Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

“I will show you,” he said tenderly.

For an instant she appeared to soften. She half-turned toward him, but the pain was too great. She stiffened and turned away, gathering the reins of her horse.

He did not try to stop her but merely watched as she rode through the trees. A few moments later he heard a splash as the gray entered the stream at the entrance to the wood. Then he swung into the saddle, turned his mount, and started back the way he had come.

He reached the hawthorn thicket and had no sooner entered the stream when there came a sharp, startled cry from the glen just ahead. Then he heard his name, “Taliesin!”

He pulled his horse to a stop and listened for more. Hearing nothing, he lashed the reins across the horse’s neck and galloped forward. The thorns slashed at his flesh and clothing, holding him back. Heedless, he drove through the thicket into the glen.

At first he did not see her-only a gray mass writhing on the ground. It was her horse, struggling to regain its feet as three men clung to its head and neck. Four more men were stooped over, tugging at something on the ground. A flash of white clothing… Charis!

Taliesin raced to the fight. As his horse pounded closer he saw Charis break free of her attackers and step away. The men had spears and all four advanced on her, weapons ready. Taliesin was still too far away; he would never reach her in time. Pounding to her aid he watched in horror as one of the men charged and thrust his wicked spear at Charis.

As the spear slashed forth, Charis disappeared… An instant later in the air above the head of the attacker she spun, arms wrapped around knees, head tucked, braid flying. Unbalanced, the man tumbled forward, sprawling in the grass.

Charis darted away behind the others, who stood by in flat-footed confusion. One of the men holding the horse released his grip and lunged toward her. His arms closed on empty air and he fell to the turf.

The raiders rushed at her, their iron speartips glinting in the shadowed glen. One of them raised his spear and with blinding quickness drew back and let fly. The spear flashed.

But Charis had vanished again, leaving the spearshaft quivering in the ground.

The raider darted after his spear, but there was Charis, rolling to seize the shaft and turn it as he came flying toward her. The raider stopped abruptly, straightened, and staggered back. He turned to his comrades, screaming, his hands clenched about the spearshaft protruding from his Belly.

As he fell, clawing at the spear, another leaped over his body and grabbed Charis from behind as she tried to dodge away. He held her by the arms and spun her toward the spearmen, the foremost of whom dashed forward, weapon leveled, to impale her.

The spear flashed, passing through the space where Charis had stood and burying itself deep in her captor’s chest as she tumbled up and over his head.

Taliesin was close enough now to see the fear on the faces of the attackers. Thinking only to make a quick kill and take the horse and whatever other valuables Charis possessed, they had not been prepared to take on a she-demon that could appear and disappear at will.

With two of their members mortally wounded the raiders reconsidered. One of them dropped his spear and backed away from Charis in hopes of escaping into the wood. Too late he heard the thunder of hooves behind him. Taliesin glimpsed the wretch’s face-eyes white-rimmed with fear, his mouth agape in terror-as he disappeared beneath the horse’s chuming legs.

The remaining raiders scattered, fleeing for their lives. Their shouts of terror could be heard in the valley long after they were gone.

Taliesin leaped from his horse and ran to Charis’ side. She was shaken. Her clothing was torn and grass-stained, and there were welts on her upper arms where the raider had grasped her; but she otherwise appeared unharmed. He raised his hands to embrace her, but the gesture stopped halfway.

“I am not hurt,” she told him, her eyes straying to the dead around her. “Who were they?”

“Irish sea-wolves. No doubt they came up Mor Hafren last night and have been looking for easy plunder.” Taliesin glanced at the bodies on the ground. “I think they have had enough of plunder and will return home now.”

“It happened so fast,” said Charis, her breathing rapid and unsteady. “How many were there?”

“Seven,” replied Taliesin. “There were seven and now there are four.” The woman before him suddenly appeared inexpressibly alien, Belonging to a world far, far removed from his own.

“If you had seen me in the bullring you would not look at me that way,” she said and offered a weak smile. “I danced the sacred bulls in the Temple of the Sun.” She shrugged. “There are some things one never forgets.”

“We should go back now. I think they have gone, but there may be more nearby.” He led her to her mount.

“Taliesin, were they the same-the same as those that attacked your lands?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “These were from the south of lerna, coastal raiders after quick spoils. They do not often come this far inland, however; most content themselves with taking cattle and gold, when they can find it, from settlements on the coasts.”

She mounted the gray with some stiffness and looked down at Taliesin. “You will be leaving soon.”

“Why do you say that?”

She raised her face and gazed into the dying sunlight in the west. “We are not meant to be together, Taliesin. My life ended out there-‘-“ She nodded toward the red-orange sunset.

“But here… here it begins again,” Taliesin replied.

“We are each given only one life, singer.” And with that Charis turned her horse and started back to the palace.

“We can make ourselves secure. we have weapons; we can raise an army if need be,” said Belyn earnestly as he paced the length of Avallach’s chamber.

Maildun was quick to side with Belyn. “Listen to him, Father. We can defend ourselves. Besides, the trouble here in the south is not as bad as it is in the north and may never be. There is no good reason to be giving land to these… these Cymry barbarians.”

Avallach raised himself on his litter, shaking his head wearily. “You still do not understand. I give the land for the sake of goodness, not out of fear and not in hope of gain.”

“It was always for gain,” pointed out Belyn.

“Yes,” Avallach admitted, “it was-at first. And it was a mistake.”

“That singer has bewitted you.” Maildun’s accusation brought Avallach to his feet.

“We talked and I was persuaded,” said Avallach, grasping the canopy frame for support. “Whatever you think of these people, they are an intelligent, honorable race.”

“They are little better,” Belyn scoffed, “than the cattle thieves and hill-haunters that plague us round about.”

“Believe me, Father; the only honor they understand is a dagger in the throat or a spear in the back.” Maildun crossed his arms over his chest; his sneer defied anyone to dispute him.

“Our future, if we are to have a future,” warned Avallach, his voice quiet thunder, “lies in learning to live peaceably with them.”

“Your mind is made up?”

“It is.”

“Then it is no use arguing further. Give your land to anyone you choose. Give everything to that mumbling priest of yours for all I care. But, by Cybel, I will have no part in it! They will not have so much as a stone from me.”

“Belyn,” Avallach replied gently, “speak no disrespect of the priest. He is a holy man, and I have become a follower of the true God.”

“What next?” cried Maildun in disbelief.

“That explains some of it, I suppose,” mocked Belyn. “All this talk about giving and goodness and peace. But I still do not understand why you think this serves any useful purpose.”