. ‘And as for Anwen Morgan, someone has stolen her hair from my box and so I am blind to her.’ Gwenllian did not know whether the collective gasp was for the way she spoke to Mab Rhedyn Haf or because of the theft. Either way she felt inferior and outnumbered.

Mab held her temper, although she could have easily given Gwenllian a dressing down; a sister of the Gwrachod
or not. ‘Use the arrowhead for where Cadno is – Atgas will not be far behind. As for Anwen Morgan … if you cannot find her, then find my son, he too will not be far behind her.’ She held up a small silver button between her forefinger and thumb. ‘I tore it from his shirt earlier, use it as you will.’

Gwenllian limped forward, took the button and returned to the clearing she had made for herself by the fire pit. She set the box and the lantern down on the ground, sat down on her knees and spread the map out. ‘While I’m at it, do you have anything belonging to the Tylwyth Teg – I am keen to know where they have vanished to.’

Mab smiled without mirth. ‘The Tylwyth Teg can look after themselves…’ All heads swivelled in her direction but Mab remained stony and silent. ‘Begin; find me my son,’ she commanded.

Gwenllian ground her teeth and bent to her work.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Awel had been harried and herded by a pack of Cwn Annwn hounds. More annoyed than fearful of their presence, she had tried to shake them, even tried to scare them, but they persisted on her trail, always at a distance, always just out of reach, baying and barking. She knew that they in turn were being hunted; an occasional yelp of pain would erupt from amongst the barking and they would grow quiet for a few moments before commencing their infernal yapping once more.

Taliesin. She knew it was him, just as she had known he would follow her. Aeron would be furious when he found out he had disobeyed him, but for now Aeron was distracted, hunting a quarry of his own. Awel had seen the smoke billowing across the mountainside, gauze bushes and fir trees alight as the hill fire consumed all in its path, causing a smokescreen for Arawn and Atgas to hide beneath, away from the hunting eyes of the dragon-backed Host. It would rain soon; Aeron would counter their smokescreen. The gathering storm clouds had blotted out the moon and stars and the sky hung heavy and dark, weighted by clouds and wood smoke.

Another yelp. Another moment of silence. Four hounds down, how many more left? The baying resumed, more urgent, more desperate. She would have to turn and fight them, she had wasted too much time already and she was still a distance away from meeting Anwen despite it being well past nightfall. With a curse Awel pressed her back against the rugged bark of a tall pine tree and turned to face the oncoming Cwn Annwn. She was not particularly strong in any element; she could wield small bolts of lightning or summon a gust of wind, she could make it rain if she so chose – not like Aeron, she was far weaker than him – but she felt confident that her powers were a match for a pack of hunting dogs.

Awel gritted her teeth, her right hand gripped her staff halfway down its shaft ready to strike any beast that managed to get too close and her left hand was bunched in a fist ready to release a bolt of lightning as soon as they came in clear sight. They came closer. She had only seen them once before, at a distance and they were bigger than she had anticipated. They came straight towards her, six of them weaving between the trees, shadows in shadows, howling, snarling and barking. There was no pause, no slow advance, no stalking of their prey; they came bounding towards her, teeth bared, ears pressed flat against their huge rearing heads, ferocious and triumphant.

Her heart fluttered as the first one bounded towards her, its wide barrel chest heaving with exertion, its huge paws spraying soil in its wake, teeth bared and foam flying from its maw as it strained to be the first to reach her. She struck without hesitation, lightning arced from her fingers hitting the beast at the very centre of its prosternum. It yelped and reared back before collapsing in a quivering heap only to be replaced by a second and then a third hound; Awel was out numbered.

Panic welled up inside her as she struck another then another; they were coming too fast. Three left. One veered to the right, another to the left leaving the third to attack her head on. She knew she was about to be attacked from three sides and she knew that one was going to succeed in reaching her: she had made a mistake in turning to face them.

They attacked together; the first from head on which she easily slew, the second from the right she managed to land a wicked blow on its jaw with the butt of her staff, but the third, lunged in from her left, seized her outstretched arm in its huge jaws and dragged her downwards as it clenched its jaw mercilessly and used its brute strength to push her backwards. Awel felt her wrist bones grinding against one another, felt the stinging bite of its teeth, the thump of her head hitting the forest floor and a pressure on her chest as the Cwn Annwn stood on top of her, clenching its jaws tighter, violently shaking its head from left to right, ragging and tearing at Awel’s arm as it growled and snarled.

