The Emerald Flame

by Frewin Jones

  Bryn’s sullen, beefy face was as impenetrable as ever; but Padrig had a fierce, uneasy light in his eyes. Branwen guessed that the two Saxons were his first kills—he seemed both proud and alarmed by what he had done.

  “Your thanks are not needed,” said Gavan. “I’d not see even a Powys brach die under a Saxon sword.”

  A brach! Is that what he thought of her—no better than a female hunting dog?

  She and Gavan ap Huw had once been pupil and master—there had been trust and affection between them. But now they stared at each other like rival wolves meeting in disputed territory. No trust. Just suspicion and tight-lipped enmity, despite the fact that Gavan’s intervention had almost certainly saved her and Blodwedd’s lives.

  “I have seen your daughter,” Branwen said hesitantly, her eyes moving from his face, a flush rising in her cheeks.

  Gavan nodded. “I, too, have seen Alwyn,” he said. “We were at the gate when Ironfist met his son.” His eyes narrowed. “The great general of the Saxons is not dead, as you thought.”

  “Maybe not,” said Blodwedd, coming to stand at Branwen’s side, wiping the blood off her mouth with her sleeve. “But Skur Bloodax is dead—defeated and slain in mortal combat. Be not so haughty, Old Warrior, when you speak to the Chosen Child of the Shining Ones—she has done great deeds since last we met.”

  Bryn’s face darkened, and Padrig gripped his bow tightly, as though the owl-girl’s bold words annoyed him.

  “Defeated by witchcraft, no doubt,” said Gavan without looking at Blodwedd.

  “No! By muscle and sinew and good iron, with a sharp mind and a cunning eye behind!” said Blodwedd. “You taught her well, Old Warrior; rejoice that she was such an apt disciple.” Her eyes glowed. “Or would you wish that she had died in the combat?”

  “Hush, Blodwedd,” Branwen murmured, not wanting things to become more difficult than was already the case.

  “Do I wish she had died?” said Gavan as though testing the words in his mouth, still avoiding the eyes of the owl-girl. “No, I do not wish her dead. But you may wish it, Branwen, ere the Old Gods are done with you; and I’d wish with all my heart that you could see the truth clearly and return to the love of your people.”

  “We have spoken of this before,” Branwen said quietly. “My mind has not changed, and neither has yours. Let’s have no more of it.” She met his eyes again. “How have you managed to keep hidden in this place? There are few men here with shaven chins.”

  “A deep cowl hid my features for the most part,” said Gavan. “A wrap of fox fur about my chin did the rest. And the boys needed no disguise with their hairless faces. But gaining entry to Ironfist’s camp is another matter. I speak little Saxon, and the boys none. Yet I must and I will find a way into the heart of the camp. I will not leave this place without my daughter. I have made a vow on that!”

  “Where are the others?” Branwen asked. “Andras and the boy?”

  “They are safe outside the town, with the horses,” said Gavan. “I did not think it prudent to bring Dillon into Chester—his face may be recognized. And what of your followers? Is Dera ap Dagonet with you still, or has she seen sense?”

  “Some are here, and Dera is among them,” Branwen said, not rising to his bait. “They are protected by the same enchantment that hides us from Saxon eyes. The rest are in the forest atop the hill on the far side of the river.” She looked keenly into Gavan’s eyes. “Tell me, Gavan ap Huw—what would you do to bring your daughter safe from this place?”

  Gavan frowned at her, his eyes like gimlets. “I’d walk unarmed through every black pit and foul trench in Annwn,” he growled. “I’d pluck the horned god Cernunnos himself by the beard! I’d spit in the face of every demon from here to the fabled court of Math ap Mathonwy! I’d do all a man can do and more besides!”

  “Would you ally yourself with me and mine?” asked Branwen, watching his face carefully. “Would you use the gifts of the Shining Ones to set her free?”

  She saw Gavan flinch. She was not sure why she had made the offer. To prove to Gavan that the Shining Ones were not as deadly as he believed? Hardly that; she was quite sure they were! To offer the hand of friendship—in the hope of retying the bonds between them? Maybe. Simply to help him? She hoped her motives were that pure.

