This Present Past

By Traci Harding

The long-awaited prequel to Traci Harding's much-loved Ancient Future series

In Ancient Wales, Gwion Bach, a simple woodsman, becomes enchanted by the fey beauty Creirwy during a brush with the Sons of the Long Knives. He earns Creirwy's trust, and tthat of her mother, the goddess Keridwen, and is offered an apprenticeship at their castell in Llyn Tegid.

As Gwion discovers an enchanting new world of magic, the goddess is busy brewing a potion of prophetic insight and esoteric wisdom, destined for her monstrous son. However, an ill-timed accident provides an unexpected result. What transpires is an unforgettable shapeshifting battle that will spark rebellion and threaten to bring the downfall of all the kingdoms of Cymru.

In this thrilling and epic adventure spanning generations, Traci Harding finally reveals the origins of the Ancient Future series and how Gwion Bach rose from humble beginnings to become Taliesin, grand merlin and magician.

PRAISE FOR THE ANCIENT FUTURE

'A stunning achievement of world-class fantasy' KYLIE CHAN

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781460708101

Traci Harding

Traci Harding is one of Australia's best loved and most prolific authors. Her stories blend fantasy, fact, esoteric belief, time travel and quantum physics, into adventurous romps through history, alternative dimensions, universes and states of consciousness. She has published more than 20 bestselling books and been translated into several languages. 

Book preview

DEDICATION

For John –

my lad,

my cariad

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When I finished AWOL – book three of the Timekeepers trilogy – the twelfth book that completed the Ancient Future epic series, I naively assumed the stories of the Chosen were finally complete, and so for fun, I asked my followers on Facebook if they wanted to ask the characters any questions. When it came to asking Taliesin questions, I realised so much of his story was still untold – the story of his origins as Gwion Bach was of particular interest, yet far too complex to be explained in a simple character interview. Thus the idea of a prequel was born.

Many thanks to my readers for birthing another tale in this time-hopping series, for spreading the word about my work, and your lovely words of encouragement. In the writing I realise there are many other parts of Taliesin’s life and other characters’ stories still to be told, and perhaps one day I’ll write them, too. Still, many unanswered questions from the Ancient Future have been answered in Gwion’s story, and I hope you enjoy discovering the history and legends of these characters as much as I did.

Thanks to the fabulous team at HarperCollins; my editor, Susan Moran; and my agent, Selwa Anthony, for your continued support, aid and belief in me – after twenty-one books and just as many years, it is still the greatest pleasure to work with you all.

To my wonderful family, friends, and business cohorts, who have seen me through some big moves this year, you’ve all helped to make the transitions easier; you fill my life with joy and inspiration. Many blessings for your help, patience and most excellent company.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Characters

Months and Festivals

The Thirteen Treasures of Britain

North Wales (Cymru)

PROLOGUE — FULL DISCLOSURE

PART 1 — SONS OF THE LONG KNIVES

Lady of Mists

The Living Dead

The Covenants of Gwyn ap Nudd

Llyn Tegid

Dyrnwyn

PART 2 — A TROVE OF TREASURES

Brewing

Birth of a Monster

Viroco

Timeous Traps

Wish List

PART 3 — LEX TALIONIS

A Dream of Bright Fish

One Day Every Full Moon

Beloved of Ten Thousand Years

The Shining Brow

Thrice Born

EPILOGUE — THE COHORT

Welsh Terms, Place Names and Meanings

About the Author

Also by Traci Harding

Copyright

CHARACTERS

THE AGE OF OWAIN

The Woodsman – Gwion (Bach) son of Gwreang

King of Rhos, Gwynedd and Powys – Owain Ddantgwyn

The Lord of the Otherworld – Gwyn ap Nudd

The Witch of Lake Tegid – Keridwen

Keridwen’s son – Morvran ab Tegid

Keridwen’s daughter – Creirwy (Lady Tegid)

Keridwen’s giant husband – Tacitus (Lord Tegid)

Keridwen’s assistant – Morda

King Owain’s champion – Gilmore

King Owain’s messenger – Madoc

Madoc’s squire – Tiernan

Bastard King of Powys – Chiglas

King Owain’s betrothed – Ganhumara of Oswestry, daughter of Gogyrfran

Ruler of the Cornovii – Gogyrfran

Ruler of Gwynedd and Mon – Caswallon – the Dragon of the Isle

Wife of Caswallon – Meddyf verch Maeldaf

Son of Caswallon – Maelgwn

Maelgwn’s squire – Selwyn

Sister of Owain, Caswallon and Cadfer – Lady Gladys

Betrothed to Gladys – Cyngen Brockwell

Son of Brockwell – Calin

Daughter of Brockwell – Sanan

Ruler of the Eryri – Cadfer

Warlord of the Saxons – Hengist

Hengist’s brother – Horsa

Young bard at Viroco – Neiryn

Neiryn’s mentor – Talhaiarn

Male servant at Viroco – Iolo

Iolo’s wife – Sain

Blind maiden – Morwyn

Keridwen’s horse – Caston

Gwion’s horse – Moonlight

Arch-traitor of Cymru – Gwtheyrn

Gwyn ap Nudd’s sylphs:

