Warrior Princess

by Allan Frewin Jones

  in numbers greater than we see here, my child

  Filling the skies like rain-clouds

  the rumor of their passing is mighty, my child

  The mountains hold the sky up

  without them our crops would be crushed by the weight, my child

  Our hilltop fortress calls us

  beware for the owls are circling low, my child…

  She stopped singing. It was a gloomy and mysterious song, but she had always enjoyed hearing it in the Great Hall of Garth Milain, the words sending shivers up her spine. But out here in the fog, the haunting melody and the curious words made her ill at ease. She imagined monstrous owls were gliding silently just out of sight, their malevolent eyes bright for hunting, their beaks sharp as new-forged iron.

  “Perhaps I should have chosen a more cheerful song, eh, boy?” she said, speaking aloud for her own comfort as much as for the horse’s. She drew closer to Stalwyn, her arm curled under his neck, her cheek against the warm side of his head.

  She stopped short. Over to her right, a pale flicker of light had shone for a moment through the fog. As she watched, the long, slender glow appeared and disappeared as it moved away from her—as if the light was passing behind trees.

  Someone running with a lighted torch?

  An overpowering urgency filled her: She had to follow the light. It would lead her to safety. She knew it would. She peered into the fog with narrowed eyes, waiting for the light to reappear.

  There it was!

  Farther off now—moving away from her.

  “No!”

  She tugged at Stalwyn’s reins, pulling the horse after her. They were passing between trees, the trunks like pillars of smoke on either side.

  It was not a torch—the light was too pure and too steady.

  And then the light was gone.

  Branwen staggered to a halt, gasping for breath. Trees loomed like ghosts all around her. She gave a stifled scream of frustration, her hands knotting into fists. She was brought back to her senses by Stalwyn’s nervous snorting. The horse was skittish, his eyes rolling and his head jerking back against the reins.

  “Easy boy,” she murmured. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.” She lowered her voice to the merest whisper. “Nothing except that I’ve acted like a moonstruck hare and led us right off the path.”

  She couldn’t believe she had been so foolish. What had possessed her to follow that light? She looked back the way they had come, hoping that somehow their passage through the fog would have left some trace. It hadn’t.

  She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and dropped down to sit cross-legged on the ground, one hand raised to hold Stalwyn’s reins. She would sit there either till the cloud lifted a little and gave her some chance of finding her way back to the path—or until a better idea occurred to her.

  11

  BRANWEN HAD NO idea how much time went by, but gradually she became aware that the air felt a little less chill and that the light seemed to be growing around her—not as if the clouds of fog were thinning, but as if they were being illuminated, turned from gray to shining silver by the invisible sun as it climbed into the sky.

  She gave a gasp of surprise as the phantom light reappeared.

  It stood for a while, hovering about a slingshot’s throw away between the ghostly trees. Branwen watched it suspiciously. She felt once more the urge to leap up and chase it, but this time she fought against it. The last thing she needed was to be drawn even farther from the path.

  The light drifted closer, hovering just above the ground. It seemed to be waiting. Tempting her.

  “Go away!” Branwen scolded. “I’m not following you anymore.”

  The slender blade of light shivered and coiled. Branwen shuffled around on the ground so that the light was out of her field of vision.

  It came wafting into the corner of her eye, floating across until it hung in front of her again, trembling and wavering, as if it was growing impatient.

  “What are you?” Branwen shouted with a sudden annoyance. “Are you real or not? And if you’re real, what do you want?”

  She heard Stalwyn whickering with unease and felt the horse tugging at the reins.

  Branwen stared the light down, willing it to disappear again.

  “Are you a gwyllion?” she called. How strange it would be if that flickering light were a mountain-imp from one of Geraint’s stories! When she’d assumed all her life that his nursery tales were pure nonsense.

  “I don’t care what you are,” she shouted. “I will not follow you!”

  And then the light vanished.

  Branwen rubbed her eyes and stared.

  Yes. It was gone.

  But there were sounds now. So faint that she had to strain to catch them: furtive scurryings and rustlings, as if small creatures were hastening through the trees beyond the edge of vision. And then she heard voices—or something that sounded like voices. High voices calling from far away, and whispering voices from the treetops, and the rumor of low voices that seemed to come out of the ground beneath her.

  It felt as though the fog-shrouded forest was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Branwen shivered, wishing she had her slingshot to hand, wishing Geraint’s knife wasn’t locked away in a chest on one of the lost wagons.

  And then, just as it felt as if the world were about to crack open under the strain, a dark shape came winging out of the fog, so sudden and swift that Branwen let out a startled yell.

  The falcon turned smoothly in the air, then came to land on the ground a little way off. It folded its wings and called to her.

  “How did you get here?” Branwen gasped, scrambling to her feet. “Were you looking for me?”

  It’s just a bird—don’t be so foolish!

  The bird cawed again and took to the air, circling Branwen’s head once before flying off into the fog.

  Branwen began to follow, but Stalwyn pulled back on the reins and wouldn’t move. The horse stamped hard with a hind hoof and shook his mane, his eyes wide with fear.

  “The falcon will lead us true,” Branwen said gently. “Come on now, don’t be afraid.”

