The Emerald Flame (15 page)

The crystals were working their magic.

“A horn of beer, my merry maid!” the man shouted in her face. “We shall soon drink our beer from the skulls of the
waelisc
barbarians, so our lords and masters say; but for now a horn of beer will quench the thirst just as well!”

Branwen shook her head, gesturing to dismiss him as she gripped Blodwedd hard and moved away from the overbearing ale-monger.

Waelisc.
She had heard the word quite clearly in her head, but the magic of Merion’s stones gave it
meaning:
foreigners.
It was clear whom the man had meant by
“waelisc
barbarians"—he had meant the people of Brython. The Saxon was referring to her people as foreigners!

“How are
we
the foreigners?” she murmured to Blodwedd. “They are the outsiders!”

“Humans have short memories,” Blodwedd whispered back. “At first they come as raiders and pirates. Then they return as invaders and conquerors. And at the last they become settlers and lawmakers and kings, driving out those who came before them. It’s always the way.” She looked up at Branwen, and her eyes could just be seen as glittering points under her hood. “It is the restless nature of humans that the Old Gods fear,” she confided. “Always on the move, never content—hacking and devouring their way through the land, leaving scorched earth in their wake—caring for nothing but themselves.”

The marketplace was a maelstrom of buying and selling, but from what little Branwen could hear, much of the talk was of the war and the difficulties of feeding an army camped on their doorstep and how all the best goods and animals were being bought up cheaply by Thain Herewulf’s quartermasters, leaving only scraps and dregs for the ordinary townsfolk.

“The warriors of the thain’s household are bad enough,” she heard one disgruntled woman say. “But the sooner the
fyrd
—those good-for-nothing common levies—are up off their backsides and
across the river, the better. They eat us out of house and home! I wish to the earth mother, Nerthus, that this war would be over soon!”

“Aye,” agreed her companion. “We give our husbands and sons to the great endeavor, but we see little good for all the blood that is spilt!” She lowered her voice, and Branwen had to strain to hear. “Leave the barbarian
waelisc
to their inhospitable mountains, I say. I’d not live there!”

“I could almost pity them,” said the first. “King Oswald will not rest till the last of them is meat for the crows; and yet what harm have they done us, I ask? A poor, meager, uncultured world it is that they inhabit, Wotan bless their savage souls!”

Branwen was amazed and a little stunned by what she had heard. Brought up to believe that the Saxons were the aggressors, it was bewildering to hear two Saxon women speaking in such a way!

The two walked away from the heart of the market. “Well, this is a marvel such as I have never seen!” said Blodwedd. “What can it be?”

Branwen stared at the thing that had taken Blodwedd’s attention. It was a huge, ruinous stone edifice—an immense ring of broken gray stone walls divided by thick rounded columns that jutted out like the trunks of huge trees. At their highest the crumbling stone walls reared up almost as tall as the hill of Garth Milain. It stood aloof from any houses, inhabiting a waste of rubble and unused land as
though the Saxons feared it.

“Giants!” Branwen gasped, walking toward the impossible building. “It must be true that the Romans were giants!” Why else would the building be so huge?

“It fills me with foreboding,” said Blodwedd, gazing at the noble ruin with haunted eyes. “It puts images in my mind!” She threw her hands over her eyes. “Dreadful sights! Impossible things!”

“What things?” Branwen asked.

“I see vast dwelling places where all the buildings are as high as this, and higher still!” moaned Blodwedd. “I see houses of iron that rise up taller than mountains! They are polished like silver, and the sun strikes off their walls! Humans swarm in them like wasps in a great nest. Oh, Govannon, Govannon, let it never be!”

“Softly now, Blodwedd,” said Branwen, concerned that the owl-girl might be overheard. But Blodwedd’s voice rose to a frightened wail.

“I see arrowheads of iron high in the sky, gouging white furrows across the blue! Iron dragons breathe fire and smoke in the streets! The lights are bright and hard, and they do not flicker. It is the end of times! It is the death of all things!”

“Blodwedd!” Branwen pulled the owl-girl’s hands from her eyes. “Calm down!” she whispered, looking anxiously around them. “You draw too much attention to us!” Fortunately, they had come to a place where there were fewer people to notice them. Besides this, as
Branwen now became aware, most of the nearby folk were turning their faces toward the market square and seemed to be listening to something that was being shouted through the streets.

