Silver Hand

R Lawhead Stephen

Description

Before Albion is one, the hero feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.The great king, Meldryn Mawr, is dead, and his kingdom lies in ruins. Treachery and brutality rule the land, and Albion is the scene of an epic struggle for the throne. The words of a prophetess foretell a coming king, but Lewis, as Albion's renowned champion, Llew, has a more immediate concern: retrieving the treacherous Siawn-Hy, who has eluded him in the doorway between worlds.Forced to flee for their lives, Llew and the bard Tegid find refuge deep in Albion's heartland. There Llew seeks the true meaning behind the mysterious prophecy, the making of a true king and the revealing of a long-awaited champion: Silver Hand. Under Llew and Tegid's leadership, a wilderness citadel arises, and the miraculous reign of Silver Hand begins.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Historical fantasy
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Lion Hudson
• Date de parution: 19 juillet 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782640509
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE SILVER HAND

STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD has established his name among the front ranks of contemporary fantasy writers. His novels bear the hallmarks of a master storyteller - compelling narrative, gripping suspense and awesome climax. Sales of his books have reached over two million copies worldwide.
Research for his Celtic-based novels led Lawhead, an American, to move to Oxford - where he now lives with his wife.
OTHER BOOKS BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
King Raven Trilogy:
Hood
Scarlet
Tuck
Patrick, Son of Ireland
Celtic Crusades:
The Iron Lance
The Black Rood
The Mystic Rose
Byzantium
Song of Albion Trilogy:
The Paradise War
The Silver Hand
The Endless Knot
The Pendragon Cycle:
Taliesin
Merlin
Arthur
Pendragon
Grail
Avalon
Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome
Dream Thief
The Dragon King Trilogy:
In the Hall of the Dragon King
The Warlords of Nin
The Sword and the Flame
The Bright Empires Series:
The Skin Map
The Bone House
The Spirit Well
The Shadow Lamp (Sept 2013)
The Fatal Tree (Sept 2014)

To Donovan Welch
To find out more about Stephen R. Lawhead visit: www.stephenlawhead.com or: www.facebook.com/StephenRLawhead
Text copyright 1992 Stephen R. Lawhead This edition copyright 2013 Lion Hudson
The right of Stephen R. Lawhead to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Lion Fiction an imprint of Lion Hudson plc : Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England www.lionhudson.com/lion
First edition 1992
ISBN 978 1 78264 049 3 e-ISBN 978 1 78264 050 9
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover illustration: Jonathan Roberts (iStockphoto: DaddyBit/fototrav/Evgeny Kuklev)
1 Doomsayer

2 Return of the Hero

3 T n n Righ

4 The Captive Pit

5 Hunted

6 Safe Haven

7 Black Beltain

8 The Last Gorsedd

9 Cast Adrift

10 The Nemeton

11 Gofannon s Gift

12 Druim Vran

13 The Crannog

14 Visitors

15 Deadly Alliances

16 A Flight of Ravens

17 Glorious Schemes

18 The Challenge

19 Invasion

20 Great Hound of Havoc

21 Assault on Sci

22 The Rescue

23 Escape

24 Vale of Misery

25 Dinas Dwr

26 Dead Water

27 The Giant s Stone

28 Dyn Dythri

29 Blight

30 Where Two Roads Cross

31 Trafferth

32 Firestorm

33 The Word Already Spoken

34 Enigma and Paradox

35 The Gwr Gwir

36 Deadly River

37 Defeat

38 Silver Hand

39 Oran M r
Since all the world is but a story, it were well for thee to buy the more enduring story rather than the story that is less enduring.
THE JUDGMENT OF ST COLUM CILLE (St Columba of Scotland)
Hear, O Son of Albion, the prophetic word:
Sorrow and be sad, deep grief is granted Albion in triple measure. The Golden King in his kingdom will strike his foot against the Rock of Contention. The Worm of fiery breath will claim the throne of Prydain; Llogres will be without a lord. But happy shall be Caledon; the Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens, and ravensong shall be her song.
When the Light of the Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood of bards demands justice, then let the Ravens spread their wings over the sacred wood and holy mound. Under Ravens wings a throne is established. Upon this throne, a king with a silver hand.
In the Day of Strife, root and branch shall change places, and the newness of the thing shall pass for a wonder. Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face: abomination stalks the land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds.
The seas will rise up with mighty voices. Nowhere is there safe harbour. Arianrhod sleeps in her sea-girt headland. Though many seek her, she will not be found. Though many cry out to her, she cannot hear their voices. Only the chaste kiss will restore her to her rightful place.
Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness, and terrify all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will despoil the island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand. The Island of the Mighty will become a tomb.
All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire. Rise up, Men of Gwir! Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men in your midst! The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.
Hear, O Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit, and with Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.

