The Emerald Flame (24 page)

“What black bird?” asked Dera.

“Mumir the raven, which bird else?” said Branwen. “I’d hoped we were rid of that pestilence; but if Blodwedd speaks the truth, he has returned to plague us again.”

“What did he say to you?” asked Iwan.

“‘She will betray you,’
“ said Blodwedd. “Those were his words. ‘She
will betray you. She will bring death and disaster upon you. The mountain will be broken and all that live shall be devoured.’
“

“The Aesir protect us!” Asta gasped, her hands to her face. “That is a terrible prophecy indeed!”

Branwen gazed into Blodwedd’s face, disturbed that Skur’s raven still haunted them, and horribly aware of who the
she
was of whom he had spoken. But how were they to defy or escape such a dreadful foretelling?

Blodwedd pointed toward Alwyn, who was standing close by with Gavan at her side. “Surely it is
she
of whom the raven spoke!” she cried. “She is the cuckoo in the nest!”

“By the saints,” said Dera, closing her fingers around the hilt of her sheathed sword and turning to stare at Alwyn. “But this is a prophecy that can be overturned in a moment with a sharp blade.”

Gavan stepped in front of his daughter, his own sword snaking from the sheath in a swift, fluid movement. “You will not harm her, Dera ap Dagonet,” he said, his eyes deadly. “Not unless you come to her over the corpse of Gavan ap Huw!”

In a moment Dera’s sword was also bared and ready in her hand. “So be it!” she cried, lunging forward before Branwen could move to stop her.

“N
O!” SHOUTED
B
RANWEN,
jumping to her feet. “Put up your sword, Dera!”

She stepped between them, her own sword still sheathed, her arms outstretched to ward off both of them.

“There shall be no bloodshed between the peoples of Brython!” Branwen exclaimed. “If we fight among ourselves, who will reap the benefit but the greater enemy?” She looked from Gavan to Dera. “Blodwedd heard the laughter of Mumir; would you hear the guffaws of every Saxon in Mercia?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Dera! Sheath your sword! Alwyn will not be killed!”

“Is this wise counsel?” muttered Dera, and for a moment Branwen feared that the fierce girl would defy her. Then Dera shook her head and put away her sword. But her eyes were baleful as she looked at
Alwyn, the girl’s frightened face half hidden behind her father’s shoulder. “Live on for now, Alwyn ap Gavan,” Dera said. “But I am watching; and when the time comes that you betray us, I will strike you down.”

Gavan’s voice was calm and low, but filled with authority. “Branwen of the Old Ones,” he said, “you’d best tell your people to keep away from my daughter, for I’ll put to death any who touch so much as a hair of her head.”

“No one will do hurt to her; you have my word,” said Branwen. “Blodwedd is able to travel now. We should get to horse and speed our path from this land.” She looked into his glowering face. “And when the first hoof of the first horse enters Powys, we shall part, Gavan ap Huw; and I will be glad to put distance between us. Your daughter is not to be trusted, and heavy prophecies hang about her.”

“I give little heed to omens conjured by the Old Gods,” Gavan said contemptuously. He turned away from her. “Bryn! Go into the woods—call back Padrig and Dillon and Andras. This pointless sojourn is done!”

As she too turned to walk away, Branwen glanced sidelong at Alwyn and was disturbed to see a cold smile curling on her lips, as though she delighted in the conflict that she was causing.

Almost I wish I’d let Dera have her will in this. But no. Gavan’s daughter cannot be killed for fear of what she
might
do. We are close to our homeland. On the sacred soil
of Powys we shall sever this bitter alliance and ride our sundered ways, and let doom and disaster fall elsewhere as it will while we take the straight road to Merion of the Stones.

It did not take long to assemble the rest of Gavan’s and Branwen’s followers; and as though some strange animal sense brought him to them, Fain came winging out of the east just as Branwen was mounting Stalwyn, ready to leave the riverside.

He alighted on her wrist, cawing loudly.

Blodwedd was close by, seated in front of Rhodri, her thin body circled by his arms. She was pale and weak, but her eyes were bright as she listened to Fain’s news.

“None follow close behind,” Blodwedd reported. “The east is clear of foes.”

Branwen frowned. “That is good news, but puzzling also,” she said, her hand coming to rest on the curved lid of the stolen casket. “Why are they not close on our trail?”

