The Emerald Flame (26 page)

A
S THEY RODE
on through the beautiful wilderness of Cyffin Tir, Branwen refused to let her thoughts dwell on how close they were passing to Garth Milain. It would do no
good
to think about hearth and home now. One day, if her destiny willed it so, when the raw wounds of these turbulent days had healed over and shriveled to nothing more than poignant white scars, she might sit at ease with her dear mother at the fireside of a new-built Great Hall talking over old agonies.

And maybe they would speak of Geraint and laugh again at the jokes he used to play, and of Prince Griffith ap Rhys, warrior-husband and revered father who died battling the enemies of their blood. Tales of triumph and loss, of joy and sadness.

One day …

… if her destiny allowed …

They were moving now through forested foothills, climbing slowly in a landscape as familiar to Branwen as her own arms and hands and fingers. She knew that if she traveled but a short way south through these green hills she would be able to look down on the solitary mound of Garth Milain.

Not that she felt up to that challenge—to see her home and to have to pass it by without running into her mother’s arms. That was a thing that would test her beyond her limits. To be comforted by a mother’s embrace, to be enfolded in a mother’s love. She would never find the courage to leave again, and she knew it.

Fain guided them as they headed deeper into the rising forest. He would go soaring up through the roof of branches while they picked their earthbound way onward and return with news of what lay ahead, shepherding them away from dangerous places and keeping them always on the straight road to Merion’s lofty cave.

Branwen became aware of something curious about the casket strapped in front of her. At first she thought it was her imagination; but as they delved deeper into the hills, she grew more certain that the casket would every now and then vibrate, as though something within was awakening and struggling to free itself. And although the afternoon was warm and the air was heavy and humid under the trees, the casket was always cold to the touch.

She thought that somehow the trapped god must know he was drawing close to his ancient sister of the stones and was eager to see the end of his long confinement. And as her thoughts turned to Merion, Branwen remembered again the horrors of that dark and dreadful cavern in the mountainside, and she shuddered.

“Are you cold, Branwen?” Asta asked, close enough to have felt the chill go through Branwen’s body.

“No, not cold,” Branwen said without looking around. “Anxious to be done with this, that’s all. I’m not at ease, Asta, knowing what lies inside this casket. I’d be free of it.”

“Yes,” replied Asta, her voice strangely thoughtful. “It is a heavy burden to bear a god with you.”

“It is indeed.”

Up and up they climbed as the sun sank behind the mountains. The sky filled with vast gathering islands of billowing cloud, slate gray and threatening for the most part but tinted underneath with a pearly sheen and limned with silver.

The thick of the forest was behind them now, and they were zigzagging through heights where the trees grew ever more scant and where rock jutted more and more often through the thin earth.

The upper peaks were almost black against the clouded sky, although shafts of golden evening light would sometimes streak across a soaring precipice or
stain some lowering palisade with a sudden brilliance that hurt the eyes.

No one spoke. The only sounds were the rattle and clack of stones under hooves, the puffing and snorting of the climbing horses, and the creak of leather harnesses. There was no birdsong. The air was oppressive and still. Fain led them upward, perching on rocks, sending them this way and that across the rumpled skirts of the mountain, until Branwen was sick of the sight of bare rock and so weary of this endless journey that she could almost have fallen asleep in the saddle.

The last time they had come to Merion’s cave it had been from the north. Now they struggled up to it from the east—and Branwen could see nothing ahead that stirred any memory.

Dusk came creeping up out of the forests like a murky fog, swallowing the path behind them, drinking light and breathing out shadows. The east was a formless black ocean, the way ahead scarred and gouged and pocked with wounds that bled darkness.

Fain swept suddenly in front of Branwen’s face, startling her. His cries were strangely loud in the gathering gloom.

“He has seen the cave,” Blodwedd breathed. She and Rhodri were on the horse directly behind Branwen—the others trailing away in single file. “It is not far, but the path to it is steep and perilous.”