Amabel

Phrixa

Sose

Actaea

Triteia

THE AGE OF MAELGWN

King of Meirion – Gwyddno Garanhir

Prince of Meirion – Elphin

Elphin’s wife – Sanan

Elphin’s daughter – Melanghel

Keeper of the Floodgates – Seithenyn

King of Gwynedd – Maelgwn

Prince of Gwynedd – Rhun

Queen of Gwynedd – Vanora

Gwynedd’s champion – Sir Tiernan

The Old Bard of Llyn Tegid – Neiryn

Neiryn’s novice – Myrddin

Maelgwn’s squire – Selwyn

THE THIRTEEN TREASURES OF BRITAIN

The Flaming Sword

The Intelligent Game Board

The Basket of Plenty

The Lightning Chariot

The Thirst Quenchers

The Great Horse Catcher

The Blade of Swiftness

The Heroes’ Cauldron

The Tunic of Holiness

The Sharpening Stone

The Feasting Crock

The Cloak of Concealment

The Ring of Invisibility

PROLOGUE

FULL DISCLOSURE

On the threshold of divulging the tale of Gwion Bach, I, Taliesin, confess to having told a few white lies about this period of my life. I have changed names, time periods, and withheld information about my past – for reasons that will become obvious with this disclosure. In truth, I have never told the full story of my origins to any – not even my most trusted confidants. To do so would have put my own existence, and the lives and evolution of others dear to me, at risk. Even I remained ignorant of some of the repercussions of my involvement in these events, until I evolved enough to access the eternal memory of this universal scheme, which in Sanskrit is known as Akasha. It was on the advice of Keridwen, the goddess who had a vested interest in my illumination, that I remained tight-lipped about our time together. This was not out of fear of my own undoing so much as the undoing of all that the Chosen Ones had and would achieve. The backlash that might result from the exposure of such details at that crucial time in our evolution overruled any need for honesty. Yet now, as all the parties involved have ascended beyond any such risk, I do swear to give an honest account of my origins. In so doing, it is my intention to fill some of the voids in the account of my life and add to the insight contained within the histories of the Chosen Ones, recorded for prosperity in the great Chronicle of Ages.

PART 1

SONS OF THE LONG KNIVES

LADY OF MISTS

In a desolate clearing in the wood she stood sentinel, with no weapon save her majestic appearance and her dulcet voice. The Lady did not avail herself of any words that might hint at her origins, but rather used a mixture of hummed notes and stirring vocal tones. Her song resounded through the chilly silence of the clear dawn, with such majesty that one imagined she was summoning the Gods unto earth.

The strange, sultry allure of her soulful song ignited a fire in Gwion’s chest and even in his current predicament, her gift commanded calm and awe.

‘Be still.’ The words were hissed into his ear as Gwion was held firmly from behind. One huge hand was clamped over his mouth, and a strong arm wrapped about him, restraining both his arms and his body easily. The man who now held Gwion’s life in his hands must have been massive and his body radiated an extraordinary amount of heat. Despite the chill of the morn, Gwion had not felt so warmed in a long time!

‘Just watch.’ The gravelly tenor of his captor’s whisper sent a paralysing fear shooting through the lad and he ceased to struggle.

Ambush was a new experience; Gwion was usually more cautious, cunning and nimble. He’d been collecting kindling to bundle and barter from the woods outside of Llanfair all his young life. Right in the middle of the lands of the Cymry, his village was about as safe a place as could be found in what had once been Roman Briton. This place had been spared from the eastern raiders, and from the plunder of the folk of the winter isle to the north-west. But hard times made a thief of otherwise good men, so it was his practice to keep his wits about him. Gwion’s father, Gwreang, had taught him how to extract a merchant living out of the mountains and woods along the Afon Banwy, and Gwion had continued to make a livelihood from the forest since his father’s death the previous winter. But this morning, when Gwion heard that beautiful voice, his sensibilities had fled and he’d blindly wandered straight into the arms of a brute twice his size.

The young woodsman’s heart was racing with such intensity that he could feel it beating in his throat, where it threatened to suffocate him – if his captor didn’t first. Had the Saxon raiders he’d heard tell of finally infiltrated the very heart of Cymru? Was he being held by one right now? Or was his attacker one of the resistance who called themselves the Sons of the Long Knives? He’d been inspired by the stories of their exploits as recently as two days before, when a bard had stopped a few nights in Llanfair.