“Perhaps because they have the wisdom to have ridden hard to block the way ahead of us,” said Gavan. “Ironfist is a canny soldier; he well knows how to outflank an enemy. Mark my words, if they are not behind us, it is because they plan to lie in wait for us on our road.”

“They have not had the time,” Branwen said stubbornly, refusing to be schooled by him. “And they do not know which path we will take.” She lifted her
voice. “Ride now!” she called. “The straight road to Powys! The straight road to home!”

“That is not wise,” said Gavan. “A winding path is the less easily tracked.”

“But takes the longest,” said Branwen. “No. The flying arrow reaches its mark the soonest.” So saying, Branwen pressed her heels into Stalwyn’s flanks, and the final stage of the ride to Powys began.

As much as Branwen desired a speedy exit from Mercia, she knew the horses could not be ridden at the canter for long periods without exhausting them. And so as the sun burned down on their backs from midway up the morning sky, they slowed their flight and took their horses at a brisk walk through groves of alder.

A wide, dense forest lay ahead; and in the far west, the mountains of Brython rose in brown sawtooth ridges and were seen often now as they came to higher ground or found a break in the canopy of the trees.

It would not be long before they came to the wilderness that formed the eastern flank of Cyffin Tir. Branwen could almost hear the calling voice of home in her mind as she rode. But the joy of going to Garth Milain and seeing her dear mother again, that would have to wait on her duty to Merion.

Fain was far behind them, sweeping the skies, watching for pursuit. He had instructions to fly to
them like an arrow if he saw so much as a Saxon horse coming out of the east.

Rhodri and Blodwedd were to one side of Branwen; Iwan and Linette rode together on the other. Gavan was some way ahead, with the stony-faced Alwyn at his back. The boys of Doeth Palas rode together and apart from the warrior maidens of Gwylan Canu, and there was clear tension between them. Branwen would be glad when the time came for them to part, and not only to be rid of Mumir’s grim prophecies.

“And you say Asta knocked Bryn out with one blow?” said Rhodri, grinning at Branwen’s tale. “She must be stronger than she looks. Very much stronger.”

“I think she is,” said Branwen, looking ahead to where the Viking girl rode behind Dera on the tall destrier. “She’d make a fine warrior! She is reconciled to the fact that she cannot go home yet awhile. But when I told her I’d have Gavan ap Huw take her to Pengwern, she said she would rather stay with us.”

“Did she, indeed?” said Iwan. “And did she give a reason for such a strange choice?”

“Is it so very strange?” asked Linette. “We ride with Branwen—why should she not?”

“Because she is not of Brython,” said Iwan. “Her homeland is far away. Why should she wish to be involved in our troubles?”

“She feels she has a debt of honor to repay,” said Branwen.

“Ahh—a debt to the slayer of Skur Bloodax,” said Iwan with a nod of understanding. “And while we speak of axes, Branwen—what would you have done with Skur’s battle-ax? Are we to keep it with us, or will Gavan ap Huw bear it to Pengwern as a war-gift to the king?”

“I have not decided yet,” said Branwen. The truth was, she had not even thought that far ahead. Escaping Mercia was the one focus of her mind.

“We should keep it,” said Linette. “It will draw warriors to our cause from all parts of the Four Kingdoms.”

“And away from the courts of the four kings,” Iwan said thoughtfully. “Is that what you want, Branwen—to set up a rival court in Powys to King Cynon’s?”

“For the moment my intent is to bring the casket to Merion and to see Caradoc of the North Wind set free,” said Branwen, uneasily aware of how closely Iwan’s question echoed the concerns that Gavan had expressed earlier.

Blodwedd spoke softly. “And when that deed is done, the Shining Ones will light our farther path,” she murmured. “Do not doubt that, Iwan ap Madoc.”

“To be sure,” muttered Iwan. “And what next tightrope would they have us walk, blindfolded and hemmed about with sharp iron?”

“We have survived thus far,” said Rhodri. “What
of faith, Iwan ap Madoc? Do you have none?”

“I prefer a clear road ahead of me, Master Runaway; that is all,” Iwan replied. “But have no fear; I will not turn from the path I have chosen.”

“Then we are marvelously blessed,” Rhodri said caustically.