  “We don’t need their help,” said Bryn, looking distastefully at Branwen.

  “Be silent!” said Gavan, his eyes riveted on Branwen’s face. She could see the conflict in his mind.

  Branwen opened her left palm and held up the white crystal to Gavan’s eyes. Even in the darkness of the barn, she could see the rainbow coiling at the white stone’s heart. “This and five others like it I have carried with me for many years,” she said. “They were given to me by my brother, Geraint, although he did not know the power that they could contain.”

  Gavan stared uneasily at the stone, his eyes narrowed.

  “Merion of the Stones gifted us with the ability to go unseen among enemies while we hold these crystals,” said Branwen. “Do you still think I do wrong to follow the Old Gods when so much of my life has been bound to them?”

  Gavan didn’t respond to her question, but she could see doubt and disquiet in his gray eyes.

  “With Merion’s stones, we will be able to pass through the ranks of the enemy like a night wind through the trees,” murmured Blodwedd. “They will know nothing of our coming nor of our going. Can you do the same, Old Warrior?”

  Gavan’s face contracted into a scowl. “In battle a man will use whatever weapon comes to hand,” he said under his breath. “My mind speaks against it, but my heart will not be denied.” He glowered into Branwen’s face. “But why would you wish to help me? What is my daughter to you?”

  “I’d help you because once you were my friend,” said Branwen. “And I too have business in Ironfist’s Great Hall. Maybe it is that we will help each other.” She lifted her chin. “Make your decision! I offer you my aid, if you will have it. If not we will go our separate ways; and you will take my good wishes with you, despite all the bad that you think of me.”

  She was aware of Padrig and Bryn watching Gavan closely, and it was clear from their faces that they hoped he would refuse her offer.

  “To save my child, I will risk all,” Gavan said at length. “Yes, Branwen of the Old Ones, I will join with you for a time—if the gifts of your gods will work for an unbeliever.”

  “Oh, they will, Old Warrior; do not fear on that account,” said Blodwedd, her eyes shining. “The bounty of the Ancient Ones embraces even the most reluctant of their children.”

  “I am not a child of the Old Gods!” snarled Gavan, finally looking into her face.

  Blodwedd smiled, and there was blood on her teeth. “Oh, but you are,” she crooned. “Do not fool yourself, Old Warrior. We are all their children, whether we acknowledge it or not.”

  Gavan turned away, but not before Branwen saw a look of profound dread disfigure his features. Blodwedd’s words seemed to have cut him to the very soul; and if not for his hunger to save his daughter, Branwen felt sure he would have quit that place and never once have looked back.

  “Then it’s settled,” Branwen said. “We should hide these bodies among the sacks so they are not quickly found. And then we should leave this town and gather our forces and await nightfall.”

  19

  “A GLORIOUS SUNSET to herald a night of dangerous endeavor!” said Iwan, coming suddenly to Branwen’s side as she stood on the breezy hilltop, gazing out over the darkening plain. The lights of Chester and of the army camp that grew like some poisonous tumor at its side were beginning to ignite.

  Iwan was right. Behind the forest at her back, high banks of cloud burned scarlet and orange, as if the western sky was aflame. And above her purple scuds of cloud hung impossibly still against the grainy blue of dusk. In the distant east a rich velvet darkness crawled imperceptibly across the world, obliterating everything.

  Branwen had been thinking of her mother
, wondering whether, in the midst of her labors, Lady Alis had taken the time to lift her eyes to the glory of the dying day and whether it was possible that at that moment she was thinking of her errant daughter and offering her blessings for Branwen’s safekeeping.

  Branwen looked at Iwan but said nothing, struck by the way the fading light complemented the shape of his face, highlighting the curve of his mouth, the shadows under his cheekbones, the glimmer of his dark eyes.

  He smiled, cocking his head to indicate the people and horses gathered just under the eaves of the forest. “A merry bunch we are, to be sure,” he said, his eyes twinkling with private amusement. “Do you see how Bryn glowers at everyone, like a hunting dog desperate to be unleashed on a flock of chickens!”

