Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

Then he set about gathering good-sized stones, which he heaped into a small pile at the place where he had driven in his staff. Taking up more stones, he proceeded to pace off the dimensions of a large circle, placing a stone every third step. Then he plucked his staff from the ground and, raising it, closed his eyes, his lips forming the words of the incantation.

As he stood murmuring, the sun, already dim with smoke, shrank away as the smoke thickened and spread its darkness over the sky. The sound of battle-harsh clash of arms, terrified whinnying of horses, curses and cries of wounded and dying-came to him across the small valley.

Taliesin opened his eyes and saw his father’s warband surrounded by the enemy and halted as they tried to force a way through to the burning gates, Elphin himself at their head, hacking away with his short sword.

Twice more Taliesin repeated the conjure and when he looked again, the foe was pressed tight around Elphin’s forces six deep, and more were streaming around the walls, their angry axes flashing dull red above their horn-helmeted heads.

The barbarians, by diot of superior numbers, had stopped the king’s onslaught and were forcing the warband back. Frustration growing, Taliesin turned and stared wildly around, eyes lighting on his black horse. He ran and grabbed the reins and pulled the horse into the center of the crude stone circle he had constructed. He climbed into the saddle and stood on the horse’s back.

Then, raising the oak staff over his head, he repeated the incantation. This time he felt his awen descend like a radiant cloak; the air around him shimmered. He spoke and felt the power of his words take shape on the wind. They were not mere words anymore-they were the wind and the power behind the wind. Words flew from his lips, snatched from his tongue by the force of their own volition. An icy blast whirled around him in a spiraling vortex that gathered and raced by, flying down the hill. This strange and sudden chill blew across the valley to where the fighting raged most hotly.

King Elphin’s men felt the cold wind sting their faces and looked up. There on the opposite hill they saw the lean, tall figure of a man standing on a black horse, a long staff raised over his head. “Taliesin!” someone cried. “Our druid’s sent a wind to save us!”

The enemy too felt the cold wind and saw the dark sky. They turned wide, astonished eyes upon the mysterious hill-figure and faltered in their attack.

That was all the warband needed. Refreshed by the sight of the long-haired Saecsen and their minions falling back, Elphin’s troops wheeled and charged into the reeling mass. The cold wind howled high above the bloody battleground, and within moments the enemy was fleeing down the slope to the shelter of the woods. A tremendous shout went up from the legionaries on the walls. The gates opened and the soldiers came flooding out to give chase.

Not long after, Elphin stood in the compound facing an exhausted Magnus Maximus, his face smeared with soot and sweat. “I never thought I would see the day when a Roman legion would require the aid of an ala to stave off defeat.” He paused and added, “But, as ever, I am grateful for your help, King Elphin.”

“We sent twenty-odd boatloads to their doom this morning or we might have been here sooner.”

A servant came running with a carafe of wine and a cup for the tribune. Maximus handed the cup to Elphin and poured out the wine, saying, “A bad day all around, and it is far from over yet. Still, you must have the first drink; you have worked the harder.”

Elphin gulped down some of the raw red wine. “Where did they all come from?” he wondered, handing the cup back to Maximus. “I have never seen so many in one place, and never all of them together.”

“Whores’ whelps, the lot of them!” Maximus washed his mouth with wine and spat it on the ground. “Taking on a fort! They must be bewitched!”

They were still talking when a rider appeared on a stumbling horse; the beast was lathered and nearly lame. “What in” began Maximus, who took one look at the device on the horse’s harness and cried, “By Caesar! Luguvallium!”

The exhausted rider pitched forward in the saddle and toppled to the ground, to be caught by two grooms. Maximus and Elphin hurried to the man, and Maximus dashed the rest of the wine into the cup and pressed it to the man’s lips. “ Drink this,” he ordered.

The man drank and coughed, spewing wine over himself. “Tribune,” he wheezed and raised a hand in a slack salute. “I come from… from”

“From Fullofaudes,” said Maximus impatiently. “Yes. Out with it, man.”

“The Wall,” gasped the rider. “The Wall is overrun. Luguvallium has fallen.”

Maximus stood slowly. “Luguvaliium fallen.”

“We will go with you,” said Elphin, rising with him. “With rest and food, we can soon be ready to ride again.”

The tribune looked at Elphin and shook his head. “You have fought two battles already this day.”

“You will need us,” insisted Elphin.

“Your kinsmen will need you more. Go back, friend; defend your own.”

Elphin was about to object once more when Taliesin arrived. He slipped from the saddle and walked toward them, his step light and quick, although he appeared drained. Taking in the collapsed rider and the grave faces of Maxirnus and Elphin in one glance, he said, “Bad news from the north, is it?”

“It is,” replied Elphin. “Luguvallium has fallen and the Wall is overrun.”

“Then we must go back to Caer Dyvi,” Taliesin said simply. “While there is still time.”

“Just what I was saying,” said Maximus.

Taliesin turned and walked back to his horse. Elphin started after him, turned back, offered Maximus a sharp Roman salute and then remounted. With three shrill blasts on his hunting horn, the king gathered his warband at the bottom of the hill. When all had been accounted for and wounds bound, they gathered their dead and headed home.

The pilgrims stayed with klng avallach for several days and then returned to the nearby hill and the ruined shrine. A few days later, when he saw that they were serious about restoring the shrine, Avallach sent provisions, for over the course of their stay he had grown quite intrigued by the good brothers and their unusual god.

This suited Charis well. She liked Collen, who regarded her with a befuddled but reverential awe and who labored doggedly with the Briton tongue. And she was fond of Dafyd, a gentle man of keen intelligence and ready wit, whose wholehearted enthusiasm for the God of love and light spilled over into everything he did. She was glad to have them nearby, and if restoring the shrine meant that they would stay that much longer, so be it.

Wet winter intervened and halted the building for a season. But when spring came, the work resumed and Charis rode often to visit the priests and oversee the rebuilding progress. Sometimes she brought them food and drink, and then they would sit and eat together while Dafyd told stories about the life of Jesu, the Great God’s Son-who, if what Dafyd said about him was even remotely true, must surely have been the most remarkable man who ever lived.

Charis did not care one way or the other if what Dafyd said was true; he Believed enough for any three people. She simply enjoyed the kindly man’s company and, more importantly, she valued the healing effect he had on her father. She had noticed from the first night that Avallach seemed more at ease in Dafyd’s presence. A day or two later, the king himself remarked that his pain bothered him less when the holy man was near. This, if nothing else, was more than enough to endear them to Charis.