She saw a creature making its way through the dark trees towards her. The shape warped and distorted as it moved, so that sometimes it looked to Branwen like a huge eagle drifting under the branches on wide, still wings, and sometimes like the tall, green-hued and antlered stag-man that she had seen once before. Govannon of the Wood.
‘Govannon! Govannon!’ cried Blodwedd. ‘Have you deserted the Emerald Flame? She is alone and afraid. Will you not come to her?’
A deep voice boomed in reply. ‘My part in her journey is done, Blodwedd of the Far-Seeing Eye. Others must aid her now.’
‘But this winter has no end, and one of her followers is dead at Caradoc’s hand,’ called Blodwedd. ‘Can you not make him withdraw his long white claws from the land? Can you not force him to lift his frozen breath from us?’
A second shape emerged from the trees, and Branwen saw Rhiannon, seated upon her white horse as it padded forward through the thick snow in a jingle of silvery bells. ‘We cannot tell the wind which way to blow,’ she said. ‘We are bound to the earth, child – we cannot bring this winter to a halt.’
‘Nor would we!’ croaked another voice, as dry and cracked as sun-parched rock. The stooped and gnarled figure of Merion of the Stones stepped forward with a rowan staff clutched in her knobbed hand. ‘He runs free and wild, does my beautiful brother, and answers to none of us.’
Blodwedd fell to her knees, bowing down low in the face of the three Old Gods of Brython. ‘May I take then no word of comfort back to the Warrior Child?’ she cried. ‘Is she alone and unloved?’
‘She is not,’ said Rhiannon, her eyes flashing. ‘We will speak with our airy brother, we will entreat him to show mercy. But the Bright Blade must know, we do not have the power over life and death – had this been warm and sun-bright summer, still would her companion have died. It was none of our doing – but it was nothing we could have prevented.’
‘And take these tokens,’ added Merion, reaching out a clawed fist to Blodwedd and dropping six white crystals into her hand. ‘You must return to the citadel of that petty king of men. You will find Dera ap Dagonet held captive in the Hall of Araith. Free her with stealth and then tell the followers of destiny’s sword these words.’ Her voice rumbled like distant thunder in the mountains. ‘The Warrior Child is held captive by treachery and malice. You must set her free. Fain will lead the way. Travel with speed or not at all, for if you come too late, she will be lost to you for all eternity.’ Merion smote her staff on the ground. ‘Tell them that!’
‘And if you come in time, and the Warrior Child is saved, say this also,’ added Rhiannon. ‘Tell her that we three are bound to the land, and that we cannot intervene again to alter the outcome of the great battle that is to come.’
‘Go, now!’ roared Govannon. ‘Run like the wind, Blodwedd of the Far-Seeing Eye – there is not a moment to lose!’
As Branwen watched, Blodwedd turned and scrambled off the rocky peak and wildly down through the trees. Now Branwen saw a small curved-winged shape come flying from the branches. Fain, cawing loudly as he followed after the racing owl-girl. And even as they plunged together down the mountain, so Rhiannon’s voice echoed after them.
‘Remember these words!’ she called. ‘We three are bound to the land and cannot be called upon to hold back the army that is coming! Tell her exactly these words, Messenger of Govannon – and hope that she understands!’
Branwen came to her senses with a gasp, startled by the faces that surrounded her and the fierce firelight that danced in her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she gulped. ‘Yes, I saw all.’ She rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes and took in deep breaths to anchor herself back in the real world.
‘As soon as we heard what Blodwedd had to tell us, we crept by dark of night into the Hall of Araith and found Dera bound and gagged in a side-chamber,’ said Banon. ‘Setting her loose, we armed and saddled our horses to depart. The gate wardens tried to detain us, but we would have none of it.’
‘We had to break a few heads to get out of the citadel,’ added Aberfa. ‘But we cared not, for Dera had told us all that happened at Bwlch Crug-Glas, and we were filled with anger at the king’s treachery,’
‘Then we rode like the wind,’ said Rhodri, ‘while Fain guided us. And it did not take long for us to understand where he was taking us.’
‘We were upon the hill overlooking the city of Chester ere the sun rose the following morning,’ said Dera. ‘Only five could go into the Saxon den – a stone was needed for you, Branwen – so you could be taken from there unseen.’