  “Does he ever look otherwise?” Branwen sighed.

  “No, I dare say not,” Iwan said, laughing softly. “But can we trust them, Branwen? I think Gavan hates and fears you in equal measure. Is it wise to take him with us into Ironfist’s camp?”

  “We have had this debate, and the decision is made,” said Branwen. “There are six stones—and six people have been chosen.” She raised an eyebrow. “Unless you would give up your place to someone else? Rhodri, perhaps?”

  “By no means,” said Iwan. “Let him and the others stay and keep watch over that Viking maid.”

  Branwen frowned. He meant Asta, of course. “Why will no one use her name?” she asked.

  “Perhaps because she is not of our blood, Branwen.”

  He looked thoughtfully at her. “Can I speak of Rhodri without angering you?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have that ability?”

  “He is a good fellow, I believe,” said Iwan. “And I dislike him less than I show; but he is half Saxon, Branwen. I’d rest easier if I thought you understood what that means.”

  “You’d hold his divided parentage against him?” said Branwen, surprised and a little annoyed. “He has proved himself a friend many times over. Why do you trust no one, Iwan?”

  “I trust but one person,” Iwan replied. “I know for certain of only one man who would willingly give his life for you.” His voice lowered to a soft whisper. “A thousand times over.”

  Branwen looked away from him, staring out over the wide plain, hoping he could not hear the way her heart was pulsing. She swallowed, the pounding sensation growing under her rib cage.

  “What man is that?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  There was no reply. She turned. Iwan was walking away from her under the trees.

  Bringing the two bands together without conflict had not been easy, and at the very best a hostile truce was all that existed between Gavan’s boys and Branwen’s followers. After some brief initial antagonism, Bryn and the others virtually ignored Iwan, obviously thinking their former friend and companion beyond the pale with his new allegiances. Iwan found this all too obviously amusing, which only made the other boys of Doeth Palas more peevish. And none of them would even look at Blodwedd; skinny Andras positively shrank away if she came close to him. All the while, Dillon kept to himself, silently watching with huge eyes.

  It had not taken long to hide the bodies of the dead Saxons in among the barley sacks in the barn. A length of sacking had been torn away to provide a wrapping for the spears and knives that Bryn had taken from their corpses.

  Their departure from Chester had passed without incident, Gavan’s Brythonic features hidden under his cowl, Bryn clutching the looted weapons in the wrap of sacking. Once across the river bridge, they had slipped south off the road and made their way to a huddled glade of willows, similar to the one in which Branwen had made her final plans before entering the town earlier that morning.

  Here they had found Andras and Dillon and the five horses; and here they remained for the afternoon, hardly speaking, Branwen and Blodwedd sitting together, and Gavan and the boys keeping their distance. To pass the time, Gavan had arranged mock sword fights with the lads. Branwen watched with a critical eye. Padrig was a good shot with a bow, but although he was light-footed and quick-witted, his sword work wasn’t up to much in her opinion. And Andras was all but useless, more likely to trip up and stab himself in the foot than to do damage to an enemy. The only truly dangerous fighter among them was Bryn, and his abilities were due more to weight and force than to anything else. But there was a cold look in his eyes as he fought of which Branwen had taken particular note.

  He’d kill without a second thought. I could never bring myself to like him, but he would be a good man to have at your side in a desperate situation.

  Branwen had managed a private word with Gavan while they waited for the others. She felt he had a right to know the full nature of their mission, to give him the opportunity to break their alliance if he found it too disturbing.

  He had listened in stony silence as she told him of Merion and of the imprisonment of Caradoc of the North Wind. When she had finished, he made only one comment.

  “If I find Alwyn and have the means to escape Ironfist’s camp with her, I will do it,” he had warned her. “Whether your mission is fulfilled or not.”

  “And if I find Caradoc’s prison, I too will depart the place,” Branwen had responded. “And I will not wait for you or yours.”

  “Then we understand each other, Branwen.”

  “Yes. I think we do.”

