The Emerald Flame (25 page)

Through the veil of her tears, Branwen was aware of people surrounding her.

“The cur Redwuld is dead,” she heard Dera exclaim. “A curse on us that we did not finish him ere he gave this dolorous blow!”

“Alwyn?” Gavan’s voice was like the last flicker of a dying candle, thin but clear in Branwen’s ears.

“Yes, Father. I am here.” Alwyn’s voice cracked as she caught up Gavan’s trailing hand.

A pale smile lit the old warrior’s face for a moment.

“Tell … Branwen ap … Griffith …” He coughed, and there was blood on his lips. “Tell her … to be true … to … her people….” He paused, blood bubbling. “Tell her to go to … the … king….” Another pause, and now his breathing was rapid and shallow.

“I am here, Gavan ap Huw!” Branwen said,
weeping. But he did not hear her.

“Tell her … if she honors me … she will do as I ask…. She will ally herself with King … Cynon….”

Gavan’s gray eyes opened wide and he seemed to be looking into Branwen’s eyes, but she knew that he did not see her.

“I come …,” he whispered, and there was a strange gladness and peace in his voice now. “You have waited long, my love … my wife … my dearest one … but your wait is … done…. I … am … coming….”

And as those words trailed from his lips like the last wisps of a dying fire, Branwen saw the light go out of his eyes. There was a final soft breath and then a great aching stillness and the lifeless weight of his head on her knees.

A red storm came racing into Branwen’s head. Lightning forked. Thunder growled and roared. The old warrior was dead.

An unquenchable pain swelling in her chest, Branwen lifted her head and howled her impotent anger to the sky.

“W
E CANNOT LEAVE
our master to lie among the Saxon carrion,” exclaimed Bryn, his voice distraught as he shouted into Branwen’s face. “Gavan ap Huw must be buried with all honor! You owe him that much—his death is on your hands!”

Branwen looked blankly at him. She felt numbed. Her heart was a stone in her chest. The grief and the guilt had been too much to bear; all that was human in her seemed to have fled her with Gavan ap Huw’s last breath.

She was standing a little way from the old warrior’s body although she had no clear memory of having moved from his side. Alwyn was kneeling over him still, holding his one hand in both of hers, her bowed face hidden behind hanging hair. Branwen could hear her sobbing. The others stood around in
shock and disbelief, unspeaking, their eyes hollow, faces pale and drawn.

“We have no time for such niceties,” said Dera, coming to Branwen’s side. “There are Saxons still in the forest—and many more riding us down out of the east, if the falcon is to be believed. If we linger here now, our bones will lie in this place forever.”

Branwen turned to her. The fierce warrior girl’s emotions were etched deeply in her face, but the fire in her eyes did nothing to awaken Branwen’s stupefied feelings. “We could build a pyre of fresh-cut logs,” she murmured dully. “There is wood enough to hand. The old warrior could be laid on the top—as my brother, Geraint, was laid on the pyre below the hill of Garth Milain.”

Dera stared at her, and now there was confusion and anxiety in her face. “What are you saying?” she asked. “We do not have the time to build a funeral pyre!”

Rhodri stepped forward. “We need horses if we’re to reach the mountains before Ironfist catches up with us,” he said. “Bryn? Dera? Can you organize a search for horses? Some of ours may still be close by—and there’s a chance that the fleeing Saxons may have left some behind.”

Bryn stared sourly at him. “Do you give orders now, Saxon lickspittle?” he growled.

“Watch your mouth, Bryn!” spat Iwan. “The runaway deserves better.”

“And it is
half
Saxon lickspittle, by your leave,” Rhodri replied mildly. “And no, I do not give orders. I simply make suggestions. But if you would rather stand here arguing till Ironfist arrives, then by all means do as you will.”

“No,” said Dera. “It is well thought, Rhodri. Horses indeed! I’ll get to it. Bryn? Come, be of help—we have little time.”

For a moment Bryn stood glowering at Rhodri as if wishing to dash his fist into the other’s face. Then he turned and stomped away, calling to Andras and Padrig as he went.

“Well now, that is one thorn removed from your side,” Rhodri said gently, gazing compassionately into Branwen’s eyes. “I shan’t ask how you are,” he continued. “Such things do not need to be explained between true friends.”