“Indeed you are,” said Iwan with a laugh. “More than you deserve, I suspect!”

Their conversation was broken by Gavan turning his horse and riding back to them.

“The straight path ahead will take us into a heavily wooded vale,” he said. “It is too easy a place for an ambush. We must take the prudent way: skirt the forest and come to the border of Powys through open land.”

Branwen looked sourly at him, irritated by the peremptory tone in his voice. Ever since they had been together, he seemed to have done all that he could to undermine her authority. And still he was giving orders!

She could feel the eyes of the others on her, waiting for her to respond. A quiet voice inside her told her to swallow her pride and follow the old warrior’s advice. He had fought many campaigns in his life, and he knew all there was to know about the tactics and strategies of war. But her anger and displeasure shouted louder in her ears. It was because of Gavan ap Huw that fearful prophecies hung over their heads. It was his disbelief and disdain that made her
constantly doubt herself—and doubt her destiny.

No! Enough and more than enough! He has not gathered to himself all the wisdoms of the world! I will do as I see fit!

“We go the straight way to be in Powys the quicker,” she said, hardly able to keep the resentfulness out of her voice. “The forest is too large for us to ride around without too great a delay, and I would rather have the forest to shield our movements from prying eyes than be caught in the open.”

Gavan stared unspeakingly into her face. For a moment he hesitated, as though deciding whether to argue against her; but then he nodded curtly, turned his horse again, and rode off ahead.

Branwen felt concerned eyes on her from all sides. The decision had been made, and she could not back down now. Only by unwavering faith in herself could she keep the headstrong likes of Iwan and Dera on her side. If she showed signs of hesitation now, she might lose them—and if they deserted her, the girls of Gwylan Canu must surely follow.

Unspeaking, she urged Stalwyn on, and the small group rode into the trees and down the long slope into the last forested valley in western Mercia.

They had not been long under the thick shelter of the overarching trees when Fain came flying in from the east. Branwen lifted her arm for him, and he landed in a flurry of wings and a ferment of sharp cries.

“Saxons!” Blodwedd translated. “Many hundreds
strong. At our backs. Riding hard. Ironfist is at their head.”

“At last they come!” said Iwan. “How far distant?” Fain cried again.

“They’re not yet upon our heels, but they are moving quickly,” said Blodwedd.

“Then I chose the better path,” said Branwen, trying not to sound too relieved. “They are at our backs, and not ahead of us as Gavan ap Huw would have had us believe!” She ran a finger over the falcon’s chest feathers. “Go again, my friend. Keep watch behind. Let us know if they are gaining on us.”

With a single cry, Fain sprang up and sped away again through the trees.

Branwen lifted herself in the saddle, calling out to where Gavan and the boys rode. They were some distance ahead, following a narrow trail that wound along the valley’s floor.

“Gavan ap Huw! Ironfist is on our track! Fain has seen him riding hard with an army of hundreds in his wake!”

Gavan turned to look at her.

You were wrong, Old Warrior, and I was right!

But even as that thought rang in her head, Branwen heard the sound of voices howling and roaring from the trees all around them. Moments later the air was thick with volleys of arrows skimming in from all sides. A shaft struck Stalwyn in the neck. He reared, screaming in pain, his hooves striking the air.

As she struggled to keep balance and to draw her sword, Branwen heard the alarmed shouting of her followers. Stalwyn twisted in his agony and came crashing down onto his side, his legs kicking wildly. Branwen was thrown headlong from the saddle, and her head was dashed with brutal force against the trunk of a tree. As red lights exploded in her mind, she heard a triumphant chanting coming out of the forest.

“Redwuld! Redwuld! Redwuld!”

Gavan had been right. Ironfist’s son had ridden ahead and lain in wait for them.

Gavan had been right … and she had doomed them all….

And then, as that thought burned in her mind, the darkness took her.

B
RANWEN WAS BEING
dragged along on her back. She opened her eyes to a whirl of dappled light that floated formlessly above her. There was a lot of unfocused pain in her body and head, and the light hurt. She closed her eyes, feeling the rough ground scraping away underneath her.

Then there was stillness for a moment. She wallowed in the pain, oblivious to everything else.

“Branwen!” A voice pierced the darkness.
“Branwen!”
She felt a hard slap across her face. Her head was thundering, and there was lightning behind her eyelids.