‘And the rest you can guess or know already,’ finished Iwan. ‘Using the power of the crystals, we infiltrated the city.’ He grinned. ‘And using my uncanny marksmanship, I fired off two arrows to cut two of the ropes that held you, while Aberfa and Dera prevented the other horses from dismembering you.’
‘And I called upon the owls,’ said Blodwedd. ‘Many died, but they did not resent the sacrifice. They knew that they perished to keep the sinister shadow of Ragnar out of their forests.’
‘And here we are,’ said Rhodri. ‘We few, together again – against all hope!’ He glanced around at the gathered faces, then his eyes fixed on Branwen. ‘But where are we to go?’ he asked. ‘Not back to Pengwern, surely – for that would be nothing short of walking wide-eyed into a noose. But if not to the king, where does our destiny lead?’
‘We are seven against seven thousand,’ said Iwan. ‘We cannot fight alone. And we are surely in no doubt that we are alone – the words given to Blodwedd by the Shining Ones is proof enough of that.’
Branwen frowned, staring into the fire, hoping to find patterns or logic or hope in among the play of the flames. She saw none, but at the fire’s core she did think she discerned a heart of utter blackness.
‘What of Ragnar?’ she asked, remembering the great black bird. ‘What harm can he do us?’
‘We are in Brython,’ said Rhodri. ‘His powers are less fearsome in lands where the Shining Ones hold guardianship – but we should still beware him, whatever we may choose to do.’
Blodwedd closed her eyes, her face tight and pale, her hands trembling.
The flames licked and cracked, and for a moment Branwen imagined she saw a familiar sight in among the burning branches. A lone hill crowned with a palisade of timber. A solitary mound in a wide wilderness.
She lifted her head, and gazed around at her companions. ‘I know where we must go!’ she said. ‘Where dark treachery gathers, we must seek out the one place where love and honour still hold sway. We shall go to my mother – we shall go to Alis ap Owain and to the rebuilt citadel of Garth Milain!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Several times in the night, Branwen awoke with a start, her mind choked by dreams that she was back in her prison cell. She would open her eyes, startled to see the firelight and to feel its warmth on her body. Iwan lay close enough for her to touch him, and even in sleep, his hand was on his sword hilt.
Branwen would remain awake for a little, leaning up on one elbow, gazing at Iwan and her other slumbering friends in wonder before lying down again and slipping slowly back into the discomfort of her deceitful nightmares.
They were together again, all save for poor Linette, may her soul rest easy in Annwn. And this time no power in the world would separate them. Not if Branwen of the Old Gods could prevent it.
It was a cloudy morning, and the wind came down chill from the east as Branwen and the Gwyn Braw rode northwards towards Garth Milain. Fain was often on the wing, flying high, then returning to her shoulder without giving voice. Branwen knew that if he cawed, it would mean he had seen something that he recognized.
There were wide leagues of wilderness between them and the southern marches of Cyffin Tir, but on every high point of their journey, Branwen puckered her eyes into the north and hoped to see some familiar landmark to show they were drawing near to her homeland and her dear mother.
The longing to see Alis ap Owain grew
in her with every passing moment. For long months she had refused to let these feelings into her mind, knowing that they would torment her, knowing that it was an impossible wish. But now that fate had led her down this path, and she realized she would soon be in her mother’s strong arms, she finally allowed herself to accept the homesickness that she had so long denied.
She hoped that if any of her companions noticed the tears that ran down her cheeks, they would think them drawn out by the chill wind, and not the product of the emotions that churned and swelled in her heart. She was still their leader, and after all that had happened, this was not the time to let them sense weakness in her, not even the weakness of a daughter who longs for the loving embrace of her mother.
The morning was half done and dark clouds were gathering from the east when Rhodri quickened his horse and came riding up alongside Branwen with Blodwedd, as ever, clinging on behind.
They were upon a bare hilltop and Branwen had been deep in daydreams of the coming reunion with her mother. She had been imagining the two of them walking the ramparts of a rebuilt citadel, talking over old times and banishing sadness with hope of better fortunes to come.
