Iwan splashed water from the trough on his face. He had been drinking away his profits from the sale of the last of the year's beef herd, at the bar of the Bridge Inn since noon. The inn had closed and now he was taking in the fresh and bracing night air blowing up the river Tywyll with the tide to clear his head.

Iwan felt he was being watched. He took up his stout hazel staff and turned to face a short, rat-like featured man with white eyebrows and beard, dressed in what looked to him like the robe of a monk in a deep purple colour. Iwan challenged the man.

'What business do you have with me old man?'

The man, in a voice that creaked like the ancient thing it was, quoth thus;
'Do not take it amiss. If you will only answer my questions and take my advice, I will be of greater use to you than your young mind can fancy, Iwan Son of Rhisiart.'

Iwan gazed with suspicion upon the ancient.
'You know me?'

asked Iwan, surprised at the fear in his voice. The old one responded with;
'You remember where you cut that staff?'

Iwan intrigued, but still suspicious, asked of the timeworn one;
'What does it matter where I cut it?'
'It matters...'

said this stranger,
'... because there is a great treasure secreted near the site where you cut that staff. The magic powers that guard it have been absorbed into its very fibres through the roots. I can taste them on the air. If you remember the place and can take me to it, I shall put you in possession of great riches.'

Iwan now knew why he had felt fear of the wizened and gnarled old rattish man; he was in the presence of a warlock. On the one hand, thought Iwan, there is the prospect of wealth; on the other hand, Iwan knew the sorcerer must have derived his knowledge from arcane sources, and he feared to have anything to do with such dark powers. The cunning man strove hard to persuade him and, at length, appealed to the greed and promise of riches that Iwan felt and had him agree to show the place where he had cut his hazel staff.

Iwan and the magus took conveyance by night together to an isolated hill known as The Craig at the head of a valley. Indicating a blackened root of an old hazel, Iwan said,
'This is where I cut my stout stick.'

The thaumaturgist reached beneath his flowing cape and produced a spade,
'You must dig.'

Thus Iwan dug until he came to a broad, flat, polished obsidian slab.
'Give me your staff, Iwan,'

commanded the master of magicks.

Iwan would do as he was bid, inside him a seething hate boiled, mixing with a deep-seated fear of what was to come. But, as he had slept on the journey to The Craig, the sorcerer had taken his life, his soul. And Iwan was now his to command. He passed the hazel staff he had cut on this spot years before to the thaumaturgist who answered to no name, no man and not even to the laws of nature. The wizard brought down the staff upon the stone three times with some force before uttering words of power and repeating the process three times. What was once a seamless slab parted beneath the man and the warlock. They fell, finding themselves upon some steps leading downwards. They went down these steps and along a broad corridor that lead them too a great door.

'Are you a stout-hearted man?'

asked the sorcerer,
'If I return your soul will you come in with me?'
'I will,'

said Iwan. Curiosity, the desire to have his soul returned to him and, mostly, his greed getting the better of his fear.
'This door can only be opened by Merlin's key,'

said the enchanter, reaching once more beneath his long purple cape and producing a small silver key.

The enchanter uttered words of power and a keyhole appeared. He placed the key inside and turned it. The door swung open heavily. A great cave opened out before them. There was the flickering light of torches in the cave, and they could see far away into the distance. Farther, thought Iwan, than could possibly be under the Craig.

As Iwan and the magus walked cautiously into the chasm they came to a huge bell.
'Do not touch that bell,'

said the sorcerer,
'or it will be all over for the both of us.'

Beyond the bell Iwan could see there were warriors lying down asleep upon straw - he thought there must be thousands of them. Each one a knight clad in armour. The shining shield of each was on his arm, the sword of each was near his hand and each had his spear stuck in the ground near where he slept. As they reached the middle of the cave there was a grand round table and, sat about it, warriors in ceremonial armour. On a golden throne on the further side of the round table was a King of gigantic stature and august presence. All were asleep. Before the King lay a simple sword of indescribable beauty that seemed to have a light of its own and, upon his head, was a simple crown of gold that also seemed to have its own luminescence.

'Those are Arthur's Knights. Owain, the son of Urien; Cai, the son of Cynyr; Gwalchmai, the son of Gwyar; Peredur, the son of Efrawc; Geraint, the son of Erbin; Trystan, the son of March; Bedwyr, the son of Bedrawd; Cilhwch, the son of Celyddon; Edeyrn, the son of Nudd; Cynon, the son of Clydno. And on the golden throne is Arthur himself with his sword Excalibur lying before him.'

said the sorcerer in hushed and fearful tones.
'They sleep, waiting for the time to come when the bell will toll and they shall awaken to destroy all the enemies of Cymry and repossess the Island of Britain and the Celtic lands, establishing their own King once more at Caer Lleon.'
'Why do you whisper if only the bell can wake them?'

asked Iwan.
'Because I am afraid,'

replied the sorcerer.
'the magic here is most potent.'
'How long have they been asleep?'

Asked a breathless Iwan, fascinated by the sight of the countless soldiers in their still shining arms, all asleep.
'For over a thousand years!'

came an impatient reply.
'We must gather our riches and leave.'

The sorcerer walked to one of the heaps of golden coinage that lay about the cavern, seemingly at random, and began to fill a flaxen sack. Iwan did likewise. When both had all they could carry they made their way back to the doorway by which they had entered, each with a sack full of ancient gold over his shoulder. But, as they crossed the threshold of the great door, the two figures crumbled into thin dust...

The great door swung closed, as did the obsidian slab. A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea came over the cave. A pair of small cat-like eyes went unseen shining in the dark and quiet laughter like that of a baby went unheard. The elfin figure that was the source of these darted back into the moving shadows of the cavern.

Stealth Kam

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