She was pinned. Her right arm was trapped beneath her, her legs flailed uselessly as she struggled to free herself. Blood dripped down her arm as the Cwn Annwn clenched its jaw tighter, yanking its head back and pressing its weight down on her chest. Awel shrieked as it clawed and mauled, fought against it, struggled and writhed, but the hound held fast.

Thunk
. The first arrow hit the Cwn Annwn just above the shoulder, but it held fast to her arm, refusing to let go.
Thunk
. The second arrow pierced through its chest and still it clung on, growling, snarling.
Thunk
. The third arrow punched through its hind leg and it stumbled backwards, releasing Awel’s arm.
Thunk
. The final arrow thumped into its neck. There was no yelp nor whimper, it just swayed silently as it stared into the darkness with its evil, calculating black eyes before its legs buckled underneath it and it collapsed, slowly rolling onto its side, its huge head landing on Awel’s legs.

She kicked it away, clutching her ruined wrist to her chest as she shuffled backwards, struggling to sit upright. Taliesin rushed to her side. ‘Awel, you are hurt!’

‘It’s looks worse than it is,’ Awel lied. ‘Help me up.’ Taliesin gently lifted her to her feet. Her arm throbbed from her wrist to her shoulder, she felt like she was on fire although her fingers felt strangely numb. Without looking at the damage, Awel carefully slipped her hand into her robe and allowed the fabric to take the weight of her forearm. Blood began to seep through, a crimson stain spreading through the warp and weft of the cream wool.

‘Awel, it looks serious.’ Taliesin’s face was whitewashed in the moonlight. ‘You need to get it healed.’

Awel shook her head and motioned for him to retrieve her staff from the ground. ‘I’ve told you, it looks worse than it is. We must get to Anwen; my wrist can wait.’

Taliesin reluctantly passed Awel her staff. ‘Awel…’

‘Are you coming with me or not?’ Awel snapped as she began an unsteady march towards her goal.

‘Yes, if for no other reason than to catch you when you fall flat on your face.’ Taliesin followed her path. ‘And there is no need to thank me for killing the Cwn Annwn.’

Awel didn’t respond; she kept her back to him as she weaved through the trees, keen to keep her ashen face hidden from him, the searing pain a secret, at least until she knew Anwen and the child were safe.

For the remainder of their journey they stayed silent, listening, watching for any hint of ambush beneath the inky darkness of the silent forest. A low mist curled around their ankles as the first pitter-patter of raindrops hit the dull green canopy above their heads.

By the time they crossed the open field between the forest and church’s boundary wall they were soaked to the skin; the drizzle had turned into a rainstorm that squalled and battered its way across the valley.

Awel was growing weak. Her robes were soaked, the rainwater blending with her blood until they were stained pink from waist to hem. She felt cold, sluggish and heavy-footed as she scrambled over the wall into the graveyard. ‘Something is wrong,’ she mumbled, ‘I can feel it. Anwen is gone.’

Taliesin sprinted to the church, threw open the door and stepped inside. ‘Anwen? Gwyn Morgan?’ Silence greeted him.

‘Taliesin!’ Awel called from the church yard, ‘Come quickly.’ He rushed to join her. She stood between the gravestones, her staff resting in the crook of her elbow, a wan, feeble globe of light above her outstretched hand. ‘Look at this.’

The charred, shrivelled remains of a Human lay at the foot of a gravestone, black and hideously slick and shiny as the rain hammered down. ‘Who is it?’ Taliesin was horrified.

Awel shook her head and raised her voice to be heard over the hissing of the rainfall. ‘I do not know, but this is the result of a powerful wielding.’ She pointed towards the car park and Gary’s abandoned vehicle. ‘There has been violence here. Either Druids were here and this carcass is Gwyn Morgan,’ she said, shuddering at the possibility, ‘or Anwen has learned to wield the elements and this carcass was her enemy … or a multitude of other possibilities. We are too late.’

Taliesin hunched his shoulders as the rain pelted down. ‘If Gwyn Morgan is still alive and with Anwen, they will go home. We must travel to Ty Mawr Farm and check there before we give up hope.’

Awel swayed as her globe winked out and Taliesin placed a steadying hand at her elbow. ‘I need to get you back to the Dell, Awel. First the Dell and then I will travel to Ty Mawr Farm.’

