The Emerald Flame

by Frewin Jones

  Branwen looked into her face. “You heard laughter, you say?”

  Banon nodded. “Like … the laughter of an old woman … but cruel and hard and without joy.” She looked into Branwen’s face, her eyes confused. “You heard nothing?”

  “I heard it” came a sepulchral voice behind them. “I heard the laughter of the stones.”

  Branwen stood up. “Blodwedd?”

  She cautiously circled the owl-girl. Blodwedd’s face was drained of color, her eyes huge, her lips parted to show her sharp white teeth. Branwen looked into Blodwedd’s face, but the owl-girl’s glazed eyes were fixed on a single point among the high rocks.

  “She relishes the taste of fresh-killed falcon,” Blodwedd intoned in a flat, expressionless voice. “But she would rather dine on human flesh. Her laughter freezes the marrow in my bones. She calls for you to go to her, Warrior Child—alone and weaponless.” Blodwedd’s arm shot out, her finger pointing. “She is there! She waits for you, and she hungers….”

  Branwen took hold of the owl-girl’s narrow shoulders and shook her. “Blodwedd!” she shouted into her face. “Stop this now! Come back to me!”

  Quite suddenly Blodwedd’s body relaxed, and she almost collapsed into Branwen’s arms. There was still fear in her face as she stared into Branwen’s eyes, but her own amber eyes were clear again.

  “She is terrible, Branwen,” Blodwedd groaned. “Do not go to her. She will kill you. Fain is already dead—I see his blood-wet feathers sticking to her lips. She will devour you also. By Govannon’s grace, do not seek her out!”

  Fain dead? No—it cannot be true! I will not believe it. Blodwedd must be mistaken!

  “Why would Govannon send me to a creature that would do such a thing?” Branwen gasped, trembling to see fearless Blodwedd so shaken.

  “I do not know,” moaned Blodwedd. “I only know what I feel: Merion is deadly—she is famished—she will kill you.”

  Branwen turned to stare up the mountain. “Show me where she lives,” she said.

  “I’ll not guide you thither, upon my life!” said Blodwedd.

  “I don’t ask you to,” said Branwen. “Point to the place.”

  “I’ll accompany you,” growled Aberfa. “Merion will need a wide gape indeed to swallow me!”

  “I won’t let you go alone,” added Banon.

  Branwen shook her head. She stepped to the edge of the rock just as Rhodri and Iwan reached the top and joined them.

  “Is Banon safe?” Iwan panted.

  “She is,” Branwen said. “Go back down, all of you. Blodwedd has shown me where Merion’s cave is. I’ll seek out the mountain crone and return as soon as I can.”

  Rhodri scrambled to his feet in front of her. “We should all go,” he said. “There’s safety in numbers.” “No. She is too dangerous.”

  “Then all the more reason to approach her together,” added Iwan.

  Branwen stared at him. “Do you truly believe that if Merion of the Shining Ones desires my death, you would be able to protect me from her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Iwan. “But I would try.”

  Branwen felt a cool hand on her arm. It was Blodwedd. “The fear I feel for the Stone Hag is beyond all reason,” she said. “But if you must go, then I will attend you. I should die of shame otherwise.”

  “Good,” Branwen said. “Thank you.” She turned back to the others. “Blodwedd will go with me to the cave mouth. I need for the rest of you to keep a safe distance.” She saw the doubt and dismay in their faces. “I am not afraid of Merion,” she said. “I do not believe she will kill me.” She put her hand to the hilt of her sword. “I am the Sword of Destiny! The chosen warrior of the Shining Ones! Govannon would not have sent me up here to my death.”

  Her heart was less steady than she showed, but if the Mountain Crone was as bad as Blodwedd feared, Branwen was not prepared to lead the others to their doom.

  “Are you sure?” asked Rhodri.

  “I am.”

  “Then I’ll go down and tell Dera and Linette,” he said. He looked anxiously into her face and then turned and held Blodwedd’s eyes. “Be safe—both of you. Come back to us as soon as you can.”

  Branwen saw indecision and concern in Iwan’s face. Despite what she had said, he still wanted to go with her.

  “You can share my journey, Iwan,” she said. “But the destiny is mine alone.”