Another slap.

She blindly raised her hand and caught the wrist. A slender wrist circled by a metal bracelet. She forced her eyes open again.

Asta was leaning over her, the long blond hair hanging, the face twisted with urgency.

“Are all others dead …?” Branwen gasped, the sick pain condensing at the base of her skull.

“No! None yet! They were aiming at the horses. I think Redwuld wants to take us alive if he can—for sport back at the camp, like as not.”

Branwen blundered to her feet. The pain in her head almost took her legs from under her. She leaned heavily on Asta. She could hear the sounds of conflict and see a blur of hectic movement through the trees.

“I dragged you away lest you be captured.” Asta’s voice was urgent. “Shield to arm and sword in hand, Branwen! You are needed in the fray!”

“Yes. Yes.” Branwen screwed her eyes tight, fighting the pain and nausea and weakness. She drew her sword and slid her shield off her back, her fingers tightening on the grip. “Give me a moment!” She took in a deep breath, feeling discomfort as her ribs expanded. “Is Stalwyn dead?”

“I don’t know. Dera and I were thrown when our horse was struck down by arrows. She rallied everyone—made a shield wall. I crawled away to find you.”

“I was wrong,” Branwen said. “Gavan knew the danger….”

“Then make amends!” snapped Asta. “You’re their leader! Save them!”

Branwen stared at the Viking maiden, surprised
by the forcefulness in her voice. But it was what she needed. It cleared her head. She took another breath and broke into a run, making for the sound of battle.

She saw Saxon horses tethered among the trees. There were bows and quivers of arrows, discarded by the Saxons after that opening volley; long-range weapons, they were of little use in close combat. The noise of battle grew. A dead horse lay close by, shot through by several arrows. Not Stalwyn—it was the horse that Aberfa and Banon had been riding. Anger began to rise in Branwen. Not anger at the butchering Saxons, but anger at herself for leading her people into this snare. She had known in her heart that Gavan was giving wise advice when he had said they should avoid this place.

She had ignored him out of stubbornness and vanity.

Now her followers were paying the price.

She came suddenly upon the dark heart of the melee. Saxons swarmed around a tight group. Swords rang. Shouts rent the air. Spears thudded into wooden shields. She saw a Saxon cut down and glimpsed Dera’s face for a moment above her shield.

Farther away, she saw Gavan fighting, with Andras and Bryn at his side. Padrig was close by, sheltering Dillon behind his shield, stabbing with his spear, his back to a tree. There was no sign of Alwyn.

Branwen lifted her shield to her eyes, her sword
drawn back over her shoulder, speeding up as she ran headlong at the bunched warriors, ready to unleash all the mayhem of Annwn on her hated enemies.

She crashed into the Saxon rear like a battering ram. Two were dead before they even had time to turn. A third twisted, his pale eyes glowing with battle-fever under the rim of his iron helmet. He stabbed at her with his spear, but her shield turned the blow and her sword sank deep into his neck, almost severing his head from his body as the blood gushed.

A sword whirled at head height. She ducked, thrusting upward under a shield rim, finding an entry through the belly. She dug in her heels, bringing her shoulder into another man’s abdomen, sending him staggering back. A blade came at her face, and she only just jerked her head aside in time to avoid certain death. Cold iron sliced her cheek. She swung her sword in a high arc, and her opponent’s sword hand was cut from the wrist. The man fell back, bellowing in agony.

Another warrior came at her, his ax cutting down toward her head, his mouth snarling in the tangle of his beard. She lifted her shield to ward off the blow, expecting the sharp iron to sink into the rim. But the ax head glanced off the shield edge, and he stumbled forward onto her poised sword.

Now she was in the thick of things, surviving on instinct alone, swords and spears and axes coming at her from all sides as she buffeted blows away with her
shield and sent the blood spraying high with the sharp edge of her sword. She heard female voices raised—her attack on the Saxon rear had put new heart into the warrior girls of Gwylan Canu. She heard Aberfa’s stentorian voice rising above all others.

“Death to the Saxons! Glory to Brython!”