The bard’s name was Talhaiarn, and he first recounted a tale from the past that told of the horde of invaders led by Hengist, who hailed from Saxony. This warlord had tricked his way into landholdings on the eastern side of the island by offering peace and his beautiful daughter to a gullible and self-indulgent local ruler. The event was known as the Brad y Cyllyll Hirion – ‘The Treachery of the Long Knives’. All Gwion’s combrogi still cursed the name of Gwtheyrn for leading over three hundred local nobles to Saxon slaughter under the premise of a treaty feast. Only the traitor was spared from having his throat cut. In exchange for all Gwtheyrn’s eastern lands, Hengist permitted the traitor to flee with his wives and children into the lands of his combrogi. Gwtheyrn headed deep into Dyfed, where he built a castle. It was at the new citadel that the traitor met his fiery end at the hands of a local warlord, who was something of a mystery. Emrys Wledig they called him – both words honorific titles that distinguished the man as Cymry royalty, but the double title suggested more that he was the King of Kings. This man led the Sons of the Long Knives, and was so fearless and formidable in hunting down his enemy that he was also known as the Great Bear – or ‘Arth’ as it was pronounced in the local tongue. The bard claimed it was the Arth who had orchestrated Gwtheyrn’s untimely demise to avenge the noble Cymry slaughtered on the night of the Long Knives. The storyteller also averred that the wrath that buried Gwtheyrn’s castle was Otherworldly in origin and it was the Arth who dared bargain a price with Gwyn ap Nudd, Lord of the Otherworld, for his supernatural assistance.

Gwion loved to hear tales from beyond his tiny part of the world, yet he’d never quite plucked up the courage to venture into territory unfamiliar. Now, restrained by a giant that he’d yet to even catch sight of, Gwion was horrified to realise that the unfamiliar had come for him.

The dawn breeze lifted and whipped the long silvery strands of the Lady’s hair about her as she sang, and the sight was spellbinding. Her pale complexion was in vast contrast to her long black gown, which fit her slender frame snugly from neck to hips, where it flared wide and fell to the ground. Gwion thought she was the most divine vision his eyes had ever beheld. More than a noble woman or even a queen, this lady had an Otherworldly beauty that he imagined was more akin to a goddess, or a sprite of the Tylwyth Teg.

‘Don’t be glamoured by the siren’s song,’ his captor advised, ‘it is a requiem.’

Gwion was bemused by the warning, and began to suspect his ambush was just a byproduct of a much larger operation.

Along the treeline on the far side of the clearing, men began to emerge boldly from the cover of the forest – unkempt men, shouting in a foreign tongue and making obscene gestures at the lady in black. Clearly, her opposition suspected a trap, and at first none seemed willing to risk coming forth to claim the beauty.

The lone songstress was completely unfazed by the threat, and invited the lecherous desires of the men before her, beckoning them and urging them to act on their threats.

At length a goodly number of the hairy men banded together to venture into the open clearing to claim their prize.

Once they were closer to her than the cover of the woodland, mist rose from the ground, obscuring the songstress as it spread rapidly across the entire field. The beautiful voice fell silent and an eerie hush fell upon the vale; even the dawn call of the native birds was absent.

‘Time to go scare people.’ His captor released him and Gwion was finally awarded a look at the hulk of a man.

The warrior’s skin was deep red, as if he bled from every pore of his muscle-bound form. His was the face of a monster, with horns protruding from his forehead and eyes as black as a moonless night. Dressed only in trousers and a vest, he was clearly not bothered by the cold. He grinned in parting, revealing teeth pointed and sharp like a canine.

What was it? And why was it here? Gwion backed away a few paces and would have screamed were he not petrified of drawing more unwanted attention to himself. He feared for a moment that the creature might mean the Lady harm. But his thoughts returned to his own welfare as the forest around him began to stir.

An army of men crawled silently out from beneath piles of leaves on the ground; they crept from bushes, emerged from shadows, and shimmied down ropes from the trees above.

It was a Cymry force. Even covered in leaves, dirt and camouflage, their clothes, ornate weaponry, clean-shaved faces, and hair cuts marked them as such – his combrogi took great pride in their appearance, a trait absent in the Saxons. Gwion watched the warriors file past him, paying him no mind as they followed the monster into the whitewashed landscape. From within the mist a din arose: of war cries, weapons clashing, and the blood-curdling shrill of horrified men as they sped towards death.

As the fighters filed into the haze, the lady in black exited the confrontation she’d instigated, wearing a half-grin of satisfaction.

‘Out of the way!’

Gwion, alarmed by the order that came from behind him, quickly side-stepped towards a large tree.

An unusually short and stocky fellow went charging past him on foot, propelling a small cart in front of him. The lady in black also stepped aside for him.

‘My Lady Tegid.’ The fellow thanked her with a nod on his way past.

‘Morda,’ she casually acknowledged him as he ploughed into the mist after the war band.

As Gwion was now the only man outside the haze, he caught and held the attention of the beautiful lady. What was her perception of him? he wondered. He felt he must have appeared pathetic, standing around, no weapons, no armour, no reason for being.

‘Are they yours, woodsman?’

Gwion was so honoured that she would speak with him that his mind couldn’t comprehend what she’d said. ‘Sorry, my Lady?’