“I am sorry,” said Blodwedd, her face dreadfully pale. “Would that I never saw such things!”

“Shhh!” Branwen was straining to hear what was being shouted. A single word, possibly—or two short words shouted together, over and over. And as the chanting grew, so more people joined in, until even the folk around Branwen and Blodwedd were shouting out the same thing.

And now Branwen could hear what was being shouted.

“Iron-fist! Iron-fist! Iron-fist!”

A man came running along the street, his voice excited.

“Thain Herewulf has returned!” he called to anyone who would listen. “His ship has docked! He is entering the town! Let us hope he brings news of a great victory!”

“Iron-fist! Iron-fist! Iron-fist!”

“No! It isn’t possible,” gasped Branwen. “Ironfist is dead!

And then she remembered the ship that Blodwedd had seen on the river. A ship from the north—from the open sea. A ship such as had attacked Gwylan Canu.

Could it be that the Saxon warlord had survived the fall from the cliffs?

She had to know if her enemy lived or not!

She caught hold of Blodwedd’s hand and, breaking into a run, swept along with the flood of people heading for the gates. All around her the exultant voices chanted till she could not tell the difference between their jubilant voices and the pounding of her own heart.

“Iron-fist! Iron-fist! Iron-fist!”

I
T WAS ALL
Branwen could do to keep a tight hold on Blodwedd as the packed crowds drew them back through the market square and along the narrowing street that led to the gatehouse. The noise of the braying voices was deafening, the press and scrum of bodies oppressive and overpowering. Branwen could not have fought her way out of the excited mob if she had tried. Keeping to her feet was challenge enough!

She managed to pull Blodwedd in front of her, circling the owl-girl’s thin body with her arms, pressing her mouth to the side of the down-drawn hood.

“All will be well,” she cried over the blare of voices. “Stay with me!”

Blodwedd’s hand gripped her arm, the long nails digging in like thorns.

Then the crowd came to a seething halt. They were
in the open space just inside the wooden gatehouse.

The mass of people were looking up, every one of them struggling for a better vantage point, every one of them chanting and stamping their feet.

“Iron-fist! Iron-fist! Iron-fist!”

Branwen’s eyes were drawn to the top of the gatehouse.

A solitary man stood there, dark and imposing against the white sky, his feet planted firmly apart, his arms spread wide.

It was General Ironfist. Her great enemy had survived.

His fine red cloak was gone, as was his iron helmet with its silver and gold adornments. He wore still his coat of chain mail over the brown leather jerkin; but his clothes were dirtied, bloodied, and torn. And his face was terribly scarred, the right side of his face scored to the bone, his right eye socket a raw, red hole. The other eye, blue as ice, gleamed with twice the energy and mettle as though to make up for its lost companion. Nevertheless, he still carried with him the aura of power and command.

Branwen’s mind fled back to the headland of Gwylan Canu, where she and Ironfist had fought. She saw herself—weaponless, in pain, lifting her shield in desperation as he lunged at her with sword swinging. And then there had come the shrieking and the clawing and the beating of ferocious wings.

Fain! Flying into the Saxon warlord’s face, saving
her from certain defeat—from a bad death at the brutal general’s hands.

So, these were the wounds that Fain had inflicted on him!
Good!
Branwen stared with a stony heart at Ironfist’s injuries!
Good! I wish they had been worse!

I wish they had been the death of him!

But no—he lived. Perhaps it was that his own gods had protected him. But whatever the cause and as impossible as it seemed, he had lived through the long fall from the cliff. Yes, now she thought again, at least one ship had survived Govannon’s onslaught. Ironfist must have found the endurance to swim to it, curse him!

Bronze trumpets blared. Ironfist stepped to the edge of the gatehouse wall, his arms lifted for silence.

The crowd became mute. Expectant. Thrilling with anticipation.

“I bring woeful tidings, my people!” Ironfist bellowed. “By cowardice and treachery and by the use of sinister and fearful powers, the
waelisc
barbarians were able to cling for a brief time to their citadel on the sea!”

