The Emerald Flame (11 page)

“Aye, they should!” said Dera. “His severed head on a pole would do the trick!” She paced along his body, her sword ready.

“No, I’d take a less grisly trophy,” said Branwen, looking away—heartsick now at the sight of so much spilled blood.

“His ax!” said Banon, running forward, gripping the great double-headed battle-ax with both hands and yanking its blade from the ground. “We should take his ax!” She hefted it in her hands. “By the saints! It’s a heavy beast of a weapon! I can hardly lift it!”

“Arms like knotted twine you have!” said Aberfa with a slow smile, taking the huge battle-ax out of Banon’s hands and swinging it around her head. “A worthy weapon for a champion,” she said, bringing it to rest on her shoulder.

“And it has the mark we were told of,” said Linette. “The raven in flight cut into the head. No Saxon seeing it will doubt that the Viking warrior is slain!”

Branwen looked at the engraving etched deep into the gray iron of the twin blades. It was Mumir to the very life: the wings spread wide, the eyes blazing, the claws extended, and the beak wide as though screaming defiance. A fine artist had done this work; and even though Skur was dead and the raven gone, the cruel image sent a shiver down Branwen’s spine.

But it also brought something else to the forefront of her mind.

“Where is the woman he traveled with?” she asked, turning and staring along the valley. “And where is his horse?”

“We must find them,” said Rhodri. “The woman may need our aid—and we shall at least have the pleasure of telling her that her master is dead.”

“Rhodri, Blodwedd—come with me,” said Branwen. “The rest of you, go fetch our horses. Strip this Viking of anything we may be able to make use of. The rest we will leave as carrion for the forest beasts to devour. Aberfa—keep charge of the ax for now, if you will.” She looked up through the branches. The sun was halfway down the western sky. The day was wearing away. With Skur dead, she now had time to give thought to their other mission. “We have already been detained too long by this; I’d still have us in Chester ere nightfall, but we will need to travel more swiftly now, I think.”

Blodwedd ran ahead of Branwen and Rhodri, racing lightly through the sea of ferns, her head turning from side to side, searching for some sign of the woman and the Viking’s horse.

“Thank you,” Branwen said quietly to Rhodri as they followed the owl-girl.

“For what?” Rhodri asked.

“For being yourself,” Branwen replied. “For trusting that I was still your friend under all this gore.”

“We have come through a lot, we two,” Rhodri said. “Did you think I would lose faith in you?”

“Rhodri?” her voice was solemn now. “I truly felt that some power was trying to take my mind from me,” she said. “What if Gavan was right—what if the Shining Ones are turning me into something … something other than human?”

“That will never happen,” said Rhodri. “I will not allow it!”

“Really?” She was almost amused by this. “How would you prevent it?”

“Did I not tell you, Branwen?” he said, his eyes gleaming as he looked into her face. “I have gifts passed down the generations from my remote ancestors. The gift of healing for one, as you already know. And others I have not yet tested, I am sure.” He arched an eyebrow. “I have Druid blood in me, Branwen.”

She looked dubiously at him. “Rhodri … that cannot be true …!” So far as she knew, the Romans had eradicated the Druids five hundred or more years ago.

“It is true, or so my mother believed,” he said. “I told you my father’s kin farmed land by the sea in the west of Gwynedd, didn’t I?”

“Yes, in Cefn Boudan—I remember. So?”

He smiled. “Cefn Boudan is but a short way by boat from the island of Ynis Môn—where the Druid priesthood made its last stand against the Roman legions in the ancient times. My kin fled the island
and renounced the old ways. But blood is blood, and I surely have powers enough in me to prevent you from turning to evil!”

Branwen stared at him, unsure whether he was telling her a true story or making up nonsense to take her mind off her troubles.

“How is it you never mentioned this before, Rhodri?” she asked, far from convinced.

“Why would I?” he replied. “The Druids worshipped the Old Gods, Branwen. You were at war with Rhiannon of the Spring when we met that second time in the forest outside Doeth Palas. You would not have wished to be my friend had you known I was descended from Druids, and I very much wished to be
your
friend.” His eyes were cautious. “Only now that you have finally accepted the Shining Ones as your allies am I able to tell you the truth.” He looked pensively at her. “Are we still to be friends?”

She frowned. “Do you have any other secrets I should know?”

“I hope not.”