  Stalwyn allowed himself to be led forward.

  “We’re coming!” Branwen called.

  She led the horse through the trees, expecting at any moment to see the falcon reappear through the fog or to hear its chiding calls, guiding her onward.

  After a time she began to doubt that the bird would come back. She even began to doubt whether it had been her falcon at all. Her feet faltered.

  Now what?

  Sounds. Definite, clear sounds in the fog. Something large. The sounds of feet through the undergrowth and of arms brushing branches aside. She spun in the direction from which the sounds were coming. Feet and arms or hooves and antlers? There was only one way to find out; but if the sounds were being made by a man, who could it be and why was he here?

  Branwen led Stalwyn to a tree and looped the horse’s reins around a low branch. She called on all her woodcraft as she slipped silently between the trees.

  She saw a dim shape in the fog.

  A man. Definitely a man. She could see long, mousy, golden flecked hair, and a dark cloak that stretched over broad shoulders.

  None of Prince Llew’s men had such light-colored hair. There were people of Brython whose hair was light brown and even a few of ancient Viking descent who had hair as golden as a field of ripened corn, but it was the Saxons whose hair was predominantly fair.

  A Saxon! Was he part of a band of raiders bold enough to try and cross the mountains? Or was he alone, lost in the fog as she was?

  The man had come to a halt. She could see the shape of him like a lump of gray rock through the fog. She could hear him breathing hard. She could even see how his head turned from side to side, as though he was searching for a pathway. Or fresh Brythonic prey.

  Branwen stooped and picked up a hefty length of broken branch. Gripping it between her hands, she moved forward,
lifting the wooden club over her shoulder. Closer and closer she came to the man. His hair was light brown. His cloak was dark green, creased and dirt smeared.

  “Saxon swine!” she hissed.

  The man gasped, half turning. He received the full force of her blow on his shoulder. The branch broke in two as it hit him.

  He stumbled forward with a shout of pain and vanished out of sight.

  Panting, Branwen stood holding the remains of her weapon in one hand, staring into the fog and trying to work out what had happened to him.

  She took a step forward and saw that the ground fell away at her feet, vanishing into a pool of thick fog. She stared down into the white gulf, her whole body shaking. Her blow had knocked the Saxon off a cliff.

  “That was for Geraint!” she shouted down into the mist.

  She heard groaning from close below. The fall had not been as deep as she had hoped. The Saxon was still alive.

  But there was something odd about the groans that came floating up to her. They didn’t sound to her as if they came from a full-grown man.

  A Saxon youth? A scout maybe, or a tracker? She knew that the raiding parties often sent young men out ahead of them to check the lay of the land and bring back news of easy prey.

  Clutching the remains of her weapon, she began to slither down the cliff face. She could hear him gasping and groaning below her. And she could hear another sound, too. Water racing over stones.

  She stepped into an icy stream, almost losing her balance as the stones shifted under her feet. Down here the fog was much thinner; and she could see the young man sitting up to his waist in the rushing stream, his pale hair plastered down over his face and a trail of red staining the water at his knee.

  “I have a knife, you Saxon devil!” Branwen warned. “Surrender or I’ll cut your throat where you sit!”

  “And if I were a Saxon devil,” spluttered the young man, “what makes you think I would understand a word that you just said?”

  “Clearly you do understand me!” she growled. “So surrender or feel the blade of my knife across your throat. I will kill you if I have to.” She hoped that she wouldn’t be forced to put the threat to the test; Geraint’s hunting knife was far from her reach. But she was ready to bring the branch down on the young man’s head if he tried to attack her.

  “I believe you would,” the young man said. “But I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I am unarmed, and I mean you no harm. Haven’t you done sufficient damage to me by hitting me unawares and throwing me off a cliff? Isn’t that enough without cutting my throat as well?”

  Branwen glared at him. He seemed to be no older than she; but despite being waist deep in a mountain stream, she could tell that he was tall and powerfully built. He was dressed in simple peasant clothes that had been slept in too many times and were in need of patching. He spoke with an accent that she didn’t recognize. She took a step toward him, the branch still raised in warning.

  “I didn’t hit you unawares,” she said. “I called you a Saxon swine first.”

  The young man laughed softly, then winced and groaned again, clutching at his leg. “Swine I may be, mistress, but don’t insult me further than that.”

  “I thought you were a raider,” Branwen said, looking down to where his blood was running in the stream. “If that’s not the case, then I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  “All’s well, then,” said the young man, looking up at her with a glint of dark humor in his gaze. He had a pleasant face under his wet hair, enlivened by bright, hazel eyes. “A heartfelt apology is as good as a poultice to a broken limb,” he continued. “I’ll just spring to my feet now and be off on my merry way. Or not.”

  “Can I do anything to help?” Branwen asked, intrigued that he had answered her back so boldly when he was at such a disadvantage and obviously in some pain.

  “That you can, mistress,” the young man said. “But only if you have a shred of woodcraft about you. Otherwise you’re useless to me.”

  “I have woodcraft,” Branwen said. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I will need the root of the eringo plant, and a few berries and leaves of mistletoe together with a handful of oak leaves,” the young man said. “You’ll find the mistletoe and the oak leaves together.”