She had not seen Garth Milain rebuilt after the fire – but she had heard that Alis ap Owain had seen to it that the fortifications were as formidable as before, and had called on many warriors of the cantref to man the timber palisades. There had not been time to rebuild the Great Hall – that would be a task for a more peaceful time, and Branwen hoped to be there to help her mother, once all her other duties were fulfilled.
Branwen turned to look at Rhodri’s worried face. Behind him, Branwen’s forehead was creased and her eyes were filled with distress.
‘What is it?’ Branwen asked sharply.
‘A great weight lies on my heart,’ said Blodwedd. ‘A fear has been growing in me through the morning. This east wind brings more than rain-clouds, I’ll warrant.’ Her golden eyes burned. ‘I feel a darkness brewing.’
‘Saxons?’ asked Branwen. ‘An ambush, perhaps?’
‘No. Worse.’ Blodwedd winced and flinched, as though some invisible thing had flown into her face. ‘Far worse.’
‘What is this?’ called Dera, riding up to Branwen’s side. ‘What do you sense, Blodwedd?’
‘Ancient evil,’ growled the owl-girl. She turned her head to the east, her fingers tightening on Rhodri’s shoulders. ‘It comes!’ she gasped. ‘With the speed of the forked lightning, it comes!’
Aberfa stared eastwards. ‘I see nothing!’ she cried, drawing her sword. ‘By the saints, what is it you fear, Blodwedd?’
There was a hiss now as swords were drawn. The horses whickered uneasily. Iwan rode to the eastern rim of the hilltop, staring into the sky. ‘I see nothing save the clouds,’ he shouted back. ‘What should we be looking for?’
Blodwedd threw her hands up over her eyes. ‘The roaring darkness!’ she cried. ‘Save me! It comes!’
‘The Three Saints preserve us!’ gasped Banon, her horse rearing under her, its eyes rolling. ‘What is that?’
Branwen saw it now. They all saw it. A fist of absolute darkness high in among the grey swirl of the rolling clouds. A careening heart of pure black, streaking towards them out of the east. The clouds boiled and split open as it came screaming down the skies towards them, limned with lightning, roaring like thunder, black as hatred, swift as malice, red-eyed and dreadful.
‘Ragnar!’ Branwen howled. ‘It is Ragnar!’
The black mass congealed and reshaped itself and was a raven. Fain flew recklessly at it, but the gallant falcon was beaten aside, tumbling to the ground in a flurry of tangled feathers.
Ragnar descended on them, cloaked in midnight, staining the air to ebony as it spread its wings. The horses reared and screamed and kicked at the darkening sky. Banon and Iwan were thrown to the ground, their horses bolting in terror. Aberfa only just managed to keep in the saddle as she flung a spear at the onrushing demon. The beak gaped. The spear was engulfed. With a cry, Aberfa was flung backward from her mount.
Rhodri slashed at the sky with his sword, shouting defiance. Behind him, Blodwedd screamed and clawed the air. Then their horse tumbled sideways and they were thrown to the ground.
Branwen fought to master Terrwyn, pulling hard on his reins, gripping with her knees, uncomfortably aware of the strength she had lost in captivity. She raised her sword arm, the white blade pointing at the raven’s blazing eyes.
‘Seek to harm me and the wrath of the Shining Ones will smite you, monster of the benighted east!’ she howled, hardly knowing where the words were coming from. ‘By the power of the forest, I defy you!’ Green lightning flowed down her sword and burst out towards the plummeting god. ‘By the power of sweet water I defy you!’ Silver sparked and flared at the point of her sword, flashing in the demon’s fiery eyes. ‘By the power of ancient stone I defy you!’
All around Terrwyn’s stamping hooves, pebbles and stones were pulled upward out of the very ground. They gathered, swirling around her sword, whirling faster and faster and then flinging themselves upwards into the face of the great raven.
Squawking and screeching, the black bird was thrown back by the force of the green and white shafts of light and the volley of flying stones.
The world convulsed, emerald and diamond-white lightning stabbing through the enveloping blackness, while dreadful, inhuman voices shouted and wailed and screamed in Branwen’s ears.
But in all the turmoil and chaos, Branwen stayed in the saddle, keeping her sword raised while the Old Gods warred above her head.
The hill heaved under her. There was a blinding burst of white laced through with hissing green shafts.