She was pointing to something on the ground by his feet and looking down he found the bundle of branches he’d gathered earlier and strapped together for transporting home. ‘They are.’ He was rather deflated to admit that he’d only brought kindling to a sword fight. It was green kindling at that, which he planned to store and cure before using it for barter.

‘Bring it, and follow me,’ she instructed congenially.

Once the shock had washed over him, Gwion jumped to the task, grabbing the bunch of branches to follow the Lady. ‘What is going on?’ he asked as he caught up and kept pace with her.

‘The battle for your homeland.’

‘Who are you?’ He’d asked before he’d even realised he’d seized the opportunity.

‘I am hired muscle.’ She hinted a grin and led him down a slight embankment into a small protected gully, from which smoke rose.

Gwion imagined it might be the war band’s base camp – he was wrong.

There was a witch, old and haggard, presiding over a huge golden cauldron. So large was the vessel that she had to stand on the incline of the rock face behind in order to conjure over it. A green light pulsed within the cauldron, its illumination reflected upon the witch’s face. The fire beneath the pot was the same eerie colour – Gwion had never seen a flame burn green before.

‘Mother, I’ve brought you a woodsman.’ The Lady’s announcement drew the witch’s attention to him.

Gwion froze in fear, for the umpteenth time today – he realised his mouth was gaping in disbelief and closed it. Was it really possible that his beauteous Lady had been birthed by this old hag? Word had it that the Sons of the Long Knives had enlisted Otherworldly aid to drive out the invaders. Gwion had imagined that meant that they’d made offerings to the Gods for the blessing of the Otherworld, not that they’d literally lured some of the Fey into the middle kingdoms! How had Cymry nobles interested these fair folk in the wars of men? However it had been done, it was known that Otherworldly aid was never free and rarely proved to be a simple contract.

There was a witch fabled to live on the shores of Llyn Tegid in Gwynedd, with her giant of a husband.

My Lady Tegid. The barrow-man had referred to the lady in black thus earlier.

If the Lady Tegid was the witch’s daughter, then this was the witch of legend! This must be she! Gwion’s heart began thumping in his chest as he stared at the older woman. This was no ordinary enchantress, for the witch of Llyn Tegid was one of the three Otherworldly goddesses who comprised the Great Mother. She was the crone of the great triad, and her name was Keridwen.

‘Don’t just stand there gawping! Feed my fire!’

‘This wood is green—’ Gwion felt he should warn her.

‘Good, good.’ She insisted he proceed. ‘Dead wood has no life force . . . the greener the wood the better.’

So Gwion unstrapped the branches and used his small blade to strip them down into a manageable length so he could bundle and set them around the base of the cauldron. The green flame was fascinating and frightening – it had no heat whatsoever, yet it consumed the wood as the cauldron simmered.

‘Good.’ The crone was pleased. ‘Get more! Much more. Flowers are also favoured; bring flowers.’

Gwion boggled at the request – the winter chill had yet to lift – but he felt around his belt and came up empty handed. ‘I was ambushed by a monster . . . I must have lost my axe in the struggle.’

‘A monster?’ The crone was clearly affronted by his terminology. ‘If you judge everyone by their appearance, I hold little hope for you. By what name are you known?’

‘I am Gwion, son of Gwreang of Llanfair.’ It was only after he’d answered that he realised he might have done himself a disservice by being so honest, as a witch could do great harm with just a name.

‘Well, a monster would not have left you breathing, Gwion Bach.’

The lady in black suppressed her amusement at her mother’s perception, too genteel to openly mock him as the crone did. Bach meant ‘small’, and although it was true that he was slight of build for his seventeen years on this earth, he did not appreciate the mockery.

‘You are right, of course.’ Gwion bowed his head to concede correction, although he felt his was a fair mistake.

‘Give him an axe,’ the crone instructed her daughter. ‘Let him at least be useful.’

The lady in black proceeded to a large chest by her mother and from it pulled an axe, which was the most perfectly crafted tool Gwion had ever laid eyes on. ‘This will slice through wood as if it were lard.’

Gwion admired the craftsmanship as he took possession of the hatchet, which was clearly not crafted by any man of this earth.

‘Get to it!’

The witch’s command spurred Gwion towards the forest in search of anything blooming.

Some mistletoe clinging to a rowan tree and a few early primrose blooms growing in the grassland beyond the wood provided a token offering of flowers and the new axe made quick work of gathering the fresh branches Keridwen required.

Gwion did not pause from his chore to contemplate what he was doing, for fear of displeasing the crone. His gut instinct was in conflict with his inherent flight tendency. This was the perfect opportunity to flee this calamity yet although it might not appear so, he knew he was already ensnared in a trap. Where would he go? If he did not make a stand with his combrogi now, he may not have a village to return to! Defying the crone’s orders would not pass without retribution and there was nowhere in the middle kingdoms that you could hide from the Otherworld. Gwion’s life to date had been tough, joyless and pointless – at least if he died in battle, or at the hands of a witch, it would make for a notable end to the tedium of his existence. That’s what he consciously told himself, but deep inside he wanted to aid the lady in black – he felt honoured by her need of him.

