The Emerald Flame

by Frewin Jones

  It was easy to slip into the barn unobserved. Its interior was dark and full of the smell of barley, but there was light enough for the two of them to move among the piled sacks of grain and to find the ladder to the upper floor.

  They had to clamber over tight-packed sacks to find the opening under the thatched roof. As Branwen had hoped, the wide aperture allowed them to look right down into the crowded courtyard directly behind the gatehouse.

  And from here the cause of the delay was quickly made obvious.

  A small group of warriors had assembled to greet Ironfist at the gateway, and among them was a young man who particularly caught Branwen’s attention. He was tall and broad shouldered, and handsome in a fierce way: black haired, with a beard closely cropped and high, sharp cheekbones. He was finely dressed, with a scarlet cloak pinned at the right shoulder by a brooch of gold. The tunic was brown, embroidered at the wrist and hem; and about his waist was a belt studded with gold. A scabbard hung from the belt, also chased and adorned with gilding.

  From his bearing, from the opulence of his clothes, and from the cold blue glint of his eyes, Branwen felt in no doubt that this was Ironfist’s son, of whom Dillon had spoken: Redwuld Grammod—Redwuld the fierce, Redwuld the cruel.

  And as if to confirm her in this opinion, Branwen saw a young woman standing at his back dressed in the simple, unadorned gown of a servant, her head bowed, her long chestnut brown hair hanging down past her shoulders. And even from this distance Branwen could see that the woman was a rare beauty—and that, although softened and reshaped, her features closely resembled those of Gavan ap Huw.

  “Alwyn,” Branwen breathed.

  So even if Gavan ap Huw and the boys of Doeth Palas had found their way here, they had not yet had any success in stealing Alwyn away from her master. And how could they if she was kept forever at Redwuld’s side? Branwen could imagine how the old warrior would chafe to see his child held in thrall to the Saxons; but it would take an army of thousands to assail Ironfist’s camp. Even with all his hard-won skills and his desperate love for the girl, Gavan ap Huw’s mission seemed to Branwen to be doomed to failure.

  “Indeed, it must be she,” murmured Blodwedd, close at Branwen’s side. “And the other is Ironfist’s son, come to greet his father. Do you see the ice in his eyes, Branwen?”

  As they watched, Redwuld knelt before Ironfist, lowering his head as the general’s hand came down on his son’s shoulder. The crowd roared as Redwuld rose to his feet and father and son turned and walked out through the gate together, the band of warriors following close behind. The cheering of the crowd continued for some time, but eventually people began to peel away and return in twos and threes to their work; and at last the only people left at the gateway were the guards with their iron helmets and their long-hafted spears.

  The opening at which Branwen and Blodwedd were standing was not high enough for them to see over the town’s walls; but through the open gates, they had a narrow glimpse of the encampment with its huts and its tents and its busy workshops.

  Even this restricted view showed them how crowded and full of activity the camp was. Iron was being forged into spearheads and swords. Tanned leather was being nailed to round wooden shields. Horses were being exercised; and in open spaces, men were training with bow and arrow and with javelins, while others were fighting together, watched over by the sheriffs and reeves of Ironfist’s mighty army.

  Moving through Chester unobserved was one thing—but passing through an entire army without being seen? Was that even possible?

  “So, Branwen,” began Blodwedd, as though voicing her thoughts aloud. “Do we dare cross this nest of snakes in broad daylight? And if Merion’s powers are sufficient to hide us from prying eyes, how are we to find the place where Caradoc is imprisoned?”

  “And how do we get that prison away from here?” added Branwen. “Merion said it might be a small thing—it could be a casket or a box of some kind, possibly. Marked by a lynx. But even were it something that could be carried between us, how are we to bear it away without being challenged?”

  “I’d say this is a task suited more to the night than the day,” Blodwedd mused. “At least in the dark of night many of the men will be asleep—and in shadows we may be able to perform deeds that the sun would make all too apparent.”

  Branwen slipped her crystal into its pouch and untied the golden key from her waistband. She held it on her open palm. “Or do we dare open the prison and let Caradoc go free?” she wondered. “I know Merion spoke against it, but it would make things much easier for us—and his powers might even aid us in our escape.”

  “You must not release Caradoc,” Blodwedd said. “You do not know his power. I foresee death and disaster if you follow such a course.”

  “What could he do?” asked Branwen. “What powers does he have?”

  “The power of all the winds of the world,” said Blodwedd, her voice slow and solemn. “The ice wind from the north that cracks rocks and freezes the soul. The south wind that comes like a scorching dragon. The storm wind that scours over the ocean, bringing the flood and the lightning’s fierce fork. The blizzard’s blast and the snowy gale—all these forces he commands, Branwen. None can stand against him in his anger, nor none should dare to try.”

  Branwen stared at her. “How was he ever imprisoned if he’s so powerful?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” said Blodwedd. “But it must have been a great and a fearsome incantation that trammeled him. Let Merion of the Stones calm his anger when he is released. Put the key away, Branwen. Do not think to use it!”

  Branwen nodded, alarmed by the owl-girl’s words. She leaned out of the opening, looking for the sun. It was high above, floating in a veil of thin white cloud. Half the day was already gone. “Let’s go, then,” she said. “We will meet up with Rhodri and Iwan and the others where we arranged—and we will plan for a night raid on Ironfist’s camp.”

  Branwen climbed down the ladder and made for the door, her mind still full of the images that Blodwedd’s warning had put into her head.