She returned his gaze but said nothing.

“You do know we cannot build a pyre, don’t you?” he asked. “Or at least, if we tarry here to build one, then we should build it wide enough for all of us to lie on.” He frowned. “That would be a way out for you, I suppose—to chop wood and heap it up and up until General Ironfist comes to put you out of your misery.” He smiled bleakly. “But it will be hard on those of us who still wish to live, Branwen.” He sighed. “I had hoped to die in bed at a great age, surrounded by doting grandchildren.”

“Do you mock me, Rhodri?” she murmured.

“Yes, a little, perhaps,” he said.

“Gavan ap Huw lies dead because of me,” she said, her voice thick and graveled. “Stalwyn is food for crows.” She thumped her fist against her heart. “Because of me, Rhodri! Because of my conceit and vanity. I deserve death!”

“Well, let’s not debate who deserves what bad fate,” Rhodri said. “We’ll all hang from the gibbet if we take that path!” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Do you know the difference between a wise man and a fool?”

She shook her head.

“A wise man learns from his mistakes; a fool is doomed forever to repeat them.” He brought his head closer to hers, looking deeply into her eyes, his voice lowering to a compelling whisper. “Learn from your mistakes, Branwen. This is your greatest test; this is the moment when you learn who you truly are—what you are truly capable of. Would you die of shame and remorse, or would you make amends for past lapses of judgment and leadership?”

“Become who I am, you mean?” she breathed. “The Emerald Flame?” Her voice choked with bitterness. “The Bright Blade?”

“Indeed. All that and more.”

She felt a painful thawing in her soul. “It’s hard to carry on,” she said heavily. “Easier to wait here for death, I think.”

“Much easier, I’d say,” agreed Rhodri. “But here’s
the rub, Branwen—if you choose to stay here and die, Blodwedd will wish to face death at your side. And if Blodwedd stays, then so must I.” He gave her a comically remorseful look. “Our futures are in your hands, no matter what you decide to do. Personally, I’d opt for life—but maybe that’s just me.”

“Hush, Rhodri,” she said fondly, placing her hand on his and squeezing his fingers. “Your point is well made, and I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart.” She shook her head. “But it’s a hard taskmaster you are, Rhodri, descendent of the Druid lords of Ynis Môn! Like a wasp trapped in my hair you are to me"—she smiled—"and I love you for it, dearest of friends!”

“Then are you resolved?” Rhodri asked. “Shall we flee this place? Shall I be allowed to die ancient in years and in the comfort of my own bed?”

She laughed softly. “If it’s in my power, then you shall,” she said. She took a long, slow, cleansing breath. “Let’s to it, then!” She gave his hand a final squeeze, then squared her shoulders and strode away from him.

Dera and Linette and Bryn and Padrig were gone into the woods, seeking horses. Andras stood with Dillon. Aberfa and Banon talked quietly together to one side while Asta sat under a tree, her legs drawn up and her face buried in her folded arms. Blodwedd was standing over Stalwyn, her head bowed in sorrow. Alwyn knelt still at her father’s side; and Iwan
was close by, his eyes thoughtful on Branwen.

“We have no time to bury our dead, nor to speed them to heaven with the purifying fire,” Branwen called. “But let us do what honor we can to Gavan ap Huw! Strip all these Saxon dead of their weapons and pile them at his feet! Let any who come nigh this place know that he was a great hero!”

Iwan walked up to her. “Are you yourself again, Branwen?” he asked.

She looked candidly into his face. “I am.”

“Thanks to …” He paused as if judging his words carefully. “Thanks to Rhodri?”

“Yes.”

There was an odd silence between them. “You have great affection for him, I think,” Iwan said.

“I do. Of course I do.”

“You know there are others of this company who would wish for …” He stopped, as if his glib tongue had for once forsaken him.

“Speak your mind, Iwan,” Branwen said softly.

He reached out toward her. She held his eyes, not flinching as his fingers gently brushed her cheek. There was soreness—she had all but forgotten her injury. “You are wounded,” he said. “Best have Rhodri tend it lest it fester.”

She lifted her hand to where the blood was drying from the shallow cut on his forehead. There was strange delight in the feel of his skin under her
fingertips. “You also,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” he said, his eyes huge and dark and dangerous. “Branwen …?”