Upon his return to the gully with his haul, Gwion’s eyes met with a scene so horrific that he took cover behind a tree to observe before proceeding.

The cart that Gwion had seen wheeled past him earlier was in the glen. Its driver, Morda, had been collecting the bodies and body parts of their dead countrymen, and was currently tossing the remains into the witch’s cauldron, along with the bodies of their foe. At first Gwion was sickened that the hero warlords he’d heard so many wondrous tales about would allow the remains of their combrogi to be treated so ill. What could the witch want with the dead?

‘In the name of Don, I feed the fire!

That it might burn as we desire.

Let it be fuelled by our will

As any bubble upon a kill.’

The witch invoked the words as she held her hands over the rising vapours.

From the luminous haze within the cauldron a hand reached up, fingers tensed as they grappled for the rim. Transfixed, Gwion feared Keridwen was conjuring another monster to the cause as a second hand appeared and then a third and fourth.

Fighters, dead and dismembered only moments before, pulled themselves out of the green slime of the enchantment and over the rim of their containment where they fell with sloshes onto the ground. Without so much as a word, the fighters rose to their feet and reclaimed their weapons from Morda, who directed them back to the battlefield to fight again. ‘Kill Hengist.’ He sent the resurrected invaders back to their warlord as other barrow-men wheeled in corpses to add to the crone’s concoction.

An army of the dead. He’d heard legends of a cauldron used to such ends, but never in his wildest dreams had Gwion thought such an event could be possible in this day and age. The fact sent a shiver down his spine as the men who exited the fire seemed more like soulless corpses than men reborn. If he died today, would he join the ranks of these walking dead?

Friend and foe returned to the battle to fight side by side. How shocking it would be for their enemy to see their comrades resurrected and turned against them. Surely it would not take long for the invaders to realise that their every loss was the opposition’s gain. As extreme as this tactic was, Gwion saw the brilliance of the strategy, for such an unnatural threat would drive the Saxons out of their lands permanently.

‘I need more fuel! Where is Gwion Bach?’ the witch hollered.

In that instant, Gwion realised that his role this day was just as vital as any warrior on the field – without fuel their advantage would be lost. ‘I have it!’ He sprang from his hiding place to the crone’s aid.

‘Quickly, lad,’ she urged, appearing surprised and appeased that he’d not turned tail and fled. She observed Gwion as he offloaded his bundle and immediately began snapping, cutting and bundling the fuel. ‘Keep pace with me this day and you will have earned the favour of the Goddess.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Gwion continued to work his fastest, hoping that the favour she spoke of would get him out of this alive.

Dozens of foraging trips later and the bodies of the dead were beginning to pile up in the gully, awaiting rebirth in the cauldron. It appeared that a young Cymry noble had brought the production line to a halt. A few years younger than himself by Gwion’s guess, the Lord stood addressing the witch and he appeared most displeased. ‘This is not what was agreed.’

‘I said I would bring the fallen back from the dead, and that is exactly what I have done,’ Keridwen countered.

‘They are all mute! And witless! I had to prevent one from killing our own.’

‘It was not my idea to resurrect the enemy as well; the situation was bound to get confusing.’ The crone looked bored by the complaints. ‘They are the perfect fighting force: they are silent, they don’t need to eat, sleep, rest, or be paid. They live only to fight for us.’

‘And what do we tell their families? There is little point to winning this war if the people feel betrayed!’

Gwion thought the young noble very courageous, challenging the witch thus. He was barely more than a boy, yet his countenance was that of a seasoned leader. The way the young man glared at the witch and spoke in earnest, commanded attention – Gwion was greatly in awe of him.

‘When the Saxons are subdued,’ the crone said, ‘all those resurrected will return to their final repose, just as the fates have denoted. Tell their families that they fought like demons and died for the glory of Cymru.’

Gwion’s attention was diverted to the piled bodies awaiting resurrection. Did his eyes deceive him, or was one of the corpses on Morda’s cart rising? ‘Morda, behind you!’

Morda, who had been watching the debate between the witch and the noble, spun around to confront a huge warrior. The Saxon eye-gouged the little barrow-man, reducing his eyeballs to bloodied pools in one swift motion. Morda screamed in agony and was pushed aside – the next obstacle in the warrior’s path to the witch was the Lady Tegid.

Gwion ran towards the huge hulk of a man, with no thought as to what he’d do once he reached him.

Lady Tegid was diverted by Morda’s cry and she gasped to realise danger was in such close proximity to her. The Saxon had procured a sword from the pile of weapons Morda had collected from the dead, and was clearly of the mind to smite the Lady Tegid for her part in the ambush.

