"Ay."

"And to Arundel?"

"Ay."

**Is it Welaadais?"

"Nay-"

*'What language is it, then? Where did you learn it?"

Hal frowned helplessly- Even in the flickering light of their caropfire, his discomfort was evident. Alan retracted the question. "Never mind."

"I would tell you if I could," Hal said plaintively.

It was late before Alan finally settled into sleep, still marveling. He awoke to a foggy morning, and found Hal already speaking with their invisible hosts in his mysteri- ous language.

"You know they see everything, and they travel with the speed of the wind," he explained to Alan. "Though or- dinarily they may not move from their resting place. . . .

But last night I sent some of them scouting. Our friends the bounty hunters have quarreled among themselves, it seems, and are either dead or fleeing. And Corin and his father Col are camped a day or two farther to the east, near the sea."

"But Arundel cannot travel far or fast, with his wounded leg," Alan grumbled.

"I know it. I shall be walking, for a while."

They ate some breakfast, rabbit and a few stunted sorb-apples. Then they loaded all the gear on Alfie. But as they prepared to leave, the low voice spoke. Hal stared somberly, but made no reply. He motioned Alaa to help pini remove some stones from the wall of the barrow.

When they had made an entrance, they crawled through, being very careful where they placed their hands and feet. The interior of the barrow was high enough to stand in. By the light which filtered through the open stonework, they could dimly see faded ruins of cloth, dusty bones and dull gleams of once bright metal: helms,

The Forest 55

swords and breastplates in odd, antique shapes. These were indeed warriors who lay here.

The low voice spoke again, beckoning, and they ad- vanced to the center of the domed barrow, where there lay a still figure on a raised slab. By its ashy skull lay a crown, blackened with age. By its right hand lay a naked sword. Even through the grime of ages, they could see that it was a glorious weapon, the hilt intricately set with jewels, the whole of it golden, large and heavy so that it would deal a mighty blow. The voice of the dead king spoke again, at length, and Hal went to the sword. He raised it and reverently kissed the massive hilt. He set it down, and spoke quietly to the disembodied listener. Then he and Alan turned and left. As they led their horses down the hill, the warmth of the barrow followed them, slowly fading away with the morning fog.

Hal waited until they were well away before he spoke.

*That king wanted me to take his sword," he said in a low voice.

"The golden sword!" Alan almost shouted. "But Hal, it is a marvelous weapon! Why did you not take it?"

"I have need of my own sword," Hal muttered.

Alan groaned in disbelief. "Hal, you are incredibly dif- ficult. The jewel-studded brand of a former monarch-was it not enough for you?"

"More than enough," Hal retorted wryly. "He said that it was filled with the power of the Beginnings, that with it I would be invincible."

Alan stared. "The magical sword of the High Kings!"

he breathed.

"Ay, it throbbed through my arms as I lifted it, and it throbs in me yet; I can scarcely walk for the ache of it.

Alan, may I tell you a tale?"

They sat on the ground and let the horses graze. Hal did not seem to look at anything, not even at Alan, as he spoke.

"The king's name was Claryon, High King at Laueroc, and the mighty sword Hau Ferddas hung above his throne to enforce his will, and the writings of Cuia the Ancestor lay open in the council-chamber, and the weeping stone stood in the courtyard as a reminder that the Kings of Laueroc were honored vassals of the Very King who had gone beyond the sea. The water trickled down from the cracked stone and dripped from its golden pedestal to

THE SILVER SUN.

56.

form a pool on the cobbles. The princes were Culean, Culadon and Cuert. When they were little, they would make boats from sticks and sail them in the tears of the Sorrowing Stone.

"Cuert grew to be a scholar, and Culadon to be a states- man, but the eldest, Culean, had no talent for bookish learning so he trained to be a warrior. He was not much honored as a warrior; there had been peace for half an Age, and it was thought that Hau Ferddas could keep peace forever.

"When the princes were grown, or nearly grown, Veran sailed into the Bay of the Blessed out of the west Cuert, the youngest prince, knew him to be Very King as soon as he heard report of him, for Veran had brought with him a rayed silver crown. Culadon knew only that Veran had taken power in Welas, where the Kings of Isle held no sway. But Culean saw only a rival. And Claryon, the old king, found any change a threat.

"The real threat came from the east. Within the year Heme landed his warships, and old King Claryon took horse to meet him, proud in the invincibility of his legend- ary sword. A few hundred men followed him on the long forced marches across Isle. They met Herne in the mid- lands near the Black River. Hau Ferddas slew mightily, but Claryon's aging arms lost strength to hold the weapon.

He staggered back before his foes, and only the coming of darkness saved him and the sword from capture. His remaining men carried him back toward Laueroc, and in a few days he died, though he had suffered no wound.

His people met the invaders in confusion and despair, and yielded before them like grass.

"Heme's close companion was a sorcerer named Mar- rok, that is to say, the Werewolf. He had seen the battle, and had seen the sword Hau Ferddas, and coveted the blade for his master's sake, or his own, perhaps. With his secret arts he contrived a spell which would rob it of its mystic strength, for a time- The price was high', men lost their lives to the making of that spell. But Heme was well content.

"Veran had marched with five hundred men to Laueroc, for the danger which threatened Isle threatened Welas also. He bowed his elf-crowned head at old Ciaryon's funeral pyre. But Culean, the new High King, scorned his help, and set off hotly to rally his own people against The Forest

57.

the invaders, Culadon threw in his lot with Veran, and Cuert, barely fifteen years of age, stayed behind to stew- ard Laueroc.

*'Many brave men found their place at Culean's side, and for a time Heme was halted in his advance. Veran pressed him from the south and west, and Culean battered him from the north, and if only those two could have taken cause together, Herne might have been forced to yield. But they each fought separately from the other, not to best advantage. Then Marrok's spell took effect, and Culean fought with only manly might. And, as evil chance would have it, Culadon was slain by Veran's side. Then many followers fell away from the defenders of Isle, and Heme's armies moved again.

"Veran made his stand between the mountains of Welas and the Gleaming River, where the border runs to this day. All of Welas rallied to him, and he was able to bring Heme to terms for his own land's sake." Hal turned to Alau, seeming conscious of his listener for the first time. "Cuert went with him, and through him you are of that line, Alan; Deona wife of Alf was his grand- daughter."

"I?" Alan murmured.

"You are of that royal blood. The king. High King Culean, was hounded through the north of Isle as the power of his sword waxed and waned with the power of Marrok's spell, until he could plainly see that Herne held all of Isle and wished only to hold Hau Ferddas as well.

Then Culean and his few loyal liegemen devised a plan to keep the sword from Heme's hand, and I dare say to preserve their own pride-for they could have thrown the weapon into the sea. Instead they stood on a rise of the stony Waste, and they cursed fate with their deepest curses, and they died by their own hands. Their com- panions who had chosen not to follow them built the bar- row over them, then departed. And there the sword has stayed to this day, for their sleepless shades protect it, as they knew they would."

The two sat silently for a while as the grim tale echoed down the passages of their minds. "Did-Culean-tell you this?*' Alan asked finally.

"Nay."

"Who, then, Hal? The Gypsies?"

"No one, Alan." Hal spoke with a kind of despera-

THE SILVER SUN.

58.