Branwen let out a relieved breath. At last! Frightful
as the thought of confronting Merion a second time was, at least it would bring this ill-fated quest to an end. She reined the destrier to a halt.

“The rest of you will wait here,” she said as the other horses came to a halt behind her. “I don’t know what will happen when Caradoc is released, but I’d rather you were not close by.”

“You can’t go up there alone,” said Iwan. “Let some few of us accompany you at least.”

“I would be by your side,” said Blodwedd. “Always by your side.”

“I know you would,” said Branwen. “And if you were not already weakened by the things you have done for me, I would gladly have you with me, because you at least are known to the Shining Ones. But as for the rest of you—Iwan and Dera—I see from your faces you would also go with me. What would you do in Merion’s dark cave?” She looked from face to anxious face. “If Merion cannot save me from death when Caradoc is released, what hope do any of you have?” She rested her hand on the cold lid of the casket. “I do not believe that I go to my death, my friends, but my fate lies in hands other than my own. If I do not return, I want you to go to Pengwern and take up arms with the king. Fight on in memory of Branwen of the Shining Ones….”

“We needn’t make any such promise,” said Rhodri. “You will come back to us; I know it in my heart.”

Branwen smiled. “Then all is well!” she said. “So.
No more words of parting. Dismount and take what comfort you can. I shall ride a little farther, until the path becomes too sheer. Then it will be hands and feet to the cave.” She looked to where her faithful falcon was perched on a spit of rock close by. “Fain, stay with them, please. Your work is done for now.”

The bird bobbed his head as though in response.

“Asta, get down now and remain with the others.”

“Would it not be better for me to ride with you until you have to quit the horse?” Asta asked. “I will hold him steady for your return. Who knows? You may wish for a speedy descent of the mountain once the god of the North Wind is let loose!”

Branwen looked into the gentle blue eyes of the Viking maiden.

“Very well,” she said. “We’ll ride together a little farther.” She tapped her heels against the destrier’s flanks, and it began to clop up the long slope.

“I shan’t say good-bye,” Branwen called back to the others. “We’ll meet again soon.”

She glanced back again after a little while. She could see the pale blots of faces turned toward her in the devouring gloom. Then the way ahead turned around a buttress of rock and she lost sight of them.

The horse snorted and nodded its head as it clambered laboriously up the rugged defile. Pebbles clattered away under its hooves.

“It’s better like this,” Branwen murmured to herself. “Better by far.”

“Indeed it is,” came Asta’s soft voice, surprising Branwen a little. She had been feeling strangely alone, and she had almost forgotten that Asta was with her.

The horse stumbled. The way ahead was blocked with boulders and shale.

Branwen brought the animal to a halt. She untied the casket and slid down from the saddle, bringing the casket with her.

She looked up at Asta. The Viking maiden was the one bright thing on the mountain—a shaft of gold in the bleak evening.

“Wait here,” Branwen said.

Asta nodded.

Holding the cold casket under her arm, Branwen began the difficult and dreadful climb to Merion’s cave. She could feel her shield bouncing on her back as she scaled the final heights, hear her sword clinking on the stones as she pulled herself over broken rock and scrambled through the scree. It was tiring work, and the need to keep a firm grip on the casket made things no easier.

There were no more vibrations from the casket; but as she gripped it under her arm, Branwen was aware of the coldness seeping into her body. And as she ascended, she could hear a soft susurration, as though of a faint voice whispering in her ears.

… The key … take the key….

She paused for a moment, listening hard. She shook her head. Imagination! She could not afford to
let her own inner demons trick her; she must concentrate on the climb. A foot misplaced and …

… then she saw it. Above her. Black as Annwn. The mouth of Merion’s cave.

She bit down on her lip, tasting blood.

The voice whispered to her again.

… The key … do not fear me…. Take the key and open the lock…. No harm will come to you…. Set me free….

“You are wasting your words on me,” she murmured. “Merion had warned me well of what you are capable! I am not the fool you take me for!”