She felt as though the ground was shifting under her feet. “Yes?”

“Horses, ho!” shouted Aberfa. “We shall ride from this charnel pit after all!”

Branwen broke Iwan’s gaze and turned to where Linette and Dera were emerging from the forest, leading a half dozen horses. Two of them were their own: Iwan’s Gwennol Dhu and the great bay destrier of Skur Bloodax. The others she did not know—Saxon horses, she assumed, from the look of their saddles and bridles.

Six steeds and fourteen of them.

Branwen was still puzzling over how to accommodate so many on so few horses when there was a commotion from the other side of the forest, and Bryn and Padrig appeared, riding two more Saxon horses and leading another one by the reins.

“It seems we gave them such a beating that they did not even pause to gather up the horses of their dead comrades ere they fled!” shouted Bryn. “And the forest floor is scattered with fallen weapons!”

“Did you see any Saxons?” called Branwen.

“One or two wounded, left behind,” said Bryn. “We helped them on their way to the next world!”

“But no sign of them rallying to attack again?”

“None,” said Padrig. “Judging by the trail of discarded war-gear, I’d say they took flight eastward.”

“Perhaps to join up with Ironfist’s horsemen,” said Iwan, his eyes glowing as he looked at Gwennol Dhu, alive when many others had died. “Let’s be gone ere they arrive. We have horses enough now, and there’s nothing more to be done here.”

“There is one thing I’d do,” said Dera. “Should we not make sure that Ironfist’s son gives his father a fitting welcome when he rides into this place? Banon! Bring me a sturdy spear; I’ve a job of butchery to perform!”

“Be swift then,” said Branwen, preferring not to ask what the grim warrior girl had in mind. “All others to horse! Take what provisions we may need, but waste no more time here. Asta! On your feet, now! You’ll ride with me on Skur’s destrier. Rhodri—you are with Blodwedd. Padrig, keep Dillon with you! And Linette—look to Alwyn! I do not fear she will try to escape, but I’d have you ride with her.”

There was much activity now as people chose horses and attached what traveling gear they had to the saddles. Linette drew Alwyn away from her father’s side. The once proud and contemptuous young woman seemed utterly crushed by Gavan’s death, her shoulders shrunken, her face grimed with endless tears.

And she is not the only one! Not all of Rhodri’s wise words will suffice to wash away the blood that stains my
hands after this day’s vile work! Gavan ap Huw died because of my misdeeds! I shall not forget that! But by the grace of the Three Saints, let me be not a fool! Let me learn from my mistakes and do better hereafter!

But a thought possibly even more daunting was also lodged in her mind, as deep and troublesome as a pricking thorn.

Gavan’s dying wish had been for her to go to Pengwern. It was a grave thing to reject such a request—the last desire of a great hero of Powys. And yet, if she turned aside from her true path and went to the king as he had asked, what terrible consequences would ensue? No, if she was ever to take the southern road to Pengwern, it could not be until her duty to Merion of the Stones was fulfilled.

Asta climbed into the saddle at Branwen’s back, her hands on Branwen’s shoulders. “When leisure allows, I’d know where you learned to shoot a bow so well,” Branwen asked the pale Viking maiden. “Your prowess did much to turn the tide in our favor.”

“You’d know the truth?” Asta asked, her voice subdued. “I learned archery as a child from my father, but until this day it was no more than sport to me—shooting at wicker targets.” Her hands tightened on Branwen’s shoulders. Her voice shook. “Before today I had never killed a man, and the fondest wish of my heart is that I am never called upon to do so again!”

“Many a seasoned warrior would say the same,” said Branwen. She rested her hand on the casket, tied
securely to the front of her saddle. “But for what it’s worth, you have my thanks. Your debt to me is repaid in full, Asta Aeslief, and I will do all that I can to see you safe home again!”

So saying, Branwen flicked the reins and led the others from the bloody scene of battle.

All that could be done had been done. Gavan ap Huw lay in peaceful repose with his hands upon his breast and with the shields and weapons of his enemies at his feet. Stalwyn and the other slain horses had been covered in leafy branches—some small token of esteem for their sacrifice.

Dera had also finished her grisly work.