There were cries and murmurs of disbelief and distress from the throng. Ironfist silenced them with a gesture.

“Our warriors fell upon the savage enemy with stout hearts and stiffened sinews, each man prepared to give his life to defend our homeland!” cried Ironfist. “The
waelisc
cowards quaked at the sight of
us, and the knocking of their knees as we approached was like the rattling of stones down a mountainside. Their strongest warriors quailed as we called out our honorable challenges, and many threw down their weapons and fell to their knees begging us for mercy!”

Branwen seethed with anger at this. Such lies! Such contemptible lies!

“We offered them fair and honorable treatment if they surrendered to us,” Ironfist continued. “We told them that all their crimes against us would be forgiven if they laid down their arms and came forth.” His voice rose to a roar. “Lifelong servants they would be—prisoners of war; but not one would be harmed, not one slain without cause, for are we not a humane and enlightened people? Are we not civilized? Are we not merciful, even to those who seek to do us great hurt?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” howled the crowd.

No! This is madness!

“For a time they treated with us, spinning lies and deceits as they delayed us at their gates,” shouted Ironfist when the noise had subsided. “Would that I had better understood the sly and treacherous nature of the barbarian rats! Would that I had known what was to come!”

The incensed silence of the crowd was palpable now; Branwen could feel it like a brewing thunderstorm.

“All their cunning words had but one purpose,” cried Ironfist. “To delay us until the spells and
conjurations of their foul shamans were complete! For while we negotiated still at their gates, discussing terms with their leaders in good faith and in the hope that bloodshed could be avoided, there came down upon us from their black mountains a deadly army of demons and monsters!”

The crowd murmured angrily, and curses and threats rose up around Branwen.

If they knew who we were, they would tear us to pieces! Let us hope that Merion’s stones do not fail us now!

“We knew it not until that moment, but one of the most terrible of their shamans was lurking behind the walls of their fortress! Like a girl she looks, dark haired and grim of feature, with eyes like sullen storm clouds and her mind a black gulf, filled with evil. Branwen ap Griffith is her name, curse the devilish powers that she worships!”

Branwen reeled at the sound of her own name, hardly able to believe the grotesque falsehoods that the Saxon general was spinning. She felt suddenly exposed and horribly vulnerable. Blodwedd pressed against her, trembling violently—petrified in this throng of angry enemies. The muttering of the crowd began to rise, but Ironfist stretched out his arms and lowered his hands, subduing the noise again.

“Even as the demons fell upon us from behind, I offered single combat with their greatest warrior, still hoping to save lives,” shouted Ironfist, one foot coming up on the rim of the wall. “But it was the inhuman
shaman, Branwen ap Griffith, who answered my call; and as we fought, so the demon hordes came among us, thirsty for blood, merciless and cruel! Almost I bested her, despite the great and dark powers she served, and in the end it was only by calling down a demon of the air upon me that she was able to escape my righteous wrath!” He gestured toward his ruined face. “These wounds it inflicted before I slew it! And I would have fought on and slain the evil shaman, but my men begged me to draw away from the field of battle, to take ship and to save myself so that I would be able to rally new armies and return again to defeat our enemy!”

There were shouts and oaths from the crowd, and this time Ironfist allowed them to voice their outrage for a short while before silencing them again.

“And so I return to you, bloodied but unbowed!” he roared, lifting his fists to the sky. “This is but a temporary setback, my good Saxon people! Too honest, too trustworthy we were! We shall not make that mistake a second time! When next we march upon the barbarians, their wickedness and treachery will not prevail! We will have victory! Full and final victory! And then we shall wipe even the memory of their cowardly race from the world! You have my word on that! You have the word of Thain Herewulf Ironfist!”

The crowd erupted, and for a long while Ironfist stood above them, his arms raised, urging them on
till Branwen had to lift her arms from around the shivering owl-girl and put her hands over her ears to keep out the noise.

At last Ironfist waved his arms for silence.

“As you know, the seeds of our final victory have already been sewn,” he shouted. “Even now the mighty warrior Skur Bloodax comes to us from his homeland across the North Sea! And as soon as Skur arrives, a new army will march forth from this place; and that time, my friends and my comrades, I will return to you with glad news!”