  He frowned. “All the same …”

  “I won’t put you in danger!” she said earnestly, staring deep into his eyes. You of all people!

  Curious. Why should she think that?

  “If Merion harms you, I’ll dig her out of her mountain hole and beat her to death with my bare hands!” Iwan said gruffly. “You tell her that!”

  Branwen almost laughed at the gallant absurdity of Iwan’s threat. “I shall,” she said. “She will be most impressed, I don’t doubt.” She turned to Blodwedd. “Let’s get this over with,” she said. “Lead me to Merion of the Stones.”

  Blodwedd jumped lightly from boulder to boulder, her arms out for balance, her fingers spread like wing feathers.

  Branwen followed more slowly, clambering cautiously over the heaped rocks that formed a precarious stairway to the sinister cave mouth.

  It loomed above them, a ragged black hole gouged into the face of the mountainside, shaped so that it looked to Branwen like a human mouth twisted and wrenched open and fixed in a scream of uttermost agony.

  Branwen tried not to think of what was waiting for her in the darkness. If Merion really had killed Fain, that would be heartache enough for her without adding to it with the phantoms of her imagination.

  As she climbed, she remembered with a keen bite of grief the first time she had laid eyes on Fain, a gray sickle shape against the sun, swooping down from the sky above Garth Milain with his bright eyes and his challenging call.

  Rhiannon’s messenger, a strange, brave creature that she had at first feared and then grown to love and to rely upon.

  And if Merion would kill one such as he, what hope do I have?

  Blodwedd crouched on a boulder, her head twisted over her shoulder, her eyes cavernous and brimming with golden light. “Do you not feel the chill, Branwen?” she said, her voice low, as though she feared to be overheard.

  Branwen nodded; even though the sun was now high and the climb was making her sweat, she was aware of the coldness that came creeping down the mountainside.

  “I don’t need you to go any farther,” Branwen said. “Wait here for me.”

  Blodwedd stared down at her. “If it were any other thing that awaited you, I would accompany you, even if my death were assured,” she said.

  “Yes. I know you would.”

  Blodwedd reached out a thin hand. “Be wary, Warrior Princess,” she murmured. “Do not let the Stone Hag be your death.”

  Branwen took her hand for a moment. “I’m not afraid.”

  The huge eyes reflected the sunlight. “You are afraid, Branwen,” the owl-girl whispered. “And you will be more so ere you face her. One last word. Do not take your sword into the cave. Do not forget that the iron of which your sword is forged was hacked from the hills; Merion may choose to slaughter you with your own blade if you carry into her cavern a reminder of that desecration.”

  Branwen frowned. “What desecration?”

  “You humans burrow into her very bones, Branwen,” said Blodwedd. “Seeking for your metals and your precious jewels. You suck out her marrow and leave her bereft and aching. The closer I come to her, the more deeply I feel her anger and misery and pain.” She shook her head. “If Merion has become cruel and vengeful, it is not without reason.”

  “But I’ve come here to help….”

  “Indeed. But an injured bear will lash out at anyone who ventures near, and there’s little purpose in protesting your goodwill from within its belly!”

  Branwen drew her sword and handed it to the owl-girl. Now the only things left on her belt were her leather slingshot and t
he trinkets that she carried with her to remind her of home: the small golden key given to her by her father, the pouch of white crystals from Geraint, and the comb that was all she had of her mother.

  “Keep the sword for me, then,” she said to Blodwedd. “I’ll go unarmed to my doom!” “Destiny, Branwen, not doom.”

  “We shall see.”

  As cold as the air had been on her climb up to Merion’s cave, it seemed far, far more bitter now that Branwen stood under the gaping lintel of the agonized mouth. It came from the black cave, rolling out over her, chilling her to the core, making the fine down on her arms and legs prickle uncomfortably, causing the hair on her scalp to crawl. Breathing in, she felt ice in her chest, as though sharp frozen crystals were piercing her lungs.

  She turned, seeing Blodwedd’s tawny head among the rocks below.

  She felt vulnerable without her sword—she felt naked.

  But there was more. She felt the kiss of death in this place. And she felt a brooding malevolence so intense that it made her head reel.

