by Frewin Jones
A moment later the man was hurled down off the high deck, bright red blood spilling from his torn-out throat.
He landed with a crash almost at Ironfist’s feet.
Pandemonium erupted. Tables were overturned as men surged up from their benches. There were shouts of shock and anger. Ironfist rose from his throne, drawing his sword, staring upward.
“A demon!”
“A waelisc devil!”
“Shoot it down!” Ironfist bellowed. “Kill it!”
Branwen let go of the rung and dropped down onto the barrels. Any noise she might have made was lost in the tumult that filled the hall. Unobserved, Branwen raced along the wall, the casket cradled against her chest.
At the door she looked around. Blodwedd stood on the lip of the raised floor, her arms stretched out, her mouth open in another terrible scream. Arrows and javelins cut through the air, but none hit her.
She’ll die here! By the love of the Three Saints, no! I cannot let her die alone!
But Branwen had the casket in her arms. Her first duty was to get it to safety; otherwise all they had done here was in vain.
She ducked out through the doorway, narrowly avoiding colliding with men who were running in to find out what was happening within.
How long can the stone hide me in this mayhem? Surely I shall be seen, and then all will be lost.
Iwan and Dera were pressed against the outer wall, keeping away from the inrush of warriors.
“Take this!” hissed Branwen, thrusting the casket into Iwan’s hands. “Go, now! I will follow if I can.”
“I’m going nowhere without you,” said Iwan, pulling his hands away, refusing to take the casket from her. “What’s happened? Where is Blodwedd?”
“She’s trapped in there. I’m going back for her,” snapped Branwen.
“By the saints, you are not!” said Dera. “You are the Chosen One—you cannot sacrifice yourself like that. Iwan! With me!”
“No!” Branwen tried to rip herself free as Dera and Iwan caught hold of her arms.
Iwan leaned in close. “Another shout like that and the Saxons will hear us and we will all die here!” he hissed. “You will come with us, Branwen!”
More warriors were running toward the open doorway of the Great Hall now, swords drawn, spears at the ready, alerted by the continuing uproar within.
Branwen twisted her head as she was pulled away from the hall. “I cannot leave her,” she murmured. “Don’t make me do this!”
“You cannot save her,” hissed Dera. “All you could do is die at her side.”
“Then I’d do that.”
“Be silent!” whispered Iwan. “That is the last thing Blodwedd would wish! If we—” A running warrior crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The man reeled, staring around himself in confusion. Then his eyes turned downward, widening in sudden realization. He could see them!
His mouth opened, but the only sound that escaped him was a dull grunt. Adder-quick, Dera had thrust her sword deep between his shoulder blades. The man dropped like a log.
No one needed to give the word—none of the three moved a muscle. Men rushed past them, missing them by hairbreadths as they made for the hall.
“What’s this with Beroun?”
“Drunk as a thain, I’d say! Leave him where he lies!”
“What is happening in the hall?”
“Some wild thing has got in there.”
Iwan slowly got to his feet. Branwen stood staring back at the hall, the casket hard against her stomach, her every instinct urging her to race back and help Blodwedd. But she knew Dera and Iwan would not allow it, and she could not risk an argument that would result in them being seen—not while they were surrounded by so many enemy warriors.
Iwan beckoned and they moved again, slipping away between the tents, halting when Saxons came too close, hardly breathing. Waiting. Moving again. Gradually making their way to the outskirts of the encampment, where the terrible screams of the owl-girl could no longer be heard and where the men still ate and drank and sang, unaware for the time being of the commotion at the heart of the camp.
At last they were beyond the negligent sentries and in among the reeds at the riverside.
Branwen halted, staring back the way they had come. “I will rot in Annwn for such a betrayal!” she said. “She will die alone and unaided. She deserved better of me!” She glared from Iwan to Dera. “You should have let me stay for her!”
“She would not have wanted that, Branwen,” said Iwan.
“She may yet survive,” said Dera. “She is not helpless.”