“Are you
not?”

Branwen spun round at the sound of that familiar voice at her back. Her foot slipped, and she came down heavily on one knee. She stifled a cry of pain, her face twisting in a grimace of discomfort and alarm.

Asta stood on a jutting slab of stone, her golden hair flaring like candle flame, her eyes filled with glittering sapphire light. In her two hands she bore Skur’s battle-ax. On her sweet face was a smile as chilling as whetted iron under a winter moon.

“Asta …?”

“I fear I have misled you, shaman girl of the
waelisc,”
she said, and there was ridicule in her gentle voice. “My name is not Asta.”

Branwen stared at her in confusion. “Then who are you?”

The cruel smile widened. “Can you not guess, child of petty southern gods?” Asta said, her voice ringing among the rocks. “Do you still not know me? Are you so much the fool that you cannot yet guess my name?”

The great double-headed battle-ax swung threateningly through the air. The sapphire eyes flashed. And suddenly Branwen knew. A moment before the Viking girl spoke her name, Branwen
knew
what Asta would say.

“I am Skur Bloodax!” the Viking maiden howled. “And knowing that, look now upon the face of death and drink deep of uttermost despair!”

T
HE CUCKOO IN
the nest! The goraig’s song of the beautiful bird filled with lies!

She never stops singing, till the mountain is near.

Not Alwyn—never
Alwyn
—but Asta all along!

Fool! Blind fool!

The great battle-ax whirled, and the deadly blade came scything down. Stunned as Branwen was, her thoughts moved quickly enough for her to twist aside and avoid the deadly blow.

The thundering ax split the rock on which she had been kneeling, sending splinters of stone flying about her ears, spitting and hissing. She scrambled to her feet, the casket falling from her hands. It tumbled away from her and came to rest among the rocks some way below the transformed Viking maiden.

Branwen fixed her eyes on her enemy, pulling
her shield off her back and drawing her sword. She leaped up onto higher ground, preparing herself for Skur’s next attack.

The Viking maiden snarled as she wrenched the ax head out of the cleft stone. Although slender and slight, she wielded the ax with disturbing ease, swinging it around her head and lunging forward now to strike the rocks at Branwen’s feet. Stone fragments filled the air as Branwen danced backward, glancing behind to ensure a safe footing on the rubbled mountainside.

She must be stronger than she looks!
Rhodri had been all too prescient in that.

“Do not make this hard on yourself, Branwen,” Skur cried out. “Accept the inevitable. You cannot survive Ragnar’s ax; none can! It will cleave sword, shield, and bone as though they were cobwebs. Come—I will make your end as swift and painless as possible. I knew of you, and of your coming, before ever we saw each other. Ragnar told me of you and your destiny, and Mumir guided me to the place where we would meet. But I bear you no ill will, Branwen, witless servant as you are of small and trifling gods. Although it pained me that my good servant Arngrim had to die at your hand for Ragnar’s desire to be fulfilled.”

Branwen stared down at her. “What was the purpose of the deceit?” she shouted. “If your weapon is as great as you say, why hide your true self from us?
Why did you not slaughter us in the forest where we first met?”

“That would not have suited Ragnar’s purpose,” said Skur. “Do you not see, Branwen? Sweet as it will be to me, your death is not the reason why I had you bring me to this place.”

Branwen moved slowly to one side, her shield up to her eyes, her sword arm bent back, muscles tense and straining, ready to strike the moment the opportunity presented itself.

If I throw myself down upon her, will I be able to sink my blade into her body before she strikes back? I do not know. It is risky. If I commit myself to such a course and fail, I will not be given a second chance.

“Then what is the reason?” Branwen called down. “Why would such a mighty warrior stoop to falsehoods and pretense?”

Skur’s eyes burned like blue fire. “For a greater prize than the death of the shaman-child of the
waelisc!”
she spat, and Branwen could see that her taunts had angered her. “You are
nothing
to the great god Ragnar—you and your paltry godlings! You are morsels to be gobbled up!”