‘Cymru am byth!’ Gwion proclaimed his fealty to his kingdom forever and, struggling to unholster his axe from his belt as he ran, he swung the bundle of branches that hung on his back around under his left arm.

Sidetracked from his target to combat Gwion’s charge, the intruder turned his attention towards him.

Gwion held his bundle on its end and rammed it onto the extended sword of his opponent, the warrior’s blade disappearing inside the branches. He squeezed the bound bundle of sticks underarm and was stunned when he managed to rip the sword from the Saxon’s hand, as he finally freed his axe from its holster. ‘Ha-ha!’ Gwion was impressed with himself only long enough to realise that he’d failed to notice the shield in his opponent’s other hand.

As the wooden face of the shield was thrust at him, Gwion swung the axe in his right hand to block the strike. The force of his swing was such that his axe blade lodged in the shield and would not come out.

The Saxon laughed off his heroic attempt and Gwion panicked as his weapon was yanked unexpectedly from his grasp. The Saxon swung at him again, this time with the intent to kill – Gwion saw the determination in his attacker’s eyes. Instinctively, he raised his bundle to block the strike, but was not fast enough to prevent the sharp iron rim of his opponent’s shield from clouting him in the forehead.

Gwion heard the crunch of his own skull shattering under the blow, but all feeling was suspended as he flew backwards and his body slammed into the ground, robbing him of breath. ‘Aw . . .’ he gasped as his entire body screamed in agony, yet he did not have the air to bellow his grievance. Gwion knew his head was split wide open – he could feel the breeze stinging the exposed flesh around the throbbing wound. The sticky, warm ooze of blood flooded his left eye and made it difficult to focus on his combatant – was he coming to finish him off?

With waning sight he witnessed the young nobleman push the Lady Tegid aside to safety, before he took the intruder’s head off in one clean stroke. The intense throbbing from his wound and lack of oxygen in his lungs forced Gwion’s remaining eye closed, whereupon his consciousness plummeted into darkness. The heated flush of panic he’d felt pre-strike gave way to the chill of death’s approach.

If Gwyn ap Nudd was coming for his soul, Gwion had given his life to save the most beautiful woman on earth – if no one else remembered his meaningless existence, he hoped that she always would.

THE LIVING DEAD

If the sun has set for you,

tears shall burn my cheek evermore.

So selflessly you gave to me,

as none who’ve gone before.

A siren’s song filtered through his unconscious bliss – was it one of the Night Hunter’s waifs, beckoning his soul to her lord’s side in the Otherworld?

Does the forest choir hush in reverence to the stars above?

Do you intend to join them?

Don’t leave me lonely in a world without love.

It was gratifying to learn he’d been right – the sirens of Annwn sounded just like the Lady Tegid. With the cherished memory of her dawn performance, such pain gripped his head that it forced Gwion to stir from his slumber with a moan.

‘There you are.’

The gentle voice compelled Gwion’s eyes open and when the Lady Tegid’s radiant face came into focus, he felt the vision well worth the agony of his return to the land of the living. ‘The battle?’

‘Was won; the Saxons have fled . . . for now.’ Her smile made the delivery of the news all the sweeter.

‘Llanfair?’ He enquired after the welfare of his village.

‘Is as it ever was.’

Gwion’s relief gave way to pride – for he’d had a small hand in the preservation. He’d never had cause to be proud of himself before, and the feeling was a revelation – this was why men risked all to fight for a cause. ‘I thought myself bound for the eternal bliss of Annwn.’

‘As did we.’ The Lady lifted a cloth from a bowl of water by her and wrung out the excess fluid. ‘Hence my song to call you back to life.’ She gently wiped his face and moistened his lips. Such attention was pure bliss, an honour beyond reckoning.

‘How bad is my wound?’ Were her attentions just an act of pity for the maimed?

‘Just a very bad bump and a scratch,’ she told him happily. ‘You are as fair as you ever were.’

She thought him fair? The notion made his cheeks burn with embarrassed delight. ‘But I was hit by a shield edge? I felt blood flowing.’ He finally raised his fingers to inspect the spot and was stunned to find all as the Lady described. There was no trace of the bloody ooze that he’d thought he’d felt; his face and hair were clean.

‘The mind can play tricks when struck witless.’ She cupped her hand over his brow in comfort. A soothing, warm energy poured from her hand into his forehead and his eyes lulled closed as his pain ebbed away beneath her touch.

‘But I felt sure—’

‘Count your blessings, Gwion Bach, not all were so fortunate as you.’

A third voice in their conversation broke the enchantment. The Lady withdrew her hand as Gwion gazed about to get his bearings.

He was in a small roundhouse that held only one other patient – Morda, the little barrow-man, whose damaged eyes were bound with bandages, bloodied from his injuries.

‘Hush now, Morda.’ Lady Tegid, seated on the ground between them, turned to pat the blind man’s arm. ‘You and I would both be counted among the dead this day, if not for Gwion.’ She returned her gaze to him. ‘It was very brave of you to run to my rescue as you did. Without your warning, the invader may have prevailed, and the day’s venture would have ended very differently for the Cymry and for me.’