“Then we are friends.” She shook her head. “And as for this Druid power you speak of—I’d say the blood of the Old Priesthood must have been thinned more than somewhat over the centuries, Rhodri. Were I you, I would not be too hopeful of working wonders in their name!”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “In which case you will need to rely only on my friendship to save you if
the battle-madness takes you again.”

She smiled grimly. “That I
shall
do,” she said.

“And I would …”

“Here!” Blodwedd called, her voice breaking into Branwen’s comments. “I see the steed!” The owl-girl had gone bounding away to the left, moving up into the trees that grew on the flanks of the valley. “And the captive human is here, too!”

They came upon the horse, tethered to a tree limb. He was a tall bay destrier—a powerful and muscular war-horse, black for the most part but with a white star on his forehead and feathery white hair around his fetlocks. His saddle was hung with leather and linen sacks, bulging with food and other provisions for the journey that Branwen’s sword had cut short.

The captive was lying close by, bound hand and foot and with a linen gag wound around the lower half of her face. And she was a young woman, as Branwen now saw, but a few years older than Branwen herself.

Blodwedd knelt at the captive’s side, stooping over her and untying the knots that held her gag. Branwen saw dread fill the young woman’s eyes as she stared up into Blodwedd’s face.

Of course! It was Blodwedd’s inhuman eyes that filled the young woman with fear.

Branwen stepped forward. “Do not be afraid of her,” she said. “She will do you no harm.”

The young woman’s eyes turned to Branwen just as the gag came loose.

She screamed, writhing on the ground as though straining desperately to get away despite the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles.

“Be calm!” Branwen said. “There’s nothing to fear. Skur is dead—you are in no danger now!”

But the terrified captive just kept screaming, twisting and turning on the ground so that it was impossible for Blodwedd to work on the knotted ropes that held her.

“What is wrong with her?” Branwen asked, looking at Rhodri. “Is her mind gone? Has Skur destroyed her reason?”

“I suspect she thinks you are some demon from the depths of Annwn,” Rhodri replied. “You are not a comforting sight, Branwen!”

“Oh!” Branwen looked down at herself. She was drenched in Skur’s blood. It clung in thick clots in the folds of her clothes. It was sticky between her fingers. It clogged in her hair, gluing stray locks to her forehead and cheeks. It was on her lips, tasting and smelling of metal.

Yes, Rhodri was right—to the poor bound captive, she must look like something spewed up from the deepest pits of the Underworld!

“Blodwedd—come away,” Branwen called. “We are scaring her. Let Rhodri minister to her.”

As soon as Branwen and Blodwedd moved away from the young woman, she began to grow calmer, but her face was still full of panic, and her chest rose
and fell rapidly as she stared at them with round, haunted eyes.

“I must find water to wash this filth off me,” Branwen muttered.

Blodwedd lifted her head and snuffed the air. “I smell fresh water,” she said. “Come away—I’ll lead you to it.”

“Look after her,” Branwen called to Rhodri. Rhodri nodded, kneeling by the young woman’s side. “There’s nothing to fear now. You’re among friends,” Branwen heard him saying, his voice gentle and soothing.

Branwen followed Blodwedd along the steep slope of the valley side. The owl-girl seemed to have an unerring notion of where she was going, and it was not long at all before Branwen heard the first silvery chime of trickling water.

It was a small spring, cascading down a mossy rock face and splashing into a natural bowl formed by a hollowed stone. From there the pool of clear dancing water spilled over a green lip of rock and soaked away into the boggy ground.

Branwen knelt, scooping up the water in both hands. It was cold, but it felt good to splash it on her face and to feel the gore being washed away.

While Branwen cleansed herself, Blodwedd climbed onto a high point of rock above the spring and squatted there, gazing up into the treetops with a wistful look in her great amber eyes.

She misses her old life. She’s not alone in that! This destiny of mine has pulled all of us up by the roots.

Branwen cupped more water, pouring it over her arms and her clothes, watching the congealed blood dissolve into carmine streams that dyed the moss at her feet a deep purple hue.

“Blodwedd?”

The owl-girl’s round face turned to her, framed in tawny hair, the nose a sharp line, the mouth small and pointed—the eyes like golden suns.

“Yes, Branwen?”

“Do you think you made the right choice?” Branwen asked. “Do you ever wish you could take it back and be an owl again?”