Branwen laughed. “Oh, but we’ll stick in your craw, Skur Bloodax,” she mocked. “Be sure we will! And if Ragnar has such contempt for the Shining Ones, why does he not present himself on this mountain? Why does he send the likes of you to mouth his idle threats?”

Now it was Skur’s turn to laugh, and the sound of it was like claws scraping the inside of Branwen’s skull. “You fool!” she crowed, leaning for a moment on her ax, as though so certain of her advantage over Branwen that she had no need to defend herself. “The ratcatcher must first be shown where the vermin lurk!” she said. “That was my purpose in having you bring me here—to reveal to my lord Ragnar the hiding place of the sniveling wretch that you call Merion of the Stones! It is done, and now it is the time for all masks and pretenses to be thrown aside!”

At last Branwen understood—and she cursed herself for being so gullible! Skur’s deceptions had all along been driven by the specific purpose of tricking Branwen into guiding her to Merion’s cave. Now that she knew its location she could return to whatever dark place Ragnar inhabited and lead him into the very home of the Shining Ones.

I should have listened to Dera! I should have driven a sword through Asta’s heart at the first!

A sudden passion of anger and revenge flared in Branwen’s mind. Skur must not be allowed to complete her deadly mission! Reckless of her safety, she flung herself down at the deceitful woman, her sword aimed for the heart, a red fury in her eyes.

But Skur was lizard-quick in her reactions. In a single liquid movement the huge ax rose and swung as Branwen came hurtling down. But Branwen was
not entirely unmindful of her own defense. She turned her shield into the coming blow, and the arc of sharpened iron came smashing into the shield’s white face like a hammer striking an anvil.

The power of Skur’s attack was so great that Branwen was sent spinning through the air, her shield arm numbed from the buffet, her shoulder wracked with pain.

It was impossible to land well among the shifting rocks; and she came down heavily, the breath knocked out of her as she tumbled down in a flurry of loose scree.

Skur was upon her in an instant, legs spread, the ax clasped in both hands, poised high above her head.

And for that moment her body was unprotected. Dizzy among the stones, Branwen thrust upward with her sword. But she was too late. The ax spun as it came down.

Branwen let out a cry of pain as her sword was jarred from her fingers. She saw sparks fly as the blade was cut in two by Skur’s ax. The huge weapon rose and fell a second time, but Branwen was able to bring up her shield in time.

Skur gave a howl of anger and frustration as the blade skidded off the face of the shield.

“So! There is power in that ancient device!” she snarled. “I guessed it was so when first I saw it! But Ragnar’s strength will prove mightier yet!”

“Do your worst!” cried Branwen. “Your blade shall never draw my blood!” She scrambled to her feet. She needed a few moments to recover—the ax blow had shaken her to the very bones.

And yet as she went scrambling up the mountainside, she saw that her shield showed no sign of the impact of the great battle-ax. Not so much as a dent or a scratch disfigured its white face. Her sword might be broken and lost, but with such a shield, perhaps she could hold off Skur’s attack for long enough to make her way up to the cave mouth.

She remembered what the mountain crone had told her after she had filled the six crystals with magic:
I have breathed part of my own powers into them. I am diminished by this loss, and I will not be whole again till you return from your mission and need them no more.

Branwen would enter the cave—she would return the crystals to Merion—then let Skur come! Let her see what devastation the Shining Ones could bring down on her!

She turned and swarmed up toward the cave mouth, her shield arm twisted behind herself in case Skur came leaping after her.

But it was not from behind that the attack came. It came from above! First came the dry flutter of wings, then a dark shape dashed into Branwen’s face, claws extended, a heavy black beak pecking at her eyes.

Mumir!

She flung up her arm, and the raven’s claws scored
bloody grooves in her skin. Staggering and off balance, she brought her shield round and punched it hard against the attacking raven, her teeth gritted from the agony in her torn arm.