  “Merion of the Stones!” she called into the gaping darkness. “I have come as I was told to! My name is Branwen ap Griffith—do you know me?” But the frozen air blasted her words back into her throat, and there was no reply from within.

  Taking one last glance at the living and breathing world of light and warmth, Branwen stepped into the gloom.

  Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dimness, and she found herself in a long tunnel. Brittle things snapped and cracked under her feet. Dry twigs? Bracken? She paused, staring down at the uneven ground. The tunnel floor was strewn with bones. She shivered. Mostly animal bones, she guessed, by the size of them. There was also a scattering of skulls: some no bigger than her thumb—rodent skulls with pointed teeth—and others huge and strangely noble even in such a setting—the tan-brown skulls of deer and boar and wolves.

  But there were human bones, too. An arm bone had fractured under one of her feet, the groping hand still attached to it by stretched and dried sinews. Close by she saw the broken lattice of a human rib cage. A half-crushed human skull, its jaw grotesquely askew, gaped at her with empty eye sockets.

  Terror took Branwen in its grip and she drew back, pressing herself against the cold stone wall. In the hateful darkness she could hear the blood pounding in her ears; she could feel her thumping heart bruising against the cage of her chest. Her legs were weak under her. She wanted to be sick, wanted to double up and crawl away on hands and knees, like some wounded animal.

  She will kill me. How could I have thought otherwise? Oh, my poor dead father! How did it come to this? Geraint—I’m coming; I’ll be with you soon. Mother—I’m so sorry…. I did my best…. I’m such a fool. Rhodri, dearest friend … and Iwan … oh, Iwan … I wish … oh, I wish there had been the time to know you better….

  A strange sound echoed along the tunnel. A raw, harsh, scraping sound like stones grinding one against another. But it was more than that; it sounded almost as though the ancient stones were laughing. Yes! It was clearer now; within that dreadful sound Branwen could hear the joyless laughter of the closed throat and of the cavernous stomach.

  But appalling as the inhuman laugher was, at least it shook Branwen out of her despair.

  “I am sent by Govannon of the Wood,” she shouted. “What do you want of me?”

  The horrible laughter gurgled again, setting her teeth on edge, tearing at the inner walls of her skull. And then there was a groan—a deep, reverberating, desolate sound that all but stopped her heart.

  “Speak to me!” Branwen shouted.

  To me! To me! To me! came the echo of her voice.

  “I will not go away!”

  Go away! Go away! Go away!

  “No! I will see you!”

  See you! See you! See you!

  Branwen walked forward over the grisly remains, trying not to notice the bones breaking under her step. A deeper darkness formed in the distance—the exit from the tunnel, a hole into nothingness.

  As she drew closer, she felt an uncomfortable tingling in her fingers, as though her jangled nerves were warning her of peril.

  She stepped into the darkness, horribly aware of a lurking presence that watched her and waited for her.

  “What do you want of me?” she asked, her voice frail and weak in her own ears.

  She heard a sharp sound: stone clicking against stone. A feeble light ignited at the far end of the cavern. Branwen narrowed her eyes, and she saw it was the flame of a yellow candle set on the skull of some large animal. Behind it Branwen could make out a humped shape, like a black boulder, against the cavern wall. But it was not a boulder; the shape exuded malice and sleepless vigilance. Branwen fancied she saw eyes—points of flickering yellowish light—staring out from near the top of the shape.

  The cavern walls were daubed with crude black images, ugly shapes that might have been dredged from some horrible nightmare—not human, not animal, and yet somehow alive and aware and dreadful. And there were forms on the ground, brought to life as the candle flame writhed. Small, almost human bundles, like dead babies made from sticks and brown skins, their deformed bodies stuffed with dry moss and fungus, their faces taut and featureless save for great, hollow, staring eyes.

  Horrified, Branwen struggled against an urge to flee.

  She managed a hoarse whisper. “Did you kill Fain?”

  The guttural laughter sounded again, and the dark shape leaned forward so its face came into the light.

