by Frewin Jones
Branwen stared at him, unsure whether he was telling her a true story or making up nonsense to take her mind off her troubles.
“How is it you never mentioned this before, Rhodri?” she asked, far from convinced.
“Why would I?” he replied. “The Druids worshipped the Old Gods, Branwen. You were at war with Rhiannon of the Spring when we met that second time in the forest outside Doeth Palas. You would not have wished to be my friend had you known I was descended from Druids, and I very much wished to be your friend.” His eyes were cautious. “Only now that you have finally accepted the Shining Ones as your allies am I able to tell you the truth.” He looked pensively at her. “Are we still to be friends?”
She frowned. “Do you have any other secrets I should know?”
“I hope not.”
“Then we are friends.” She shook her head. “And as for this Druid power you speak of—I’d say the blood of the Old Priesthood must have been thinned more than somewhat over the centuries, Rhodri. Were I you, I would not be too hopeful of working wonders in their name!”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “In which case you will need to rely only on my friendship to save you if the battle-madness takes you again.”
She smiled grimly. “That I shall do,” she said.
“And I would …”
“Here!” Blodwedd called, her voice breaking into Branwen’s comments. “I see the steed!” The owl-girl had gone bounding away to the left, moving up into the trees that grew on the flanks of the valley. “And the captive human is here, too!”
They came upon the horse, tethered to a tree limb. He was a tall bay destrier—a powerful and muscular war-horse, black for the most part but with a white star on his forehead and feathery white hair around his fetlocks. His saddle was hung with leather and linen sacks, bulging with food and other provisions for the journey that Branwen’s sword had cut short.
The captive was lying close by, bound hand and foot and with a linen gag wound around the lower half of her face. And she was a young woman, as Branwen now saw, but a few years older than Branwen herself.
Blodwedd knelt at the captive’s side, stooping over her and untying the knots that held her gag. Branwen saw dread fill the young woman’s eyes as she stared up into Blodwedd’s face.
Of course! It was Blodwedd’s inhuman eyes that filled the young woman with fear.
Branwen stepped forward. “Do not be afraid of her,” she said. “She will do you no harm.”
The young woman’s eyes turned to Branwen just as the gag came loose.
She screamed, writhing on the ground as though straining desperately to get away despite the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles.
“Be calm!” Branwen said. “There’s nothing to fear. Skur is dead—you are in no danger now!”
But the terrified captive just kept screaming, twisting and turning on the ground so that it was impossible for Blodwedd to work on the knotted ropes that held her.
“What is wrong with her?” Branwen asked, looking at Rhodri. “Is her mind gone? Has Skur destroyed her reason?”
“I suspect she thinks you are some demon from the depths of Annwn,” Rhodri replied. “You are not a comforting sight, Branwen!”
“Oh!” Branwen looked down at herself. She was drenched in Skur’s blood. It clung in thick clots in the folds of her clothes. It was sticky between her fingers. It clogged in her hair, gluing stray locks to her forehead and cheeks. It was on her lips, tasting and smelling of metal.
Yes, Rhodri was right—to the poor bound captive, she must look like something spewed up from the deepest pits of the Underworld!
“Blodwedd—come away,” Branwen called. “We are scaring her. Let Rhodri minister to her.”
As soon as Branwen and Blodwedd moved away from the young woman, she began to grow calmer, but her face was still full of panic, and her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared at them with round, haunted eyes.
“I must find water to wash this filth off me,” Branwen muttered.
Blodwedd lifted her head and snuffed the air. “I smell fresh water,” she said. “Come away—I’ll lead you to it.”
“Look after her,” Branwen called to Rhodri. Rhodri nodded, kneeling by the young woman’s side. “There’s nothing to fear now. You’re among friends,” Branwen heard him saying, his voice gentle and soothing.
Branwen followed Blodwedd along the steep slope of the valley side. The owl-girl seemed to have an unerring notion of where she was going, and it was not long at all before Branwen heard the first silvery chime of trickling water.