“She will not.” Branwen groaned, her heart aching with grief and reproach. “I know it. She will not. And it is my fault. This venture was ill planned from the outset! Only five of us should have come on this mission—and we should have kept the sixth stone for Gavan’s daughter. I am no leader! I should have thought of this before we set off!”
“Do not reprove yourself, Branwen,” said Iwan. “None of us thought of it. It is pointless to despair over things that cannot be altered.”
“Is that the thing we came here for?” asked Dera, looking uneasily at the casket in Branwen’s arms. “Is that where Caradoc of the North Wind lies?”
“I believe it is,” said Branwen.
“Then Blodwedd will be glad of her sacrifice,” said Dera. “She gave herself up to save one of the Old Gods that she serves. Could such a creature have a worthier death, Branwen?”
“Shall we get across the bridge before we speak more?” said Iwan. “I’d be well away from this place before the alarm is sent that the mountain rats are among them! And it will! The loss of the girl and the casket will be proof enough of that.”
“What of Gavan?” asked Branwen.
“He went on ahead with his daughter slung over his shoulder,” said Iwan. “Bryn went at his heel, like a faithful hound. Did the girl faint? There was no chance to speak with him.”
“She did not faint,” said Branwen grimly. “But more of that later. You are right—let’s get away from here.” She looked one final time back to the Great Hall beyond the tents and huts of the encampment. Angry tears pricked her eyes. “Farewell, Blodwedd,” she murmured. “And how am I to break the news to Rhodri? This is one thing for which he will never forgive me.” She shook her head as she turned away. “Nor shall I forgive myself!” she murmured under her breath. “Never!”
“What is that?” Iwan turned back the way they had come, peering into the distance, across the river, toward Ironfist’s encampment. He pointed to a dark smudge low in the sky, hanging over the camp like a plume of black cloud.
Branwen stared hard. “Smoke, perhaps?” she said. It was hard to tell what they were looking at—the night was dark, but the thing above the camp was darker still, like a clump of shadow just above the horizon. “Is the Great Hall aflame?”
“I see no sign of fire,” murmured Dera. “I cannot make it out. It is too distant and the night is too deep.” She tilted her head as though listening. “Do you hear that sound?”
“Yes,” breathed Branwen. A strange sound on the very brink of hearing: a high-pitched sound, like the faraway babble of children’s voices, or maybe more like the sound of many knives being sharpened on whetstones—shrill and thin, now that Branwen listened more intently, frenzied and somehow unpleasant.
“Is it an omen?” murmured Dera. “Some portent of doom?”
“Perhaps,” said Branwen. “But for whom?” She shuddered, turning away and continuing up the long slope of the hill.
A portent of doom.
As if she needed sinister portents to darken her mood!
23
BRANWEN FELT NO sense of triumph or achievement as she approached the camp in the high forest. She knew that they had done all that they had set out to achieve, but the success of their efforts was overshadowed by the cost; and as for Gavan, she feared that the rescue of his beloved daughter would bring him a deeper heartache than he could ever have imagined.
>
As they drew near to the camp, Branwen, Dera, and Iwan could hear the young woman’s raised voice piercing the night.
“Take me back! I demand you take me back! Redwuld will flay you alive for this insult! You will not escape his vengeance, no matter where you flee! His wrath will come down on you like the hammer of Thunaer! Take your hands off me!”
“Alwyn is awake then,” said Branwen.
“And in fine voice!” added Iwan. “We’d best find a way to quieten her; they’ll hear that racket all the way back in Chester, else!”
“It seems her father has little control over her,” said Dera. “This could prove a greater burden than we may have thought!”
“A cuckoo in the nest,” Branwen wondered aloud. “Let’s hope it’s not so.”
An uncomfortable scene met their eyes as they passed in under the trees and came to the small camp. Linette, Aberfa, and Banon were gathered together to one side, Asta sitting on the ground at their feet. Andras and Padrig and Dillon were standing apart from them, the horses tethered at their backs. Between the two groups stood Bryn, gripping Alwyn’s upper arms from behind, holding her back while she shouted and raved into her father’s face.