At the eastern end of the battlefield, spiked upon a standing pole, the severed head of Redwuld Grammod stared sightlessly through the trees, awaiting the coming of his father.

T
HERE WAS NO
exact moment when the riders could have said they had left Mercia behind them; there was just the gradual change from the wide and undulating Mercian plain to the high ridges and steep valleys, to the bluffs and gorges and cliffs and gullies of the easternmost flanks of Cyffin Tir—the uncompromising landscape of Branwen’s wild homeland.

The towering range of the Clwydian Mountains seemed so close now that Branwen almost felt she could have reached out a hand and grazed her fingers on the sharp, barren peaks that rose out of the great green forests. The sun stood high above the mountains, burnishing their lofty crowns and flanks so that they had a sheen like old leather.

And hidden away among those bulwarks and
bastions of ancient rock lay the cave of Merion of the Stones—and journey’s end!

Branwen reined her horse up on a raised knuckle of heathland, the powerful creature fetlock deep in the purple heather that Branwen knew so well. The others stopped, gathering around her.

“We have come now to the place where Gavan ap Huw would have parted ways with me and mine,” she said, her eyes moving between Bryn and Andras and coming to rest on Padrig, with Dillon sitting astride the saddle in front of him. “The way to Pengwern lies southward.” She made a wide gesture, stretching out her arm, her flat hand pointing. “If you travel south for half a day, you will come upon the Great South Way that leads from Gwylan Canu to the court of King Cynon. Another day’s riding will take you to his citadel.” She looked at Alwyn. “Go with them, daughter of Gavan ap Huw. I hope you find comfort there. It’s certain that the child of a hero such as your father was will receive a generous welcome from the king.”

“And what would you have us tell the king of Lord Gavan’s daughter?” asked Padrig, glancing sideways at Alwyn, who was seated behind Linette with downcast eyes.

A good question.

Branwen frowned. “Tell him that Gavan ap Huw led you into the heartland of the great enemy, and that he plucked his beloved daughter from captivity,”
she said. “And say that on the road home, the great warrior fell in battle to defend his child and that she wept over his body.”

“And what of Redwuld Grammod?” asked Padrig.

“Say that he is dead and that none lamented his passing, vile and treacherous dog that he was.” Branwen held Padrig’s gaze. “Tell that to the king, and he will know all that he needs to know.”

Alwyn lifted her head and looked at Branwen; and among the harrowing grief and remorse in the stricken young woman’s face, Branwen saw a glimmer of gratitude and hope.

“And what would you have us tell the king of you?” Padrig asked.

Branwen held back from answering. What, indeed!

Blodwedd’s voice sounded in the charged silence, frail still but firm. “Tell this king of men that he is but a passing dream in the long story of this ancient land,” she said. “Tell him that greater guardians than he have given thought to the future, and that their Chosen One walks the path of a high destiny.”

Branwen smiled grimly. Doubts and conflicted loyalties had plagued her through this journey; but suddenly, at this parting of the ways, her mind became clear of doubt and uncertainty.

“And tell him that I will come to him shortly, when my present duty to the Shining Ones is done,” she said. “And tell him that I will join with him, if he
will have me, to help rid this land of enemies both without and within!” She could almost hear Gavan’s deep voice as she echoed the words he had spoken to her under the arches of green willow in the dark time just before that day’s dawn.

“I shall do that, if you wish it,” said Padrig, a new respect dawning in his eyes. Andras also looked at her without disquiet for the first time, but Bryn’s face showed nothing of what he was thinking. “But can you not come south with us now?” Padrig added. “It’s the safer path, I think.”

“We have an errand in the west first,” said Iwan. “And safe or not, we cannot turn aside from it.”

Branwen glanced at him, glad of his unhesitant support.

“Then give us the weapon of Skur Bloodax, and we will be gone,” said Bryn, eyeing the great battle-ax that hung still from its leather harness on the saddle of the Viking’s destrier. “It will be some token at least that we are telling the truth.”

“By all means take it,” said Branwen, reaching to loosen the straps. “Tell the king how you came by it! Tell him of the great champion of the Saxons that I slew.”

“Is that wise, Branwen?” Asta asked. “Would it not be better for you to bring the battle-ax of Skur to the king yourself?”

Branwen turned in the saddle, looking into Asta’s face. “How so?”