It was a small spring, cascading down a mossy rock face and splashing into a natural bowl formed by a hollowed stone. From there the pool of clear dancing water spilled over a green lip of rock and soaked away into the boggy ground.
Branwen knelt, scooping up the water in both hands. It was cold, but it felt good to splash it on her face and to feel the gore being washed away.
While Branwen cleansed herself, Blodwedd climbed onto a high point of rock above the spring and squatted there, gazing up into the treetops with a wistful look in her great amber eyes.
She misses her old life. She’s not alone in that! This destiny of mine has pulled all of us up by the roots.
Branwen cupped more water, pouring it over her arms and her clothes, watching the congealed blood dissolve into carmine streams that dyed the moss at her feet a deep purple hue.
“Blodwedd?”
The owl-girl’s round face turned to her, framed in tawny hair, the nose a sharp line, the mouth small and pointed—the eyes like golden suns.
“Yes, Branwen?”
“Do you think you made the right choice?” Branwen asked. “Do you ever wish you could take it back and be an owl again?”
“I wish it every day,” Blodwedd replied. “I wish it when I hear the rustle of some small creature moving in twilight through the forest. I wish it when dusk comes. I wish it in the silent time before dawn. I wish it when I spy a bird on the wing, soaring high in the evening sky.” She extended an arm, staring at it as if, for a moment, she did not quite know what it was. “I wish it when this stretched and brittle and spindly shape grows weary and cold at night.” She lifted her hand to her face, flexing her fingers in front of perplexed eyes. “I was never cold at night till I was given this form,” she said, her gaze turning suddenly to Branwen. “If not for Rhodri’s warmth after nightfall, I think I might freeze to death.” She pulled her dress up over her thighs, running her long white nails over her taut skin. “This is an unpleasant rind!” she said.
“Unbeautiful! Nasty to the touch.” She sighed, covering her legs again. “I’d have my feathers back!”
Branwen knelt, dripping pink water, gazing up at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She had assumed that the affection between Rhodri and Blodwedd might eventually lead to something deeper, but how could that ever be if the owl-girl found the human form ridiculous and human skin revolting?
Blodwedd’s head tilted as she looked down at her. “You need not pity me, Branwen,” she said. “Every choice must bear its burden; you of all folk should know that. It’s true that I long to be what I once was, but I do not regret my decision. I did my duty by the land of my birth, and I accept the consequences.” She pointed down at Branwen, her voice losing its melancholy air. “The blood is still thick in your hair—shall I help you wash it out?”
“Yes. Yes, please, if you will.”
Blodwedd came bounding down the rock.
“And then we shall return to that pale creature and learn whether the sight of you unbloodied is more appealing to her,” she said with a sharp and pointed smile.
“Let us hope so,” said Branwen, stooping over the pool and letting her hair hang into the turbulent water. Her voice lowered to a murmur. “If I ever am truly cleaned of so much blood!” She closed her eyes as Blodwedd began pouring the icy water over her head. “So very much blood!”
12
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��SEE!” SAID RHODRI. “What did I tell you—Branwen is no demon at all!”
Rhodri’s words greeted the arrival of Branwen and Blodwedd back at the place where they had left him and the young woman. Branwen’s hair and clothes were wet; but with Blodwedd’s help she had managed to get rid of most of the blood, and she did not rue the exchange, especially on such a warm afternoon.
They found the frightened captive unbound, on her feet and looking much recovered.
“No,” the young woman said hesitantly. “I see now that she is not.” Her eyes turned to Blodwedd. “But what manner of …?”
“Blodwedd is also a friend,” Rhodri said quickly.
“I killed Skur Bloodax,” Branwen said. “You need have no fear of any of us.” She eyed the young woman curiously. “But what is your tale, lady? How did you fall foul of the Viking warrior?”
A few things Branwen thought she could already guess. The young woman was slender, her compact body lean and firm as if she was used to physical work. Blond hair curled to her shoulders; and her pale face was delicate, her dark blue eyes wide, her lips full, and her cheeks dimpled.