Rhodri stepped out from among the horses as Branwen’s small band came into the camp, his puzzled eyes questing for the friend who was not with them.
“You are sick in your mind, my child,” Gavan said gently. Branwen had never heard his voice so kindly or so distressed.
“I am not your child!” stormed Alwyn.
Gavan’s head lowered in sorrow. “No, you are not. Forgive me.” He looked again into her flushed, angry face. “But you are my daughter, though you have become a woman since last I saw you. And as your father, I tell you that your wits have become distracted, Alwyn. Cease this foolishness—you are free now. Free to go home.”
“Home?” spat the enraged young woman. “What home is that? The rat holes of Brython—is that where you’d take me?” Her eyes blazed. “I have lived in a king’s hall, I have dined off gold plates, I have worn silk! And what do you offer me? A reed-strewn floor where the mountain rats gobble their food among the dogs and the vermin! I will not go with you to live like a swine in the muck!”
The faces of the onlookers showed confusion and discomfort—and also a growing dislike for the young woman. But no one spoke as Gavan gazed unhappily into her face.
Branwen had no time for these hysterics. She stalked across the clearing and confronted the disheveled woman. “Listen well, Alwyn ap Gavan,” she said. “I do not care why you abuse your father so, but know this: you will return with him to Brython—even though you travel slung over the saddle with a gag to your mouth and your arms and legs tied! Whatever seductions have turned you from your own people, forget them! Your life among the Saxons is ended.”
A cold smile slithered over Alwyn’s face. “Is it?” she said, her voice calm now but filled with pride and spite. “I think Redwuld, son of Herewulf Ironfist, will have something to say on that matter.” Her chin lifted. “You think I am no more than a servant to him? I am very much more. He has proposed marriage, and I have accepted. Once this war is done and you people are crushed forever, we will return to my lord King Oswald’s palace in the North, and we shall be wed!” She looked venomously at Gavan. “Now what do you think of your chances of bearing me away? Redwuld will send an army to bring me back safely.” She stared around at the others. “All of you will die for this act! Redwuld’s anger will descend upon you like …”
“Oh! For the love of Saint Dewi, Saint Cynwal, and Saint Cadog, be silent!” Iwan burst out. “Must we listen to this demented banshee till doomsday? Gavan ap Huw, you are her father—gag her for pity’s sake! Do we not have enough to bear without the witless braying of this deluded fool?”
Gavan looked sternly at his daughter. “Alwyn, I hold more love for you than for life itself, but you must reconcile yourself to what has happened.” She opened her mouth, but he lifted a hand to quieten her. “Be silent, daughter, or I will have you gagged.”
Alwyn fell into a glowering silence, one hand moving up to pull a draggling lock of her wrecked hair off her face. A jeweled pin dropped into the grass.
“And as for any thoughts you may have had of marrying Ironfist’s son, forget them,” added Iwan. “Are you truly so addled in your mind that you think a great thain of the Saxons would let his eldest son marry a servant woman? You have been duped, madam! You have been a plaything to Redwuld, and nothing more.”
Alwyn’s eyes narrowed in hate, but she turned away from him without making any retort.
Rhodri came up to Branwen, his face worried. “Where is Blodwedd?” he asked.
Iwan looked compassionately at Rhodri. “We had to leave her,” he said gently, before Branwen had the chance to speak. His eyes flickered toward her for an instant. “It was no one’s fault.”
Rhodri’s forehead contracted, his eyes on Branwen. “You left her?” There was disbelief in his voice. “You left her in Ironfist’s camp?”
“We had no other choice,” said Dera. “I know you had affection for her.”
Rhodri’s face drained of color. “She is dead?” he breathed.
Branwen swallowed, finding it hard to hold his distressed gaze. “Yes, I think so.”
Rhodri looked from one to the other of the three. “Did any of you see her die?”
“No,” said Iwan. “But she was in Ironfist’s hall—surrounded by hundreds—and she gave up her mystical stone for Gavan’s daughter.” He frowned, sympathy for Rhodri deepening in his voice. “She could not have escaped.”
“But you did not actually see her killed?” asked Rhodri.
