Warrior Princess

by Frewin Jones

  Branwen grimaced. Her plan had been to scare it away or to kill it outright—not to hurt it. She loped along after it, not sure what she was going to do but hating to know that it was suffering. It was hard to keep up with the bird in the dense foliage, and Fain soon flew out of sight. Moments later Branwen heard a rustling and rushing sound and the muffled thwack of something striking the ground.

  She paused. Someone was rushing through the undergrowth to her left—not visible yet through the trees, but coming closer. She stood still, listening hard. Gavan wanted their training sessions to be kept secret; the last thing she needed was to be discovered here by someone from Doeth Palas.

  There! A movement in the lower branches, as if something was sweeping them aside as it passed. And then, some way ahead of her, the movements stopped and the forest became still.

  Branwen made her way stealthily forward. She saw hunched darkness: a shape—a bent back, low to the ground. Someone was kneeling, and murmuring a lilting song.

  Three eagles came out of the west—al omla la, al omla la

  One brought fire in its breast—al omla la, al omla la

  The second brought frost to line its nest—al omla la, al, omla la

  The third brought solace, peace, and rest—al omla la al omla la

  A talisman to cure all ills

  A cure as ancient as the hills

  All pain be gone, banished be

  By leaf and sap of old oak tree…

  She recognized the stained and tattered cloak that strained across the broad shoulders, and she knew that voice with its curious accent.

  It was the boy from the mountain. What was he doing here?

  He looked up as she stepped from cover, surprise widening his hazel eyes. He was holding the falcon gently between his hands.

  “I thought I’d killed it,” Branwen said. “What were you singing?”

  “A healing song,” he said. “Why did you harm it? Is life so harsh in yonder citadel that hunters are sent out to bring back falcon meat?”

  Branwen knelt down and touched the bird’s wing with her fingertips. “I’m sorry,” she said to it. “I was angry. Forgive me.”

  Caw!

  The bird ruffled its feathers and hopped down out of the young man’s hands. It preened and smoothed its plumage for a few moments, then sprang into the air and went sweeping away through the trees.

  “An unusual bird,” the young man said dryly. “I take it you and he know each other.”

  Branwen nodded.

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me about it, if you don’t want to.”

  “You would never believe me if I did,” Branwen said.

  “Oh, I see,” said the young man, a smile sliding up one side of his face. “Trust me, Branwen, I will happily believe anything you might tell me. I have always believed everything I’ve ever been told. I believe that a thousand pooka can dance on the point of a spear. I believe that the Stag of Rhedenfyre once lived on a rock set on a star, and I believe that Boobach will sweep evil out of your home for a bowl of sweet, fresh cream. So don’t underestimate my foolishness, please.”

  Branwen laughed. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Rhodri.”

  “Rhodri ap…?”

  “It’s not important. Rhodri will do, Branwen ap…?”

  “Just Branwen.”

  “There now, one name apiece is plenty to be getting on with.” Rhodri stood up, brushing off his ragged leggings.

  Branwen stood up as well. “How is your leg?”

  “See for yourself.” Rhodri pulled his legging aside. The wound was still red and raw, but it was healing well—and more quickly than Branwen would have expected.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you coming to Doeth Palas?”

  “No. I have no wish to be beaten or locked up as a wandering beggar,” Rhodri said lightly. “I am just a passing wayfarer, in search of my destiny, as are we all.”

  “Why do you say that?” Branwen said sharply.

  Rhodri lifted his hands. “Why not? Do you think I’m too lowly to have a destiny?”

  Branwen backed off a couple of paces. “Are you a servant of Rhiannon of the Spring? Is that why you’re here?”

  Rhodri seemed about to laugh, but his face became serious when he saw that she was not joking. “I am no one’s servant, Branwen,” he said. “I was a servant once, but no longer. I fled my master—and I am fleeing still.” He looked curiously at her. “Why would you think I was in the service of a dead goddess?”

  “Were you telling the truth when you said you would believe anything?” she said. “Would you believe something utterly impossible if I told you it was true?” She desperately needed to talk to someone about the shining goddess of water, if only to say out loud the thoughts that had been reverberating in her mind ever since meeting Rhiannon.

  Perhaps this wayfaring beggar boy was the perfect person to tell. After all, he had no idea who she was; and he was certainly in no position to pass judgment on her.

  “I’d try,” he said.

  “The Shining Ones are not dead.”

  His eyes lit up. “You know this for sure?”

  “I have seen Rhiannon of the Spring.”

  He stared at her in astonishment. “Where? Did she speak to you?”

  “Yes, she spoke to me,” Branwen said bitterly. “But she is coldhearted and cruel.”

  “Why? What did she say?”

  While Branwen was trying to think of where to start her tale, a sudden brightness flooded the forest. She looked east: Above the latticework of branches, the sun had cleared the mountains.

  “There’s no time now,” she said. “I have to meet someone. Stay here, and I’ll bring you food. I’ll return by midday at the latest. Will you stay?”

  “For food? Of course,” said Rhodri. “And will you tell me about Rhiannon of the Spring?”