A stillness came down over the hilltop. Branwen reeled and gasped, her ears ringing, lights exploding behind her eyes. Her companions were scattered, the hill was burned black and smouldering.
But a slithering darkness was fleeing into the east, skimming the treetops, leaving a wake of black smoke.
Branwen blinked, keeping Terrwyn steady as she struggled to clear her sight. Close by, Dera and Aberfa were clambering to their feet, looking dazed.
‘Ragnar is defeated!’ Branwen cried. ‘See how he runs from us!’
Banon tottered upright. ‘Are we all unhurt?’ she gasped.
‘Only my pride,’ gasped Iwan, scrambling up, staggering a little before he caught his balance.
‘I am well enough,’ said Rhodri, sitting up and rubbing his head. ‘Bruised but with no bones broken.’ He reached an arm towards Blodwedd, who was sitting on the burned earth with her head hanging between her knees. ‘How have you fared, Blodwedd?’ he asked. ‘Are you all of one piece?’
Blodwedd shivered under the touch of his hand.
Branwen frowned down at her, worried to see her friend’s limbs shaking so badly. ‘Blodwedd? Are you hurt?’
A low, guttural laugh came from the owl-girl.
‘Oh, no, Warrior Child,’ she growled. ‘I am not hurt.’
Branwen slipped down out of the saddle and walked forward, puzzled.
She paused, her heart beating loud as Blodwedd’s head rose slowly. For a moment, the thick tawny hair veiled her face, then the curls fell back and Branwen’s heart stopped in her chest.
Three raw and bleeding cuts etched parallel grooves across Blodwedd’s face, ripping her flesh open from the right temple to the left jaw line, masking her lower face in a curtain of red, like some terrible blood-sacrament from before the dawn of time.
‘Oh, dear gods, no!’ Branwen murmured, feeling her legs almost give way as she stared into Blodwedd’s disfigured face and saw two lightless and lifeless eyes staring back at her.
Two great circular staring eyes that had grown as black as the pits of Hel.
Eyes like two black moons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rhodri shrank back as Blodwedd rose slowly to her feet, her head tilted down, her deadly eyes fixed on Branwen, a small, sharp smile revealing her pointed teeth.
�
�Blodwedd, no!’ groaned Branwen. ‘Please – no!’
‘You were warned,’ croaked an abominable, discordant double voice, half Blodwedd and half Ragnar. ‘Do not say you were not warned! A creature of the Old Powers I have always been, Warrior Child. But see you now that I have slipped the grasp of the lesser gods of Brython and become a new thing, a better thing, a more powerful thing.’
‘Blodwedd, for pity’s sake, fight it!’ cried Rhodri, reaching out to her. She turned like a snake and hissed at him, her fingers curling into claws.
‘I am not Blodwedd!’ she cried. ‘I am Ragnarok. I am the end of days. I am the doom of all mankind! I am the Warrior Child’s final destiny!’
With a terrible strength, she grasped Rhodri’s arm, laughing as she twisted it. He cried out, driven to his knees by the pain.
Dera leaped forward, her sword aimed towards the owl-girl. ‘Release him, or I shall smite you!’ she cried. ‘You’ve been taken by a Saxon hellion, Blodwedd! Be yourself again!’
Snarling, Blodwedd turned to her, giving Rhodri’s arm a final cruel wrench before releasing it. With a speed beyond Branwen’s ability to follow, the owl-girl came upon Dera, passing her sword point unhurt, driving her to the ground. Claws gripped the fallen girl’s neck as Blodwedd’s jaws opened at her throat.
‘No!’ shouted Aberfa, hurling herself forward, her spear thrusting at Blodwedd’s side.
Hissing and spitting, Blodwedd slipped adder-quick out from under the spearhead. It stabbed into the ground and even as Aberfa fought to wrest it free, Blodwedd sprang, wrapping her long, wiry limbs around her, howling as she bore the tall, powerful girl backwards. Struggling to prize the demonic owl-girl free, Aberfa staggered across the hilltop until a snag caught her heel and sent her crashing.
Iwan and Banon were upon them before Blodwedd’s teeth could meet in Aberfa’s throat. They dragged Blodwedd back, kicking and screaming and clawing.
Caradoc of the North Wind Page 19