A huge warrior loomed toward Branwen, his pale hair flying under his helmet, his face bestial as he jabbed his broad-bladed spear at her. She fended off the blow with her shield; but such was the strength of the man that she was sent stumbling back, her feet slipping on earth turned to bloody mud. She fell and the man was above her, snarling.

She heard the whir of an arrow. The man stood astonished for a moment, a shaft jutting from his chest. Then he crumpled and fell forward so that Branwen had to roll aside to save being crushed under him. She glanced back along the flight of the arrow and was surprised to see Asta among the trees, fitting a second arrow to a bow and letting fly.

A Saxon roared, dropping his weapons as he clutched at his face. The arrow stood out from his eye.

A hand snatched at Branwen from behind, dragging her to her feet. It was Iwan, grinning fiercely, a shallow cut along his forehead spilling blood into his eyes.

The shield wall of her followers had pushed out into the attacking Saxons, and now she was drawn in behind it.

All were there behind the raised shields—all the girls of Gwylan Canu, back to back, fighting like furies. And Iwan was with them, and Rhodri, too, swinging a captured Saxon spear like a club. Blodwedd knelt behind him, still too weak to fight. Of the whole party, only Alwyn was unaccounted for. But Branwen had scant time to wonder where Gavan’s daughter might have hidden herself.

“To Gavan ap Huw!” Branwen shouted. “Move together!”

Six shields formed a defensive ring around Branwen and the others as they pressed into the ranks of the Saxons, driving them steadily backward. And as the Saxons circled them, seeking to attack again from behind, they found themselves facing Dera and Aberfa, the first adder-quick and deadly with her sword, the second swinging Skur’s battle-ax like a reaper in the wheat field at harvesttime, sending heads leaping from shoulders, separating limbs from torsos and souls from bodies. Gavan was surrounded by the dead, standing his ground like a mighty oak, beating back all who came at him. And Andras and Bryn fought well at his side, although Branwen saw blood on Andras’s face and bloody rips in Bryn’s clothes.

“To Branwen, my lads!” shouted Gavan, seeing the ring of Branwen’s warriors approaching steadily through the tumbling ranks of the enemy.

And so the two groups came together; and with
Gavan on her left and Iwan on her right, Branwen turned defense to attack, driving the Saxons back into the trees, her feet sliding on the bloody fallen as they took the initiative.

Every now and then a Saxon would drop with an arrow in him, shot from behind by Asta as she tracked the slow progress of the battle.

Then, quite suddenly, the Saxons fell back, turning and running, leaving half of their number dead on the field. It seemed to Branwen that Redwuld Grammod had underestimated the prowess of her band—he had come here with too few warriors to gain victory over them.

“Don’t let them get away!” shouted Dera, leaping corpses as she ran in hot pursuit. “Cut them down!” Aberfa and Linette raced after her, howling in triumph.

“No!” bellowed Gavan. “Do not be drawn into the woods! We must keep together!”

“Do as he says!” shouted Branwen. “Come back!”

Dera skidded to a halt and spun around, her eyes blazing. “Will you let them escape? We can destroy them to a man!”

“Or they you, child!” boomed Gavan. “You do not know their full numbers. The retreat may be a ruse to draw us to our destruction.”

With grim faces, Dera and the others returned. Branwen turned to see Andras approaching, Dillon at his side, pale and trembling.

“They cried out Redwuld’s name,” said Iwan. “But I have not seen him.”

“Like as not he stands off in the forest with more men, hoping to draw us into a trap!” said Gavan. “How many horses are alive still? Have we enough to quit this place?” His face paled. “Where is my daughter?”

“She ran into the trees when we were first attacked,” said Aberfa. “I have seen nothing of her since.”

“Then we must seek for her!” Gavan declared.

But Branwen was hardly listening to him. Four horses lay dead on the forest floor; of the others there was no sign. Scattered in terror into the forest, she guessed. A swift gallop from danger was not an option—not unless they could make a sortie to where the Saxon horses were tethered and take some of them from the enemy.

Stalwyn lay on the ground a little way off. Motionless. No breath in his stalwart body. A stain of blood around the arrow that stood out from his neck. He was dead. Branwen knew it. Because of her obstinacy and pride a great friend was dead. It was a sight to crush the heart.

But it was a sly movement from behind the body of the fallen animal that took Branwen’s attention. The glint of a Saxon helmet, the hump of a scarlet cloak. Someone was on the ground, hiding behind the dead horse. She moved forward, sword and shield ready.