Gwion was flattered that she felt he’d done her a great service. ‘I believe that it was the young noble in disagreement with your mother who dispatched the threat against your life . . . I just got in the villain’s way long enough for the hero to reach you.’

‘He is a warrior well accustomed to smiting such threats.’ She dismissed Gwion’s humble modesty. ‘But you, Gwion, with no such surety of skill, gambled your life to save mine and I shall not soon forget it.’

‘I got in the way too.’ Morda objected to Gwion getting all the accolades.

‘You are my hero too, Morda,’ she appeased the blind man, though her gaze quickly returned to Gwion. ‘I have three heroes to thank for my deliverance, and I am beholden.’

‘To some more than others!’ Morda added, disgruntled.

‘Shush. None of that. I owe you both a great debt, so if there is any favour I can grant in return, you have only to ask.’

Morda gave a huff. ‘What use am I blind? How will I sustain myself now?’

‘Rest your mind, I have taken care of all.’ Lady Tegid wiped Morda’s face, the little to be found of it between bandages and beard. ‘Rest and regain your strength.’

‘Please, Lady . . . there is one thing I would ask,’ Gwion ventured, and she looked back to him expectantly. ‘To know my Lady’s birth name?’

‘She is the Lady Tegid to you, boy,’ Morda grouched.

‘I meant no disrespect—’

Her finger upon Gwion’s lips silenced his apology. ‘I am Creirwy.’ She withdrew her touch.

The name had connotations that made Gwion smile. ‘Creirwy . . . it suits you very well.’

‘By your understanding the name means a jewel.’ The Lady’s smile was forced. ‘But in the old tongue of my mother’s folk it means a token egg, for I am the inconsequential proof of my mother’s foolish interest in the middle kingdoms.’

‘Come now, my Lady, that was not my mistress’s intended meaning.’ Morda defended the witch he served. ‘And you have earned the respect of her kindred now.’

‘Hm,’ Creirwy scoffed. ‘Now they have found a good use for me.’

Gwion desperately wanted to know more about her grievance, but felt it rude to pry.

The flap of tanned hide that hung in the only doorway was flung aside and drew the attention of all – even Morda, who turned to the source of the noise out of habit.

A young man, about Gwion’s age, entered and made his apologies to the Lady within.

The fellow’s clothes were of coarsely woven cloth – unlike the leathers, fine cloth and fur favoured by the nobles. Yet the chain mail of a high-ranking soldier covered most of his arms and torso, and he sported a sword and scabbard on each hip, in addition to a sheathed dagger tucked through his belt. Gwion couldn’t help but note that the man’s weaponry was the most ornate part of his attire. His was a rags to riches story, Gwion imagined; he appeared a man who’d earned his rank and the King’s trust by valour, and been richly rewarded for it.

‘Gilmore,’ the Lady Tegid gave him leave to speak.

‘My liege enquires after the status of your patient?’

‘See for yourself.’ Creirwy stood to move out of the knight’s line of sight.

Upon seeing Gwion awake, the soldier appeared amazed. ‘My Lady’s healing powers are truly miraculous.’

‘I had very little to do with it.’ She referred him back to the patient.

‘How do you fare?’ Gilmore’s eyes were set on Gwion, but Morda didn’t know that.

‘I am honoured to have been of service to your king,’ Morda replied as Gwion raised himself onto his elbows.

‘I concur.’ Gwion nursed his head as he struggled up to a seated position.

‘My liege would have audience with you in the chief house, if you are able, Gwion son of Gwreang.’ Gilmore was more specific about who he was addressing.

Morda gave a grunt of resentment and folded his arms in quiet protest and offence.

‘Stay as you are,’ the Lady countered the soldier’s order. ‘A concussion is not to be taken lightly.’

‘Thanks to your wondrous attention, Lady Tegid, I have only a wee headache.’ Gwion struggled up to standing – he’d never met royalty before. For the last eight years many had wondered if there were any Cymry nobles left. ‘Pardon my rural ignorance, but who is your liege, Gilmore?’

‘Owain, son of Einion ap Cunedda and King of Rhos.’

Gwion did not know of this king, but his father Einion ap Cunedda was among those kings stolen from the Cymry on the night of the Long Knives. Thus this young king was one of the Sons of the legend he’d heard about, that was for certain.

‘He was the noble who finished the Saxon in the glen,’ Creirwy enlightened Gwion.

No wonder the lad had had the countenance of a seasoned warlord; he had been carrying the mantle of king since the night of the Long Knives, for the better part of a decade.

‘I should be honoured to meet with such a legend.’ Gwion doubted the young king was the Arth, but he was surely an associate, with many a tale to tell.

‘Legend?’ Gilmore queried his meaning.

‘Is your liege not one of the Sons of the Long Knives?’

‘Shh!’ The King’s representative urged him to whisper. ‘Such things are better known and not uttered.’