  Rhodri and Banon had been the next pair to appear from Chester, heading toward the place Branwen had suggested for their gathering and drawn to this new hiding place by a shrill whistle from Blodwedd and Branwen’s beckoning arm.

  Rhodri had accepted the appearance of Gavan and the boys without comment, but Branwen had not forgotten that these were the lads who had cornered and beaten him when he had been captured in Doeth Palas. She guessed his forbearance was due more to not wishing to cause her problems than to having forgiven the boys.

  Rhodri and Banon had little to report that Branwen had not already known. They had heard Ironfist’s speech and had been as disgusted by it as Branwen had been. They had then moved among the townsfolk, listening to much the same kinds of conversations. But Rhodri had used his knowledge of the Saxon language to manage to buy some food for them.

  “How did you come by the money?” Branwen had asked.

  A slow grin had spread across Banon’s face. “I played cutpurse, and relieved an overfed wheat monger of it,” she said. “He did not even notice the loss! ‘Tis a quick way to gain coin, although my mother would not approve!”

  As the afternoon wore on, Iwan and Dera had also appeared. Dera had not hid her disapproval of the new alliance that Branwen had forged, but her antagonism had been restricted to glowering looks. Iwan had been hugely entertained by it, and his mockery of the boys almost brought him to blows with Bryn. Only Gavan’s intervention prevented them from fighting. After that, the boys of Doeth Palas hardly spoke to their onetime friend and companion. Not that Iwan had seemed to care.

  Now that they had all come together, they headed up the forested hill to join with Aberfa and Linette and Asta. There had been more awkwardness, with Aberfa and Bryn facing off, sullen face to sullen face; but in the end Branwen and Gavan had managed to convince everyone to hold to this temporary truce—at the very least until their tasks in Ironfist’s army camp were done.

  Asta had prepared a meal for them all while they awaited nightfall. She moved quietly among them, her eyes lowered, handing out bread and cheese and parcels of fish stuffed with herbs and cooked in the embers of a smoldering fire too small to be seen from afar.

  Gavan had questioned Asta about Skur, and the answers she had given him were the same as those she had given to Branwen when she had first been rescued. Gavan approved of the decision not to let her go free, but Branwen could see that he also sympathized with the Viking maiden’s plight despite her being of foreign blood.

  One last decision had been needed.

  Six stones.

  Twelve people, not including Asta or Dillon. Who would go with Branwen and Gavan into
the camp?

  In the end Branwen chose Blodwedd, Dera, Iwan, and Bryn.

  And so, all choices having been made, Branwen had walked from their small camp under the trees to watch the sunset and to think of her mother—only to be interrupted by the perplexing and unsettling appearance of Iwan.

  At the last moment before the six departed for Ironfist’s encampment, Branwen sought out Rhodri for a quiet word alone.

  “I don’t want you to be concerned that I chose Iwan over you for the mission into the Saxon camp,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Rhodri said. “Iwan is the better fighter; if you fall into bad luck, he’s more likely to get you all out safe than I.” He smiled. “And I have my own skills,” he added. “Who better to tend the wounded when you return?”

  Branwen was relieved. “Good. Exactly.” She looked into his face. “You are my truest friend, Rhodri—and the voice of my conscience, whether I like what it tells me or not. I don’t want any misunderstanding between us. I’d not upset you for all of Brython. Please remember that.”

  “I shall.” He touched his hand to her arm. “I’m not concerned for your safety; Iwan will make certain that you do not come to harm.”

  She looked at him, puzzled by this. “Why Iwan? I would have expected you to have named Blodwedd as the one to keep me from danger.”

  “Blodwedd would fling herself into fire for you,” said Rhodri. “But I think Iwan might just do more.” He smiled a knowing smile. “I believe that under all his bravado and mischief, he may possibly cherish you almost as much as you cherish him.”

  Branwen almost choked, embarrassed that her attraction to Iwan was so obvious and desperate to deny it. “What do you mean? He’s a valued companion to me. No more.”

  Rhodri’s smile widened. “Don’t try to dupe me, Branwen; I know you too well. I have seen the fond way you look at him when you think no one can see.”