  “Yes, I will,” she said, already walking quickly away from him.

  “Don’t tell anyone about me,” Rhodri called.

  “No. I won’t.”

  She ran back through the trees until she came upon a white stone lying on the ground, then another, and another. She hoped Rhodri would wait for her.

  Rhiannon of the Spring says I have a great destiny!

  She says I am the Emerald Flame of my people!

  But I won’t be what she wants because she let my brother be killed!

  25

  THE WHITE STONES led to a glade.

  It was Rhiannon’s glade, lush with grass and reeds, with the pond of still, clear water at its center. Branwen stood at the entrance to the glade, trembling.

  The water goddess was not there—but Gavan was. The old warrior was sword fighting with the air, a long, bright blade in either hand, both arms thrusting and parrying, his feet constantly moving as he battled with his invisible enemy.

  Branwen watched him, blinking as flashes of sunlight flared off the polished blades. As nimble and supple as a man a third his age, he feinted, drew back, spun on his heel, then lunged hard, bringing the two blades forward in a whirl of sunlit iron.

  She stepped into the light. Gavan looked across at her. “Is this early, my lady?” he asked gruffly.

  “I’m sorry,” Branwen said. “Why did you pick this place?”

  “Because no one comes here. Fools avoid it because they believe it is haunted. Others keep away because once it was a sacred place—long ago.”

  “How was it sacred?”

  “The pool is fed by an underground spring,” Gavan told her. “Our ancestors revered such places, thinking the water was a gift from the gods of Annwn.”

  “You don’t think that?”

  “I do not.” He lifted his head, looking intently at her. “Well, my lady, are you ready to learn today whether there is a warrior within you?”

  “I am,” said Branwen. “Will we be using real swords?”

  “We will. Part of your journey must be learning how an iron sword feels in you
r hand. Wooden swords teach you nothing.” An odd smile cracked across his face. “Do not fear injury, my lady. I will not hurt you, and you need have no fear of hurting me.” He gestured to the pool. “But it will be thirsty work,” he said. “Drink first.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Drink!”

  Branwen frowned, puzzled by the sudden stern tone in his voice. She walked over to the pool, moving carefully among the reeds, testing the firmness of the ground. At the farthest edge of solid earth, she came down on one knee and scooped water up in her cupped palm and drank it.

  “Good,” Gavan said. “You have passed the first test.”

  She rose and turned to him. “How? What test?”

  “A warrior must be ever watchful,” Gavan said. “Those least fitted to the task fall on their faces and drink like beasts. Others will go down on their knees and bring water up to their mouths with both hands. But warriors drop on one knee and use only one hand to take up the water. Then they can see if an enemy approaches, and they have a hand free for their weapon.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  Gavan walked over to the tree line and drew up two plain, round, wooden shields from the grass. “I need to know what skills you already have,” he said. “You say your brother taught you some defensive moves?”

  “He did,” Branwen replied.

  “Bearing sword and shield?”

  “Sword only,” said Branwen. “But I know how to use a shield.”

  Gavan tossed a shield to her, and she caught it in both hands. It was surprisingly heavy, its diameter wide enough to protect her chest and shoulders. She pushed her left forearm through the two leather straps stapled onto its back, holding the second in her fist.

  Gavan held out one of the swords. “Take this and adopt a defensive stance.”

  Branwen gripped the leather-bound hilt, trying to remember all that Geraint had shown her. She spread her legs wide, bringing up the shield close to her chest so that she was looking out at Gavan over the upper rim. She held her sword steadily at chest height, the point toward Gavan.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “I want only that you defend yourself against me. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Gavan stood with his shield held out and the upper rim angled away from his body. His sword arm was raised to the side, the elbow pointing away from his body, his forearm angled toward his head, his sword held diagonally behind his back.

  She had expected him to come straight for her; but instead he stepped in until he was a little over a sword’s length away from her, then he began a series of circling moves that meant she had to constantly shift her feet to stay facing him. She watched his expression, trying to guess what he would do next. His eyes were fixed always on her sword hand. He moved in closer. She stabbed at him. He knocked her sword aside with the edge of his shield.

  “Put some muscle into it,” he growled. “Don’t fear to hurt me. That isn’t going to happen.”

  Branwen narrowed her eyes. So he thought that, did he? It was time for him to find out how much she had learned during the days she had spent watching the sparring and training of the warriors of Garth Milain. She gave a yell and ran at him, meaning to give him a nick on the upper arm to show him she wasn’t entirely helpless.

  He danced back, his shield coming up to block her swing. Her sword glanced off the edge of his shield, and she tottered forward. His shield came down heavy on her back, sending her sprawling. She felt the tip of his sword against her neck as she lay there with her mouth full of grass.

  He stepped back and allowed her to get to her feet. She felt foolish and fully expected him to be grinning at her. He wasn’t.

  “What was that?” he asked. “Did I say attack?”

  “No.”

  “Next time you disobey me, I will give you such a blow on the ear with the flat of my sword that your head will ring for ten days. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Defend yourself!”