  “I know that,” Branwen said. She dropped her branch and paddled back to the cliff face. She looked back at the young man. He was watching her with obvious curiosity.

  Not a Saxon, then—but not a local boy either, judging from that accent.

  He grimaced in pain and made a hurrying gesture with one hand.

  “I’m going!” she called back as she began to climb. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  She slithered back down the slope to find him sitting on a boulder at the edge of the stream, still surrounded by thin drifts of mist. Through a rend in his leggings, she could see a long, thin cut that ran from his knee to halfway down his shin. Blood was running into his boot. Next time perhaps she would make sure of her quarry before attacking.

  “Will these do?” she asked, handing him the root and the berries and leaves.

  “They look fine,” said the young man. “Now I need two rocks. One should be flat, about the size of a small loaf of bread. The other should be rounded and as big as my fist. Can you do that for me?”

  “Of course.” Branwen hunted along the shallows of the stream and soon found two rocks that fitted his description.

  She stood watching as he rested the flat rock on his knees and used the other to pound the leaves and berries to a wet pulp.

  He glanced up at her. “The eringo root will draw out the poison from the cut,” he said. “And mistletoe is a remedy against all ills. The oak leaves will bind to the berries and the root and will make the poultice hold to the wound.” He gave the pulpy mess a final grinding twist with the round stone and then scraped it together with his fingers and packed it along the cut.

  “A binding cloth would be useful,” he muttered. “But beggars can’t be choosers, and I’d rather not tear up any more of my own clothes or I’ll end up naked as an eel.”

  “Here, let me.” Branwen stooped and lifted the hem of her dress, tearing off a strip and handing it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said. He wrapped the length of cloth around his leg and tucked in the trailing end. “There,” he said. “All done.”

  “Can you walk?” Branwen asked.

  “As well as ever,” he said. “And I will go on my way—just as soon as the aches and pains of my fall lessen a little.”

  She frowned. “I said I was sorry.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “So, Branwen, is it your usual practice to attack innocent travelers, or did you choose me for some particular reason?”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m a Druid seer,” he said lightly. “How else?”

  “You’re a liar, that much is for sure,” she said, irritated by his flippancy. “There are no seers anymore—if there ever were any! And you look more like a draggled rat than a Druid!”

  The young man rose from the boulder, favoring his injured leg. He bowed low. “Thanks for that at least, mistress,” he said. “A rat is a much misunderstood beast, and I would rather be a rat than a croaking white raven.”

  She looked at him in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He looked mischievously at her. “Are you so ignorant that you don’t know the meaning of your own name? Branwen means ‘white raven.’”

  “Are you always this rude to strangers?” she countered. “For all you know I might be someone who could have you whipped.”

  “Are you such a person?” the young man said. “Don’t forget that you started the name calling. A liar and rat, I am, if I remember correctly.”

  For a moment his words left her speechless. “No, I’m not such a person,” she said at last.

  “I’m glad of that,” the young man said. “And in answer to your question, I heard men calling out th
e name ‘Branwen’ over and over a little while ago.” He pointed upstream. “From that direction.” He shrugged. “I avoided them. It’s not wise to make yourself easy prey to strangers in these troubled times. But I guessed that you were the person they were looking for, parted from them no doubt by this devilish fog.”

  “You guessed right,” Branwen said. “They were escorting me over the mountains to Doeth Palas.”

  “Then you had better let them finish their task,” said the stranger. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Branwen, and a joy to have been knocked off a cliff by you.” He bowed. “I shall cherish every wound and bruise in memory of this unexpected encounter.”

  Branwen looked at him, confused. “I hope you heal quickly.”

  The young man grinned. “Oh, I will,” he said. “I always do.”

  Branwen looked up the stream. “I should go,” she said. “You can come with me if you want.”

  “I doubt very much if you are traveling the same path as I, Branwen,” said the young man.

  “Good-bye, then,” said Branwen. She pointed up the cliff. “I need to fetch my horse.”

  He bowed again but said nothing.

  She climbed the cliff. While she had been talking to the young stranger, the fog had lifted. A high south wind had scoured the sky clear of clouds, and the forest was full of hazy sunlight. All thoughts of gwyllion-lights and uncanny forest noises were forgotten as she made her way to where Stalwyn stood waiting patiently for her.

  She mounted; and, judging her route from the position of the sun, she rode westward through the trees, the sunlight warming her back as she guided her horse under the fluttering canopy of leaves.

  She came to a high ridge that jutted out of the forest.

  From its top a wide, new world spread out below her. The ridge fell away into a tumble of forested foothills and heather-clad dales, of green valleys and sunlit hillsides vibrant with silver streams. Her spirits lifted as she gazed farther out and found herself looking across a wide landscape of meadows and woodlands and pasture.

  And there, high on a ribbon of roadway that wound its way down to the fertile lowlands, she saw Prince Llew’s horsemen and wagons gathered. The main body of wagons and men were stationary, but a few riders were on the upper reaches of the road, far below Branwen’s vantage point. They were searching for her, she assumed.