“The trophy belongs to
you,
Branwen—not to the king, nor to any other,” Asta said. “You should keep it with you.”

“There’s sense in this,” added Dera, looking doubtfully at Bryn and the other lads. “Why hand it into the keeping of others when you can ride into Pengwern with it and lay it yourself at the king’s feet.”

Branwen nodded, pulling the straps tight again. “Then I shall keep it,” she said. She looked at Bryn. “Tell the lords of the king’s court that Skur Bloodax is dead and that I will bring this token of my victory over him when I can.”

Bryn’s face became peevish at this, and Branwen got the impression that the big lad had been looking forward to riding into Pengwern with the dead Viking’s battle-ax over his shoulder.

“Go with them, Alwyn ap Gavan,” said Branwen. “I hope you live such a life from now on that all the past will be forgotten.”

Alwyn climbed down from behind Linette. She walked to Branwen’s horse and lifted her open hand to her. Branwen took it.

“Thank you,” Alwyn said. “It was a bitter lesson that brought me from darkness into light, and I want you to know that I do not hold you to blame for my father’s death.”

Branwen nodded but didn’t reply. Forgiven by Gavan’s daughter, she would never be able to forgive herself.

Alwyn walked to Andras’s horse, and he reached down to help her climb up behind him, a sad, penitent figure with eyes still brimming with tears.

“Good luck to you,” said Padrig, turning to Branwen. “If such a thing as luck can play any part on the unhallowed path you tread, Branwen of the Old Ones.” His eyes roved over the others of her band. “I’d advise you all to rethink your part in this and to take the road south with us,” he said. “But I think you are all as fey as your leader, and doomed to suffer her fate.”

“We are,” Banon said with a laugh. “And we shall!”

“Gladly so!” added Rhodri.

Padrig shook his head and turned his horse to the south. Bryn and Andras followed him as he rode steadily away from the stationary riders.

Branwen sat watching them for a while as they shrank in the distance, thinking how doleful it was that Gavan ap Huw would never now come to the king—that he would never now lead the fight against the traitor Llew ap Gelert.

“Something comes,” murmured Blodwedd from behind Rhodri. “On the east wind. A bird. I think it is Fain.”

“Then thank the Three Saints for his safe return!” said Branwen, twisting in the saddle and staring back the way they had come. “I have been searching the skies for him since we left the forest!”

A dark speck came speeding from the fathomless
blue of the eastern sky, growing gradually and taking form.

Branwen lifted herself in the saddle, holding her arm up high as the falcon stooped and came swinging in to land on her wrist. No sooner were his wings folded than he began to give voice to loud, urgent cawings.

“What does he say?” Banon asked Blodwedd.

“He has news of Ironfist,” said the owl-girl, listening carefully to the falcon’s harsh cries. A sharp and merciless smile grew on her lips. “Fain tells that the great general met his son in the forest and was much affected by the encounter!” she said.

“As I hoped he would be!” said Dera. “Did his one good eye have enough tears in it to tell of his grief?”

“He wept copiously indeed,” said Blodwedd. “He leaped from his horse and fell to his knees, cradling Grammod’s head to his chest and lamenting in a loud voice. And amid his wailing he sent curses down on your head, Branwen—terrible curses! Oh, but he hates you now, with a raw hatred that has no surcease!”

Fain’s scratchy voice sounded again.

“Ironfist has vowed never to sleep in a bed again nor to forsake arms and armor until he has hunted you down and slaughtered you, Branwen,” said Blodwedd. “By the most terrible of oaths has he promised this! By Wotan and Thunaer and Tiw he has made his vow.”

“And is he closer to us now?” asked Iwan, staring into the east. “I see no sign of horsemen out on the plain.”

Again Fain cawed.

“He has stopped to perform the funeral rites for his son,” Blodwedd translated. “We have gained ground on him. He is half a day and more behind us now.”

“Then we will reach the mountains before him,” said Branwen. “Let him hunt for us in Merion’s domain if he dares! If all goes as I hope, he will by then have more than we few folk to contend with.” She smiled grimly, her hand resting on the lid of the casket strapped to her saddlebow. “He will find himself face-to-face with Caradoc of the North Wind!” she said. “And then we shall see how a god wreaks vengeance on his erstwhile jailer!”