Mumir was driven off. But only for a moment. The bird rose in the air above Branwen’s head, squawking his rage, his wings beating in a flurry, his black eyes glinting evil.

Again he flew at her, making always for her face—for her eyes. Again she hurled him back with her shield, all too well aware that while she battled the black terror, Skur was coming for her.

A claw raked the skin above her left eye. The beak stabbed deep into her hand, making her cry out as she snatched it away. Blood clouded her vision and she swung wildly with the shield, stumbling this way and that over the unstable rocks.

She saw Skur through a flood of red—her features distorted by a malicious grin, the ax already swinging at Branwen’s face. Branwen ducked, feeling the wind of the ax head as it sliced the air a fraction above her head.

She launched herself forward, using her shield as a battering ram, crashing with all her weight into Skur’s side as she spun off balance from her missed blow. Skur tottered for a moment, her mouth stretched, her eyes wide. Then she fell backward, the battle-ax slipping from her fingers as she clawed the air to save herself.

Branwen dug in her feet, halting the momentum that would have sent her plunging down with her enemy. She sprang erect, striking upward with the shield rim, catching the harrying raven with the sharp edge and sending him crashing to the ground in a whirl of black feathers.

Feeding off instinct more than thought, Branwen snatched up a heavy stone and hurled it with all her might at the fallen bird. There was a single cry—cut off. There were scattered feathers. There was blood.

Branwen turned to where Skur lay, weaponless and defenseless, a little way down the mountain. Wiping the blood out of her eyes, she picked her way down, her shield up and ready in case Skur was not entirely defeated.

There was blood at the Viking warrior’s lips, and more in her hair. She had struck her head in her fall, and Branwen could see how the bone above her ear was dented in and showing white through the ruptured skin and the matted hair and the thick gore that crawled down over the gray stones.

Skur opened her glittering blue eyes as Branwen stood over her. The warrior’s breath was loud, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Branwen was too exhausted and heartsore to feel triumphant. One question drummed in her head as she looked down at her sprawling foe.
Is she dying of her injuries, or must I kill her where she lies?

Skur smiled. There was pain in it, but there was
something else—something that sent a shiver down Branwen’s spine. There was exultation—there was dark joy, as though Skur believed that even now, broken and bleeding on the mountainside, she had done what she had come here to do.

“Too little, too late,” Skur breathed. “It is accomplished! This night … I shall sit in victory … in Valhalla … at Ragnar’s right hand!”

“What
have you accomplished?” Branwen asked. “Mumir lies crushed, and you are close to death. What have you accomplished?”

Skur swallowed, her forehead contracting—clearly the pain was growing in her ruined body. “Ragnar’s will!” she mouthed. She lifted her right arm, and for a moment Branwen thought she was trying to claw at her with her curled fingers. But then she let out a snarl and brought her arm crashing down, the wrist striking rock and the dull bronze torque that circled her arm breaking in two.

For a moment nothing more happened. Then Branwen became aware of a sound, like the distant shouting and screaming of many voices; and as the sound grew louder, a thick black smoke began to pour from the broken ends of the torque.

Branwen staggered back as the plume of dense oily smoke curled and billowed all around her. Up from the shattered torque it gushed, filling the sky, shedding curtains of darkness. And as the brume of blackness grew, so the noise became louder, and it was
no longer only the sound of voices; it was the clash of entire armies: the dreadful ring and clatter of iron on iron, the thud of arrows into flesh, the frantic neighing of horses, the screams of the dying, the howls of the conquerors—it was all the dreadful clamor and mayhem of war.

The black cloud rose high above her head; and in the heart of the expanding darkness, Branwen saw two red eyes.

And the eyes saw her and burst into livid flame.

“Well done, Skur, my worthy servant!” shouted a voice that shook the heavens. “Ragnar’s will is fulfilled! And now let this land know of my power! Let the Shining Ones tremble—for I have come to devour them!”