  It was an ancient face, scored and pitted and as desiccated as weather-worn stone. It was ugly in a way but also beyond any human idea of ugliness, with its beetling brow, its hollow cheeks and its hidden eyes. Its nose was a rough, hooked splinter, its mouth a thin crack. Hair hung about it like filthy cobwebs. It was a face as old as time, and in the black pools of the eyes lurked a yellow loathing.

  Branwen sucked in a sharp breath as the narrow crack of the mouth gaped suddenly wide. A dark shape burst out from between the taut lips, flying into Branwen’s face in a shrieking mass of gashing claws and battering wings.

  6

  “CAW! CAW! CAW!”

  At the last moment the bird skewed off to one side, one wing slapping Branwen’s cheek as she ducked to avoid being struck.

  “Fain!”

  The terrified falcon circled the cavern, screeching in its wild flight, its wings striking against the stone, its shadow cavorting over the walls.

  Branwen lifted her arm, relieved that he was alive but hating to see her friend in such distress. “Come! Come to me!”

  The falcon darted through the darkling air, and at last it came onto her wrist; and she winced as the talons dug into her flesh.

  “Don’t fear, Fain,” Branwen murmured, ignoring the pain. “You are safe from harm.” The bird sat shivering, its head tucked deep in its neck feathers, its beady eyes on Merion.

  “Safe from harm?” Merion’s voice was like a winter wind blown across an ocean of ice. “Think you so, Warrior Child?”

  “I do,” Branwen said, forcing her voice not to betray her dread.

  “Why so, Warrior Child?”

  “Because if you wished me dead, I would not be standing here before you.”

  The head nodded. “A wise fool you are.”

  “Why a fool?”

  “Only a fool would meddle in the affairs of the Shining Ones.”

  “Meddle?” This was absurd! “I do not meddle with you. I have done everything I can to keep away! It’s you—you and Rhiannon and Govannon—who have brought me to this!”

  “Is that so?” came the cold, parched voice. “Then why do you wear the stones? Why do you bear the key? These are the tokens of one who offers herself willingly.” There was that cruel laughter again. “Or is it that you do not know their purpose?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Branwen said, a spark of anger igniting among her fear. “I am half dead of riddles and conundrums. I was told to come here. I came. What do you want of me?”


  “I want to relieve my hunger and slake my thirst,” croaked the voice. “What do I want of you, Warrior Child? Why, I want to gnaw the scalp from your head and wear your long dark hair around my neck to ward off the winter chills. I want to eat your face, child: lips, cheeks, and chin. I want to feel your eyeballs burst between my teeth. I want to chew on your tongue and suck the soft meats from your bloody and raw-boned skull.”

  Branwen stared at the old hag in horror. Was this it, then? Had Blodwedd been right? Had she come here to face nothing but a dreadful death?

  The humped shape rose from behind the candle flame and came slowly forward, one clawed hand clutching the handle of a misshapen stick. Merion of the Stones looked very much as Branwen had imagined. A hag, stooped and humpbacked, clad in shapeless ragged gray robes, tottering on feeble feet. But it was a shock to Branwen to see how Merion, bent and withered as she was, towered over her as she shuffled closer, her gray head almost scraping the stone roof of the cavern.

  Branwen’s hand moved to her hip—reaching for the hilt of her sword. But it wasn’t there; she had left it in Blodwedd’s keeping! But the sword was not Branwen’s only weapon. With adder-quick fingers she slipped her leather slingshot from her belt and then ducked down and scooped up a small stone from the ground. Watching Merion as she approached, Branwen fitted the stone into the folded slingshot.

  “Come no closer!” she warned. “Or I shall put out your eye!”

  Merion chuckled in her throat.

  Branwen swung the slingshot twice and loosed the stone. She had little hope of doing Merion any harm, but she was determined to try to defend herself against the terrible old hag.

  The stone flew as swift as a bolt toward Merion’s huge and hideous head. Yet the old crone did not even flinch; and at the last moment the stone changed trajectory, veering off and cracking against the wall, breaking up and spitting sparks.

  “Think you that stone will work against me, Warrior Child?” Merion said. “Why, the very ground beneath your feet will come alive to aid me!”

  Branwen tried to back away from the approaching monstrosity; but before she could move more than a single step, cracks opened under her feet and lips of rock snagged around her ankles, holding her fast.