‘Run!’ Elodan ordered Lamfhada.
‘But the ice!’
‘Damn the ice! Run!’ Lamfhada leapt from the plank, slithered and almost fell, but then began to run. The ice crunched beneath his feet, but did not give until he was almost at the bank. He dropped into a few inches of water and pulled himself to solid ground. Swinging round, he saw Elodan standing on the plank, axe in hand. Then the Knight leapt from the platform and moved to his right where the ice was weakest. Lamfhada saw him dive forward, his arms and legs spread, and watched his body slide further out on to the ice. The beast changed direction — and charged Elodan. The Knight rolled to his belly and lifted the hatchet smashing it to the ice again and again. Great cracks rippled out. A sheet of ice tipped Elodan into the water. The beast tried to stop, but another sheet gave way and with a great splash it toppled into the river. For a moment only its head came clear, then it was sucked away below the surface. Lamfhada saw Elodan holding on to the ice. The youth stood and ran along the bank, seeking a way through to the knight.
Elodan saw him. ‘Stay back,’ he shouted and tried to pull himself up on to the ice, but with only one hand he could not gain purchase. The ice gave once more… and Elodan slid from sight. ‘No!’ Lamfhada screamed.
He scrambled along the river bank for almost a mile, for he could see the dark form of his friend floating beneath the ice. But after almost half an hour he knew it was hopeless.
Lamfhada sat down on a fallen tree. Fatigue and shock hit him and he began to weep, but at last his tears ran dry and wearily he stood and looked out over the river. Some thirty paces downstream he could see the black shape he knew to be the body of Elodan under the ice near the bank. He moved closer to it. The current created the sensation of movement in his friend, the arm appearing to thud against the ice. Lamfhada took up a heavy branch and smashed it against the surface. Twice more he struck — and the ice parted. Reaching down, he grabbed Elodan’s jerkin and hauled the body clear.
‘Get a… fire… going, for… pity’s sake,’ whispered Elodan. Lamfhada dragged the Knight back from the bank and into a small hollow shielded by trees. He cleared snow from the ground for a fire and gathered wood and tinder, but his fingers were too cold to hold the fire flints. He rubbed them furiously and tried again and at last a small flame began to flicker. Carefully he blew it to life and added small twigs and branches. After what seemed an eternity, a bright blaze burned. He helped Elodan from his frozen clothes and rubbed life into his arms and chest. Then he removed one of his blanket capes and lifted it over Elodan’s head. He built up the fire until the flames were over three feet high.
‘I would not want to go through that again,’ said Elodan at last, some colour back in his features.
‘How did you survive so long below the water?’ Lamfhada asked. ‘Are you also a magician?’
‘No — but I know nature. Between the ice and the water there is a gap of around two inches. I swam on my back, cutting across the current, looking for a place near the bank where the ice was thin. But it was the cold that almost beat me; I did not have the strength to break through.’
‘It was brave of you to risk your life against the beast.’
Elodan shook his head. ‘Do not confuse courage with necessity. When a man has only one choice, it is not a question of bravery.’
‘You could have run.’
‘The ice would not have supported me.’
‘You do not know that, sir Knight,’ said Lamfhada.
‘No, I do not. Now let us speak no more of it. Tomorrow we will seek out your wizard. But for now — I must sleep.’
The wounds in Groundsel’s back required more than forty stitches, yet still he was sitting in his chair when Nuada stood on the central table to tell the gathering of the fight with the beast. Llaw Gyffes and Arian sat beside Groundsel and the hall was silent as the poet began.
He spoke first of the heroes of the past — his words lyrical, almost hypnotic. Then gradually, imperceptibly, the tone changed. He talked of blood and death, and the horrors of the damned. Men shivered despite the blazing fires. He spoke of evil, and the works of evil.
‘Nothing is untouched by it,’ he said. ‘For it is like a plague, spreading through the hearts of men. Some it touches and corrupts instantly, others carry the seed within themselves. Only the very strong can withstand it.’ He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd. There were more than one hundred and fifty men gathered here, many having arrived that morning with their families to escape the beasts roaming the forest. ‘Only the very strong,’ he repeated. ‘Now we have heard how these Demon-beasts came among us. One was seen by a boy; he watched it appear in a flash of lightning on a hillside. Perhaps it was that very creature,’ said Nuada, pointing to the giant head impaled on a lance at the back of the hall. ‘Now in the Elder times such beasts were well known, and knights and heroes rode out to slay them, armed with magic swords or lances, their bodies encased in armour strengthened by spells. Yet last night a group of men, ordinary men, walked the same perilous path as those legendary heroes. But there were no magic swords, no sorcery — only strength, and courage. Two of those men are not here in the flesh; they gave their lives to end the terror. But they are here in spirit, honoured guests among their comrades. They stand proud. No matter what deeds they may have committed in life, in death they are forgiven and exalted. Their names, which will live for ever in song, are Askard and Dubarin. There they stand, by the fire. Let them know how much you value them.’
All around the hall men raised their weapons — swords, lances, knives and axes — and a great cheer went up.
Nuada waited for several moments, then raised his arms for silence.
‘And now my friends, my heroes of the forest, Askard and Dubarin, will hear their tale for the first time. And then they will rejoin the other heroes of history in the fabled Halls of Heaven, to drink of the Wine of Life, to savour the joys of glory.’
Groundsel leaned forward and winced as the stitches pulled at his flesh, but his eyes shone as the events of the night before came to life. The tracking and the grisly find, the bowmen in the trees, the leader and Llaw Gyffes sitting in the open by the fire. The nerves, the fear, the dread anticipation — all were recaptured by the poet, and Groundsel felt himself back by the fire waiting, waiting… saw again the massive jaws of the Demon-beast as it bore silently down upon him, felt the stomach-wrenching panic as its forepaws closed around him.
‘And seeing the lovely bow-woman in mortal danger, Groundsel flung himself at the towering monster. Look! Look at the fangs, and picture it in life with its dreadful talons. But Groundsel did not flinch from the danger. With two short swords he charged, burying them deep into the belly of the beast. Its talons ripped into him… as he knew they would. But other heroes were close by.’
The story moved to its climax and Groundsel tore his eyes from the poet and gazed at the men in the room. Their faces were shining, their eyes fixed as the tale neared its end. Askard and Dubarin had given their lives. Llaw Gyffes had clung to the monster’s back. And every man had followed Groundsel, conquering their fears, to slay the Demon-beast.
Each feverish, horrific moment blazed into life. Sweat dripped from Groundsel’s face and his heart hammered wildly within him. He felt he could take no more, wanting to run from the hall. But the tale ended, with Nuada swinging to point at Groundsel and his companions. ‘And there, my friends, are the leading heroes of the tale. The warrior maiden who stood so recklessly before the beast, the man of the axe who rode the demon, and the Forest Lord who stepped into its deadly embrace and lived. Let them hear your cheers.’