These were not the features of a woman of Brython. Her skin and hair were fairer than those of most of the Saxons Branwen had seen. No, if she were to guess, she’d say that the woman was also pure Viking stock—perhaps brought here from the Northlands to do Skur’s bidding. Her clothing was certainly that of a servant: a simple gown of patched and threadbare gray, and worn leather shoes on her feet, the stitches beginning to come apart with age.
She did have one item of jewelry—a dull metal torque wound about her right wrist. Some family heirloom, perhaps, too lacking in value to have been worth stealing from her.
“My name is Asta Aeslief,” the young woman said. “And Skur Bloodax was my abductor and my torturer, although it is not many days since I was happy and secure in my home, and much loved by my poor father.”
“And where is your home?” asked Branwen. “Rhodri? Bring the horse—we shall walk as Asta tells us more. I would know how it is that you speak our language when you clearly hail from lands far from here.”
As Branwen led the others down to the valley floor, Asta continued her tale. “My home these days is not so very distant. I live upon the island of Lindisfarne, which lies off the east coast of Northumbria. My father is a scribe—a great scholar and lore-master. It is he who taught me to speak your language, and the language of many of the folk who dwell here: Saxon, Angle, Jute, and Dane.” She looked astutely at Branwen. “As you have guessed, I am not native to this land. My father brought me here as a child from our home in the Norselands. I was born in the kingdom of Vyiken; but on the death of my mother, my father took to the road, and me along with him. For some years we dwelt at the court of King Harhoff in the Danelands, till we took ship for Lindisfarne, where my father was to serve King Oswald as a translator of languages.”
“And how was it you met with Skur Bloodax?” asked Rhodri.
Asta slowed, staring ahead and looking alarmed.
Branwen’s companions were gathered a little farther along the valley; the sight of them seemed to have made Asta uneasy.
“They are my friends,” Branwen assured her. “Come, be at ease; your tribulations are at an end.”
Iwan and the girls of Gwylan Canu eyed Asta with interest as they approached. Branwen introduced them, but Asta’s attention seemed fixed on the sprawling corpse of Skur Bloodax, the blood already blackening in his wounds.
Fain was on the ground close by, tearing with his beak at something gripped in his claws. Branwen chose not to look too closely at what meat the falcon had found to eat. There was nothing reserved about his appetite.
Aberfa and Banon stepped aside as Asta walked forward, her jaw set, her eyes glinting. For a few moments she stood silently over the fallen warrior, her body rigid, her clenched fists trembling.
“Monster!” she hissed at last. “May Sleipnir bear you swift to Hel’s dark kingdom!” Then she spat upon him and turned away. “You asked how I came to be in his thrall,” she said to Branwen. “It happened this way. We got word that a fearsome warrior had set sail from Oslofjord in the Norselands, summoned by King Oswald to be the spearhead of his attack on your lands. My father greeted Skur Bloodax well when he made landfall on Lindisfarne—little knowing that after he had dined and supped at his hearth, the vile cur would ride south with me as his unwilling servant!”
“Your father allowed you to be taken away?” asked Linette.
“He is old and frail,” said Asta, her head bridling with sudden pride. “And yet he stood at the gate of our home with sword in hand and had to be beaten to the ground senseless before Skur could depart.”
“That was a brave act,” said Iwan, glancing at Skur. “I doubt that many men would have the courage to stand against such as he! And did your father survive Skur’s attack, do you know?”
“I do not,” said Asta. “His head was bloody when last I saw him, staring back in misery as Skur dragged me across the causeway to the mainland.” Tears ran down her cheeks, but Branwen guessed these were more from anger than grief. “And it has been ten days and more since I was taken from him, and I have been forced to walk with my hands roped together while Skur rode at his ease into the south.”
“And where was he heading, do you know?” asked Banon.
“His intent was to meet up with a thain named Horsa Herewulf Ironfist in a great encampment outside the town of Chester,” said Asta.
“Then he would have been doubly disappointed!” said Dera. “For not only did he lose his right path, but had he come to that camp, he would have found General Ironfist absent—never to return!”