Gavan came leaping past her, springing over Stalwyn’s body, his bloodstained sword in his gnarled fist.

“Get to your feet!” he shouted.

The man rose, Caradoc’s casket half hidden in the folds of his cloak.

It was Redwuld Grammod, Ironfist’s son. Not so handsome and haughty now as he stood trembling in front of Gavan, his head bowed, his eyes full of fear. He must have secreted himself there when his warriors fled, hoping to take possession of the casket and slip away among the trees without being seen.

“Do not kill me,” said Redwuld, his eyes darting from Gavan to Branwen. “My father will pay great wergild for my safe return.”

“Then he is a fool, and his money were better thrown in the midden!” Gavan’s eyes narrowed in distaste. “I have heard tell of you, Redwuld Grammod,” he spat. “A drunkard and a braggart, so they say. And must I now add coward to the list of your inadequacies?”

“My sword is broken,” said Redwuld, his voice tight in his throat. “Would you strike down a weaponless man?”

Branwen walked around Stalwyn’s pitiful body, trying not to look at the noble creature so cruelly slain. “I’d have that casket from you, son of Ironfist,” she said.

He slid it from under his cloak. “Here, take it,” he
whined. “But have mercy and spare my life; I can do you no hurt.”

She lifted the casket out of his hands, disgusted by his cringing words. “Do you know what it contains?” she asked.

“It is a prized possession of my father,” said Redwuld. “Some relic of victory from the distant past given to him by King Oswald as a token of good luck in the war. I have never seen it opened.”

“Think yourself lucky you have not,” said Branwen. “Your men have taken to their heels and deserted you, Redwuld Grammod. What treatment do you believe you deserve at our hands?”

Redwuld looked into her face, his lips quivering. “You are the one my father spoke of,” he said, falling to his knees. “The
waelisc
shaman! Do not set demons upon me! Take me prisoner if you must, but do not slay me, I beg you.”

Branwen turned away, sickened by his cowardice. “I would not soil my blade with such as you,” she said.

“You will not be killed,” said Gavan. “You will be bound and taken to King Cynon, and he will do justice on you, son of Ironfist, chicken-hearted child of a formidable father!”

“Thank you!” gasped Redwuld, falling onto his face at Gavan’s feet. “A blessing on your mercy!”

A shrill voice sounded from among the trees. “Do not kill him!”

Branwen turned to see Alwyn rushing from some hiding place, her face distraught as she looked at her humbled lover.

Gavan turned to her, his eyes blazing with anger. “Do you see him?” he cried. “On his knees in the dirt, craven and broken although no hurt has been done to him? Is this the man you would wed, Alwyn? Is this the creature for whom you would forsake your homeland?”

“Ware!” shouted Rhodri. “Gavan—
beware!”

Branwen spun around, alarmed by the panic in Rhodri’s voice. Redwuld had risen to his feet at Gavan’s back, his cloak thrown open, a seax glinting in his fist. His face vicious and exultant, he thrust the knife into Gavan’s back, driving it in hard to the hilt, twisting it as the old warrior arched backward with a cry of agony.

“Treacherous dog!” Aberfa’s voice rang out in horror. Her arm drew back, and she let a javelin fly. It skimmed Gavan’s shoulder and sank into Redwuld’s throat, the narrow iron tip emerging from the back of his neck in a cascade of blood.

In two bounds Branwen was at Gavan’s side, her arms out to support him as he fell backward. But he was too heavy for her; and as he fell, she was dragged down to the ground with him, dimly aware of a thud as Redwuld struck the ground.

A piercing shriek rang out. “No!”

Shaking with dread and anguish, Branwen fought
to get to her knees, dragging Gavan’s head into her lap, leaning close over him.

“Have no fear,” she gasped, her voice choking in her throat. “All’s well. Rhodri will save you!” She lifted her head, her eyes blinded by tears. “Rhodri! Quickly! He is badly hurt!”

Alwyn came to a stuttering halt, standing there for a moment among the carnage, swaying, her face white, her grieving eyes moving from Gavan to Redwuld. Then with a groan she fell to her knees at her father’s side, her face wrung with agony, tears flooding her cheeks. “Father, no! Father—please …”