  She stamped her feet down hard into the grass, her legs spread, watching him intently over her shield. She lifted her sword arm, elbow cocked away from her body, forearm toward her head, her sword angled down her back. Exactly as Gavan held his sword. At least he would see she was paying attention.

  He came for her, but again he kept sidling around her, making her turn and change her footing; and every time he darted in close and she swung her sword at him, he deflected it with his shield and was away out of sword reach before she could swing a second time.

  The end came so swiftly that she hardly knew it had happened. He leaped in. She swung at him. His shield deflected her blow. His sword arm came hurtling down; and if he hadn’t brought the scything blow to a sudden halt, his blade would have taken her head clean off her shoulders.

  She stood staring at him, panting, shaking all over, her muscles cramped and aching, her hopes of proving her skills to him in tatters. All she had proved was that she had no idea what she was doing.

  He stepped back, his face thoughtful.

  “Well?” she snapped. “Say it!”

  “Say what?”

  “Tell me I know nothing. Tell me I have no skills. Tell me…” She clenched her jaw. She was so angry with herself that she could feel the tears burning behind her eyes.

  I hate the way anger makes me want to weep! I wish I could be angry like a man is angry!

  “There’s little point in me telling you things you already know,” Gavan said. He frowned at her. “Now! What would you truly have me tell you?”

  She swallowed. “Tell me what I did wrong,” she said. “Tell me how to do better.”

  “Adopt a defensive stance.”

  She stood as she had stood before, the sword angled across her back.

  He circled her. “Your feet are too far apart; bring them closer. They should be no wider apart than your shoulders. And you stand too heavily; the weight should be on the balls of your feet. Your left foot should be pointing toward your enemy. The right foot should point sideways. Your knees should be slightly bent. You should feel the tension in your calves and in your thighs.”

  As he spoke, she adjusted her stance to fit his instructions.

  “You must achieve three things in the way you stand: mobility, stability, and confidence. You are holding your shield too close to your body; hold it farther away so you can block your enemy’s blow sooner. Keep your upper shield arm against your side and the forearm angled upward so your hand is at shoulder height. And hold the shield so that its upper rim is angled toward your enemy. This will help you in punching aside his sword blows.”

  She changed the way she was holding her shield and instantly noticed the difference, realizing that the disk of wood could be used as a weapon as well as a defense.

  “You are holding your sword correctly now,” Gavan continued, “but you need to angle your hips a little.” He put his big hands on her hips and cocked them so her shield hip was a little higher. “This will help channel the power of your blow,” he told her. “When you strike, the power should come from your whole body, not just your arm. Tighten your stomach muscles and your shoulders. Your muscles should speak to you; you should feel them straining, like hunting dogs on the leash.”

  Branwen tensed as he suggested. It felt strange—as if her body were a drawn bowstring waiting to be loosed. Gavan stood behind her, slightly adjusting the angle of her arm and of her wrist so that the blade of her sword ran from her right shoulder to her left hip. Her arm muscles protested, but she said nothing.

  “When you strike, rotate your upper body and let the force of the blow rise up through you. But do not lean forward, or you will leave your neck vulnerable.”

  “The way I did before,” Branwen said.

  “Indeed. Now, to block an opponent’s sword, you must thrust forward with your shield.” He stood in front of her. “Strike at me slowly. As though you were fighting underwater.”

  Branwen’s body was trembling with the tension of her unnatur
al stance. It was a relief to bring her sword arm over and down, but it was hard to do it slowly as Gavan had asked. She felt as if her muscles were going to burst under her skin. As her sword fell, Gavan’s shield came under it at a sharp angle, striking the blade near the hilt, pushing her blow aside and then following through so the upper rim of his shield was against her throat.

  “Do you see? I bring the shield in close to your hand so that you cannot trick me by changing the angle of your blow. Also, I can use the shield to strike at your throat. And while you are gasping for breath, I can follow through and finish you off with a strike to your neck or your stomach or your thigh.”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand,” Branwen said.

  “Stand ready again.”

  Branwen stood ready. She could feel every muscle as tense as a fist under her clothes.

  “Is your weight on the balls of your feet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it hard to keep still?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good. Do not keep still. Do not let me bring the fight to you. Move around as I do. Let your body flow with the flow of battle.” He stepped forward. Branwen danced back, and despite the tension in her body, she felt strangely light and lithe. “Good! Good!”

  He lunged at her and she sprang aside, her shield angled toward him.

  “Watch my sword, not my face!” he said. “I’m going to stab you, not bite you!”

  She almost laughed at this unexpected show of humor.

  He leaped forward, his sword slashing down. She punched her shield hard against his sword. The blow jarred her arm and made her gasp, but his sword slipped off the edge of her shield. She let loose with her sword arm, feeling the power of the blow rippling through her entire body. He parried her blow, moving quickly to her left so she had to pivot on her toes to keep facing him. He slashed at her and she bounded back, watching his sword arm. Again he came at her, and again she avoided the blow. They circled each other as if they were partners in a deadly dance.