Banf ith of Ynys Sci
W e carried the body of Meldryn Mawr down from high Findargad to be buried in the Hill of Kings. Three horses pulled the wagon: a red and a white to draw the bier, and a black to lead them. I walked at the head of the dark horse, guiding the great king s body to its rest.
Six warriors walked on either side of the bier. The horses hooves and the wagon s wheels were wrapped with rags, likewise the spears and shields of the warriors. The Llwyddi followed, each man, woman and child carrying an unlit torch.
Burial of a king has been observed in this way from time past remembering. The wheels and hooves are muffled, so that the bier may pass silently through the land; the weapons are covered and the torches unlit, so that no eye shall mark the passing procession. Secrecy and silence are maintained so that the grave mound will never be discovered and desecrated by an enemy.
As night drew its cloak of stars across the sky, we arrived at Glyn Du, a narrow valley tributary to the Vale of Modornn. The funeral procession entered the black glen, moving beside the still, dark water. The deep-folded valley was darker even than the sky above, which still glimmered in blue twilight. The grave mound loomed on its hill as a mass of thick-gathered shadow.
At the foot of Cnoc Righ, the Hill of Kings, I kindled a small fire to light the torches. As the people took their places, forming two long lines on either side of the path leading up the hill to the entrance of the cairn, the flame was passed from torch to torch. This is the Aryant Ol, the radiant way along which a king is carried to the tomb. When the people had assembled, I began the funeral rite, saying:
The sword I bear on my thigh was a wall, high and strong - the bane of marauding enemies! Now it is broken.
The torc I bear in my hand was a light of keen judgment - the beacon of rightwise favour shining from the far-off hill. Now it is extinguished.
The shield I bear on my shoulder was a platter of plenty in the hall of honour - the sustenance of heroes. Now it is riven, and the hand that upheld it is cold.
The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under earth and blue stones: Woe my heart, the king is dead.
The pale white corpse will soon be covered, amidst earth and oak: Woe my heart, the Ruler of Clans is slain.
The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under the greensward in the tumulus: Woe my heart, Prydain s chieftain will join his fathers in the Hero Mound.
Men of Prydain! Fall on your faces, grief has overtaken you. The Day of Strife has dawned! Great the grief, sharp the sorrow. No glad songs will be sung in the land, only songs of mourning. Let all men make bitter lament. The Pillar of Prydain is shattered. The Hall of Tribes has no roof. The Eagle of Findargad is gone. The Boar of Sycharth is no more. The Great King, the Golden King, Meldryn Mawr is murdered. The Day of Strife has dawned!
Bitter the day of birth, for death is its companion. Yet, though life be cold and cruel, we are not without a last consolation. For to die in one world is to be born into another. Let all men hear and remember!
So saying, I turned to the warriors at the bier and commanded them. The horses were unhitched, the wagon was raised and its wheels removed. The warriors then lifted the bier shoulder high and began to walk slowly towards the cairn, passing between the double line of torches, moving slowly up the radiant way to the grave mound.
As the bier passed, I took my place behind it and began the Lament for a Fallen Champion , singing softly, slowly, allowing the words to fall like tears into the silence of the glen. Unlike other laments, this one is sung without the harp. It is sung by the Chief Bard and, although I had never sung it, I knew it well.
It is a strong song, full of bitterness and wrath at the way in which the champion s life has been cut short and his people deprived of his valour and the shelter of his shield. I sang the lament, my voice rising full and free, filling the night with harsh and barren sorrow. There is no comfort in this song: it sings the coldness of the tomb, the obscenity of corruption, and the emptiness, waste, and futility of death. I sang the bitterness of loss and the aching loneliness of grief. I sang it all, driving my words hard and biting them between my teeth.
The people wept. And I wept too, as up and up the Aryant Ol, and slowly, slowly we approached the burial cairn. The song moved to its end: a single rising note becoming a sharp, savage scream. This represents the rage of the life cruelly cut short.
My voice rose to the final note, growing, expanding, filling the night with its ac