‘No. Go straight to Ty Mawr, Taliesin, as fast as your legs will carry you.’ Awel leaned heavily on her staff. ‘If they are there spirit them away to the safety of the Dell, if not Elder Chosen Glyn-Guinea will be there waiting, tell him what has happened and return here to me.’

‘I won’t leave you.’ Taliesin set his jaw stubbornly. ‘We go together.’

Awel sighed. ‘Speed is of the essence. You will travel much faster alone...’

‘I will not leave you.’ Taliesin crossed his arms. ‘We are wasting time, Awel. Come, we go together.’

‘I am hurt, Tali.’ Awel closed her eyes for a brief moment, raised her head towards the sky and let the rain wash away her tears. ‘Go. Find Anwen and the child.’

Taliesin shook his head.

‘Do as I tell you, Tali!’ Awel barked at him with all the command she could muster. ‘Go. Now.’

She held his gaze, daring him to defy her. Finally he dropped his head, slung his bow across his shoulders, turned away from her and loped off into the darkness.

‘Run, Tali!’ she called after him, ‘run like the wind!’

On shaky legs she took sanctuary in the church, dipped her head under the low doorway, hesitating for a moment as the hush of the interior enveloped her before entering fully to escape the deluge that raged outside. The church was as she expected it to be; crude lime-washed walls met with a rough slate decked floor, the sparse wooden furnishing and mean alter were hewn by no master craftsmen, only the vaulted roof spars spoke of any artistry.

‘Llanrhychwyn.’ Her voice sounded loud to her ears. The name of the church had triggered a long forgotten memory; the name of the church was taken from a Chosen named Rhocwyn. In his veins the blood of the Welsh princes had flowed, his lineage was exalted and faithful to the Triskele until the Cristions from across the seas had arrived and Rhocwyn had swallowed their   credos and was zealous in his new found beliefs.

His father, Helig, held a large swathe of land that bordered the sea until a ferocious tide swooped in and enveloped his lands and his palace where he drowned. Rhocwyn was convinced that God had sent the sea as punishment for their dealings with the Triskele and the Bwy Hir. To appease his God Rhocwyn had set about squandering his fortune on building churches in the hope of his redemption. And yet, whether through duty or doubt he kept his place amongst the Chosen and included the Cerdd Carega in the walls of the churches, for after all, are the Bwy Hir not celestial? Awel shook her head. ‘Did you find heaven Rhocwyn ap Helig ap Glannog ap Gwgon?’

The church door swung inwards and a bright light fell upon Awel’s face. ‘My God!’ the voice behind the torch breathed, ‘An angel!’ Awel’s eyebrows twitched as the man fell to his knees. ‘I heard gun shots,’ he stammered, ‘I came to … I came to…’

‘Peace, Cristion.’ Awel drew herself up to her full height. ‘Have no fear for I am here with a blessing, but first I need two things from you.’

‘Anything. Anything,’ the man babbled and he clutched his torch between his palms as if praying.

Awel nodded in satisfaction. ‘First I need you to shine your torch away from me as it hurts my eyes.’ He immediately put his torch on the floor pointing away from her. ‘Secondly, I will need your shirt.’ The man blinked twice but then began to hurriedly remove his jacket and then his shirt, fumbling with the buttons until he knelt there shivering in his vest.

Awel held out her good hand and he shuffled forward on his knees to pass her his shirt. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as she took the shirt from his outstretched hand and began binding it tightly around her ravaged wrist.

‘You are hurt?’ His voice warbled as he shuffled closer.

‘’Tis nothing.’ She waved him away. ‘And now, good Cristion, I will bless thee.’ She outstretched her hand and gently touched his upturned head. His eyes were wide with fear and elation. As her fingers touched his brow his eyes flickered closed and he toppled to the floor. Awel disliked “the touching” but she needed him to forget seeing her. ‘Sleep well and wake unwitting.’

She could no longer remain in the church; it would be only a matter of time before others came to investigate the gun shots. His mention of guns made her rethink her previous supposition; guns were Chosen weapons, not Druids. She pursed her lips. Liz Jones’ home was closer than Ty Mawr Farm, she would travel there first, seek aid from her and her Chosen husband whom she knew were closer friends of the Morgans and then onto Ty Mawr Farm. Perhaps the Jones’ would be able to shed light on where Anwen Morgan had disappeared to.

She stepped over the sleeping man, dipped her head under the doorway and slipped back into the rain.