“I wish it every day,” Blodwedd replied. “I wish it when I hear the rustle of some small creature moving in twilight through the forest. I wish it when dusk comes. I wish it in the silent time before dawn. I wish it when I spy a bird on the wing, soaring high in the evening sky.” She extended an arm, staring at it as if, for a moment, she did not quite know what it was. “I wish it when this stretched and brittle and spindly shape grows weary and cold at night.” She lifted her hand to her face, flexing her fingers in front of perplexed eyes. “I was never cold at night till I was given this form,” she said, her gaze turning suddenly to Branwen. “If not for Rhodri’s warmth after nightfall, I think I might freeze to death.” She pulled her dress up over her thighs, running her long white nails over her taut skin. “This is an unpleasant rind!” she said.

“Unbeautiful! Nasty to the touch.” She sighed, covering her legs again. “I’d have my feathers back!”

Branwen knelt, dripping pink water, gazing up at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She had assumed that the affection between Rhodri and Blodwedd might eventually lead to something deeper, but how could that ever be if the owl-girl found the human form ridiculous and human skin revolting?

Blodwedd’s head tilted as she looked down at her. “You need not pity me, Branwen,” she said. “Every choice must bear its burden; you of all folk should know that. It’s true that I long to be what I once was, but I do not regret my decision. I did my duty by the land of my birth, and I accept the consequences.” She pointed down at Branwen, her voice losing its melancholy air. “The blood is still thick in your hair—shall I help you wash it out?”

“Yes. Yes, please, if you will.”

Blodwedd came bounding down the rock.

“And then we shall return to that pale creature and learn whether the sight of you unbloodied is more appealing to her,” she said with a sharp and pointed smile.

“Let us hope so,” said Branwen, stooping over the pool and letting her hair hang into the turbulent water. Her voice lowered to a murmur. “If I ever am truly cleaned of so much blood!” She closed her eyes as Blodwedd began pouring the icy water over her head. “So very much blood!”

“S
EE!” SAID RHODRI.
“What did I tell you—Branwen is no demon at all!”

Rhodri’s words greeted the arrival of Branwen and Blodwedd back at the place where they had left him and the young woman. Branwen’s hair and clothes were wet; but with Blodwedd’s help she had managed to get rid of most of the blood, and she did not rue the exchange, especially on such a warm afternoon.

They found the frightened captive unbound, on her feet and looking much recovered.

“No,” the young woman said hesitantly. “I see now that she is not.” Her eyes turned to Blodwedd. “But what manner of …?”

“Blodwedd is also a friend,” Rhodri said quickly.

“I killed Skur Bloodax,” Branwen said. “You need have no fear of any of us.” She eyed the young woman curiously. “But what is your tale, lady? How
did you fall foul of the Viking warrior?”

A few things Branwen thought she could already guess. The young woman was slender, her compact body lean and firm as if she was used to physical work. Blond hair curled to her shoulders; and her pale face was delicate, her dark blue eyes wide, her lips full, and her cheeks dimpled.

These were not the features of a woman of Brython. Her skin and hair were fairer than those of most of the Saxons Branwen had seen. No, if she were to guess, she’d say that the woman was also pure Viking stock—perhaps brought here from the Northlands to do Skur’s bidding. Her clothing was certainly that of a servant: a simple gown of patched and threadbare gray, and worn leather shoes on her feet, the stitches beginning to come apart with age.

She did have one item of jewelry—a dull metal torque wound about her right wrist. Some family heirloom, perhaps, too lacking in value to have been worth stealing from her.

“My name is Asta Aeslief,” the young woman said. “And Skur Bloodax was my abductor and my torturer, although it is not many days since I was happy and secure in my home, and much loved by my poor father.”

“And where is your home?” asked Branwen. “Rhodri? Bring the horse—we shall walk as Asta tells us more. I would know how it is that you speak our language when you clearly hail from lands far from here.”

As Branwen led the others down to the valley floor, Asta continued her tale. “My home these days is not so very distant. I live upon the island of Lindisfarne, which lies off the east coast of Northumbria. My father is a scribe—a great scholar and lore-master. It is he who taught me to speak your language, and the language of many of the folk who dwell here: Saxon, Angle, Jute, and Dane.” She looked astutely at Branwen. “As you have guessed, I am not native to this land. My father brought me here as a child from our home in the Norselands. I was born in the kingdom of Vyiken; but on the death of my mother, my father took to the road, and me along with him. For some years we dwelt at the court of King Harhoff in the Danelands, till we took ship for Lindisfarne, where my father was to serve King Oswald as a translator of languages.”