Gwion nodded in understanding.

‘But yes . . .’ His mood became more solemn. ‘King Owain is one of the many young Cymry princes forced to kingship before their time.’

Gwion planned to refrain from asking the question that he so longed to voice, but since the topic had been raised, the moment proved too opportune. ‘Is it true that the Sons dispatched the traitor Gwtheyrn?’

Gilmore’s eyes boggled at the forthright query. ‘Once better acquainted, perhaps such stories will roll from my tongue.’ He forced a grin and led off. ‘Follow me.’ He exited the roundhouse.

‘Aren’t you the little treasure,’ the blind man said snidely as Gwion made a move to depart.

‘I shall learn what news and return with a full report.’ Gwion could understand the older man’s resentment.

‘Bring mead,’ Morda grouched.

‘I shall. Anything for you, Lady Tegid?’

‘I can tend my own needs,’ she assured him, ‘and Morda’s. When a king shows favour, Gwion, do not hesitate to seize the opportunity.’

‘Will you be—’

‘I am not going anywhere.’ She made a shooing motion with her hands.

‘Gwion!’ Gilmore’s summons spurred him forth.

‘I shall see you both after.’ Gwion slipped beneath the roundhouse door flap, considering how easily the Lady Tegid had preempted his thought just now – could she have some sort of supernatural talent in that regard? From what the Lady had said about her name and how her mother’s kin regarded her, it seemed likely that Creirwy was born in the middle kingdoms and was not of the Fey as her mother was – at least not completely.

Outside the small infirmary Gwion beheld a huge army, spread beneath a tree-covered hillside not far from his village. The Afon Banwy flowed through here, providing water to drink and a place to bathe.

It appeared many of the fighters had yet to take advantage of the facilities as they were still covered in the bloody stench of their enemies. But upon longer observation Gwion was shocked to realise that those still bloodied sat absent of emotion, conversation and feast – their focus was solely on the sharpening of their tools of slaughter. These men were the cauldron-born of Keridwen, hungry only for war. If the Saxons had truly fled, then why had the walking dead not returned to their final repose as the witch had claimed they would? The troops still living sat apart from their fallen allies, evidently fearful of both their vacant combrogi and their enemies – now turned to the cause of the Cymry. The atmosphere in the wake of this battle was anything but jubilant; the air was heavy with discontent, uncertainty and mistrust.

All alone, on a spot by the river bank, was the demon warrior who had ambushed Gwion before the battle. ‘Who is that?’ He pointed the man out to Gilmore as he kept pace with him.

‘His name is Morvran ab Tegid,’ Gilmore lowered his voice to advise.

‘He is relative to the Lady Tegid?’ Gwion squeaked as the notion near choked him.

‘He is the Lady’s brother.’

‘Brother!’ That explained why Keridwen had been offended by Gwion’s use of the term ‘monster’ to describe the man.

‘Difficult to believe, I know,’ Gilmore agreed. ‘The men refer to him as Avagddu . . . very quietly, of course.’

‘Utter darkness?’ Gwion considered the name’s meaning even less fair than the term he’d used.

‘All the men fear him as he was born in the Otherworld, and with Gods for parents, he is immortal and cannot be killed.’

‘Whoa . . .’ Gwion was a little disconcerted by the report and yet felt compelled to put in a good word for him. ‘Morvran saved my life today.’

‘You can thank him at your own risk, after your audience with King Owain.’ Gilmore headed towards the largest roundhouse. As far as Gwion knew, no one had inhabited this clutch of dwellings for years, but the chief hut looked to have had some repairs since Gwion had last passed it by.

Soldiers stood guard around the entire perimeter of the dwelling they approached. Butterflies began to disturb Gwion’s stomach as Gilmore led him through the human shield and up the stairs towards the hides that covered the large entrance where the King of Rhos awaited.

‘Gwion!’ His name was called by someone of fair voice, but it was not the Lady Tegid this time.

When a look around failed to locate the source, he kept moving.

‘Gwion! Please, help me!’

Again he turned, and casting his sight further afield to the edge of the encampment he saw a young woman with whom he bartered being blocked from entering the camp by the guards.

‘You know this woman,’ Gilmore assumed.

‘I do. Aleen . . . she is not one to ask for aid without real need.’

‘The King has yet to learn of your awakening,’ Gilmore considered. ‘We can spare a few moments.’

Gwion was grateful to be given grace, but had not expected the King’s man to accompany him on his errand. He mentioned this en route whereupon Gilmore advised that Gwion was his charge until he delivered him to the King.

‘I’ve never had a bodyguard before.’ He made light of the arrangement. What could a king want of him that was important enough to warrant such protective measures?

‘Gwion.’ Aleen smiled through her dismay, clearly pleased to see him. ‘They will not allow me to see Bran.’

‘But he is her husband?’ Gwion questioned the guards, who were now standing at attention upon sighting Gilmore.

‘The King has given orders to