Asta looked puzzled.
“You have come too far; this place is to the southwest of Chester,” Rhodri explained. “Another half a day of travel and you would have entered the kingdom of Powys!”
“And as for Herewulf Ironfist,” added Iwan, “Branwen slew him in battle not two days ago!”
“And now she has also killed Skur!” said Asta, her eyes shining as she looked at Branwen. “I guess that you are more than you seem, Branwen. Little more than a maiden, you look—and yet you must be a formidable warrior!”
“Indeed so!” declared Blodwedd. “Branwen is the beloved of the Shining Ones. She has a high destiny, and all we who are gathered here are her faithful followers.”
Asta stared around the band, her eyes wide, her lips parted in wonder. At last her gaze fell on Branwen again.
“And what is your destiny, Branwen?” she asked breathlessly.
“To rout the Saxons and to make the borders of Brython safe …,” Branwen said. She paused, allowing herself an embarrassed smile of self-deprecation. “… apparently …”
“You would be astounded if we were to tell you what she has already accomplished!” said Linette. “She has ferocious allies. Why, in the battle at Gwylan Canu, when all seemed lost—”
“We have no time for telling stories,” Branwen interrupted her. “To horse, and away to Chester.” She turned to Asta. “You are free to go where you will. It is a long journey back to your home, but I wish you well in it. You may keep for your own the Viking’s steed and all the provisions he had.”
Asta looked bewildered. “I do not know the way home,” she said.
“Branwen, she is Saxon!” Dera said sharply. “Her loyalties are not ours; we cannot simply let her go on her way! She knows too much of us.”
“I am not a Saxon,” protested Asta. “I am …” Her voice faded suddenly away.
“A Viking!” prompted Aberfa, her brows lowered. “Yes, you are indeed.”
“I mean you no harm!” Asta cried, staring around at them. “You rescued me from Skur; it would be mean-spirited indeed for me to repay you with treachery.” Branwen frowned. Dera had a point. Asta was not of their cause; her loyalties must lie with her father’s master, with King Oswald of Northumbria. And they were in enemy territory on a mission that only stealth and surprise wou
ld accomplish.
“We have killed an enemy and released his captive—only to find that she too is an enemy … of sorts,” Iwan said, looking closely into Asta’s perturbed face. “What are we to do? We cannot release her, and we do not have the time to take her to a place where she can be safely kept.” He looked at Branwen, raising an eyebrow. “A weighty decision for a leader to make.”
“We must be sure that she cannot threaten our mission,” said Dera. “I see only two choices.”
“And what are those, in your opinion?” Rhodri asked.
“She must be rendered harmless, or she must be killed,” Dera said.
“No!” Asta wailed, backing away. Aberfa stepped up behind her and caught her by the elbows, her two strong hands holding her steady.
“That is a harsh sentence!” murmured Banon. “To save only to slaughter?”
“We cannot kill her!” said Rhodri, his voice shocked.
“How can we make her harmless?” Branwen asked, looking at Dera.
“If she has no tongue, she cannot tell our enemies of us,” Blodwedd said, staring unblinkingly into Asta’s frightened face. “And if that is not thought sufficient, her eyes could be put out. A dumb and sightless enemy is little threat.”
“Blodwedd!” Rhodri looked at her, appalled. “We cannot maim her for fear of what she might do!”
“Would you rather we kill her?” Blodwedd asked, seemingly puzzled by his anger.
“Kinder to put a sword through her heart,” said Dera. “But whatever we choose, it should be swiftly done. It’s cruelty indeed to make her suffer more than need dictates.”
Asta stopped struggling in Aberfa’s powerful grip. She straightened her back, her chin up as she looked into Branwen’s face. “I’ll not beg for my life,” she said, her voice firm but filled with fear. “Do what you will if you cannot put your faith in my gratitude! But if I am given the choice, a sword to the heart is my final wish.”
“There you have it,” said Dera. “A compassionate sword to end all doubt. She asks for it herself.”