“We did not,” said Dera.
“Then she is alive,” said Rhodri. “I would know if she had died.” His eyes burned into Branwen’s. “I would know!” He turned and walked toward where the others were preparing the horses.
Branwen had the urge to chase after him, to catch his arm and to beg him to forgive her. But she dared not. She could not let the others see her weeping in Rhodri’s arms. She would have to endure the guilt and the loss on her own.
Fain suddenly appeared, floating out of the trees on stilled wings and coming to rest on Branwen’s shoulder. Caressing his feathers, she looked up into the sky. Clouds veiled the moon and hid the stars. “The night is not half gone, and we could all do with rest,” she said. “But we cannot stay here. Alwyn ap Gavan is correct in one thing: we will be pursued—but not for her rescue. Rather, for this!” She held up the casket for all to see. “This is the prison where Caradoc of the North Wind is held. We have done as Merion of the Stones asked—and now we must hasten to return to her. We will ride through the night.” She looked at Gavan. “Shall you ride with us now?”
“We shall,” he replied. “For the moment.”
Branwen nodded. “There will be no sleep now, till we are back in Brython. Make everything ready; we leave at once!”
It was a subdued and uneasy group that rode out of the western fringes of the forest in the deep watches of the night and made their way back toward Cyffin Tir.
They were all aware now that Blodwedd had been sacrificed so that the oak wood chest could be brought safely away from Ironfist’s camp. Gavan’s lads seemed indifferent to the loss—or maybe even a little relieved to be rid of the inhuman thing. Of all the girls of Gwylan Canu, Banon seemed the most upset; and Branwen saw tears in her eyes as she rode tandem with Aberfa. She and Blodwedd had bonded in the hunt, and Banon took the loss of her new friend hard.
Rhodri rode silent and a little aloof from the others, keeping to the rear of the column, constantly looking back, as though he was convinced that at any moment Blodwedd would appear in their wake.
Iwan and Linette rode together again, although this time Branwen was hardly even aware of it, save for the constant whisper of words between them. Alwyn rode with her father, seated behind him, his cloak over her shoulders, her features crabbed and hostile. Dera was astride Skur’s grea
t destrier with Asta clinging on behind. The dead Viking’s huge battle-ax hung from a harness on the saddle—the spoils of a victory less costly than that which had won them the casket that was now strapped to Branwen’s saddle.
A great pity that Alwyn has not taken to our forced company as Asta has, Branwen thought, one hand rising to her shoulder, her fingers gently stroking Fain’s chest feathers. Soon I shall need to speak with Gavan ap Huw and learn his purposes now that his errand in Mercia is fulfilled. Our ways will part, I think; and we’ll all be glad of that, I have no doubt. I shall call a halt soon, come the dawn—a brief rest will do us all good; and once the sun has risen Fain can patrol the skies at our backs and warn us of any pursuit.
The clouds slid away as they rode, and now the night sky was full of stars. The crescent moon hung low over the murmurous dark smear of a wind-ruffled forest. There was the trill of running water from somewhere nearby, a lively counterpart to the steady thud of hooves and the creak and jangle of harnesses.
Branwen was drowsing a little in the saddle, her head nodding every now and then. Fatigue was getting the best of her. She felt hollowed out, drained both physically and emotionally. The rippling of the water was almost like a melody in her weary mind. Like the song of the goraig … seeping gently into her head.
The cuckoo … yes … I will be wary of Alwyn … but what harm can she do to us…. She is her father’s burden, not mine!
The hollow, eerie hooting of an owl brought Branwen to her senses. It had come from the rear, floating like a melancholy moan on the dark air.
“Blodwedd?” It was Rhodri’s voice, calling out into the night.
Alert now, Branwen turned in the saddle. Rhodri’s horse had stopped, and he was twisted around, looking back the way they had come.
The rest of the band halted as well.
“She will not come,” called Dera. “It is but an eagle owl waking in the forest.”
“She is there!” shouted Rhodri, sliding down from the saddle and running helter-skelter through the tall grass. “I know she is!”