  She opened the door into bright sunlight, and stepped out of the barn.

  A group of five warriors were approaching. They stared at her, their faces grim.

  One of them spoke. “Hwaet la! Ceir aern plegestre leas gitung?” The voice was angry, questioning. “Astyntan! Gefylce aeht!”

  Branwen stopped in her tracks, taken aback to have been seen and horrified that the man’s words were no more than a meaningless spew of sound in her ears. But then it struck her! Fool! She had slipped the white crystal into the pouch at her waist when she had untied the key. Too late she realized that its power must only work when she held it in her naked hand.

  Worse was to come. Blodwedd stumbled into Branwen with a gasp, and the owl-girl’s hood fell back, revealing her face.

  “Wodena leoma! Hwaet yfel naedre!” shouted one of the men, pointing at Blodwedd with shock and fear in his voice.

  Her eyes! They have seen her eyes!

  They will not make you invisible! Those had been Merion’s words to her in the cave. Now that the warriors had seen Branwen, it was as if the glamour of the stones had fallen entirely from their eyes.

  Branwen was only dumbfounded for a moment. Realizing their danger, she leaped backward, bundling Blodwedd along with her, throwing the door closed in the faces of the Saxon warriors.

  But there was no way to bar the door from the inside, and against the strength of five men it was impossible for Branwen and Blodwedd to hold it closed.

  “Run!” gasped Blodwedd, fighting to keep the door shut as the men heaved on it from outside. “Go to the upper floor and jump! I will hold them back for as long as I can!”

  “No!” Branwen dug in her heels, gripping the door with both hands, leaning back with all her weight. “You’ll be killed!”

  “Better one than both,” insisted Blodwedd. “Your life is more precious than mine, Branwen! Do as I say!”

  The door edged ope
n, the timbers shivering and groaning from the strain. “No!”

  The uneven struggle came to a sudden end. The strip of wood that Branwen had been holding split away from the door. She crashed onto her back as the door was wrenched outward, dragging Blodwedd along with it.

  Branwen lay gasping as the five Saxon warriors entered the barn, their spears held ready, their eyes blazing.

  18

  BLODWEDD DID NOT hesitate for a moment. Like a wild animal she flung herself at the men, her hands curled into claws, her eyes blazing fury and her white teeth snapping.

  Branwen was still struggling to her feet as she saw Blodwedd clinging to one man’s back, her fingernails sunk into his face, her teeth at his throat as he staggered and choked and tried to throw her off.

  Branwen thrust her fingers into the leather pouch at her belt, feeling for the crystal and pulling it out. It was too late to remain hidden, but knowing what the men were saying to one another might help in the fight.

  Closing the fingers of her left hand over the crystal, Branwen took a firm grip on the piece of wood that had snapped off the door. It was about the length of a throwing spear, but much thicker and with a jagged, broken end. Not the ideal weapon against the iron-tipped spears of her opponents, but better than nothing.

  Her battle-instincts took over, assessing the situation in a single moment, deciding on a course of action.

  The townsfolk were gone from here, and the entrance to the barn faced away from the gate—which meant that if she could prevent these men from sounding the alarm, there was a chance of surviving the encounter and escaping.

  Blood spurted from the neck of the man Blodwedd was attacking. He fell onto his knees, clawing at her, his face full of horror. Another man stabbed at Blodwedd, but she managed to twist herself and her victim around so that the spear sank into the kneeling man’s shoulder.

  The barn door swung slowly closed, shutting out much of the light, throwing the combatants into deep shade.

  Good! That is to our advantage!

  Three to one! Branwen had faced worse odds. She sprang forward, almost impaling herself on the thrusting spears, dodging from side to side as the leading man struck at her, parrying the lunging spears with her improvised weapon. She used all her moving weight to bring the sharp point of the length of timber into his face.

  She felt the shuddering impact but avoided looking at the damage she had caused. She felt none of the euphoria of the battle with Skur. There was no red mist before her eyes. No wild cyclones in her brain. This was just a job that had to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. For her and Blodwedd to live, these men had to die. It was harsh, it was brutal, and it was very simple.

  The first man fell with a choked cry, his hands coming up to his ruined face. Branwen turned, crouching low, her bloodied weapon jabbing at the two remaining men.

  She heard a muted cry from behind her. Blodwedd’s voice—pained, cut off short. Branwen gritted her teeth. Her attackers were coming closer, their eyes hard, their spear points aimed at her heart. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Blodwedd was sprawling on the ground, the lower part of her face a mask of Saxon blood, hissing and spitting as the second man prepared to stab down at her. She writhed away from the spear, but the man’s foot came stamping down on her chest, pinning her. Her arms and legs flailed as he raised his spear for the final thrust.

  Branwen swung around, falling to her knees as she flung her weapon at the man’s head. It struck him a jarring blow on the temple, knocking him sideways so that he came staggering up against the wall of the barn.

  But before she could turn back to defend herself, Branwen felt a heavy blow to the small of her back. Not a spear point—that would have finished her;

  it must have been the butt end of a spear crashing viciously into her spine. She was flung onto her face, the air beaten out of her. In trying to save Blodwedd she had doomed herself. A savage kick to her side spun her onto her back, a fierce pain raging under her ribs. A booted foot came down on her throat. Enraged eyes stared down at her from beyond the barbed iron tip of a spear.

  “No! Don’t kill her!” called one of the other men. “Better to take them alive! I’d know what they are doing here—and what that is!”

  He clearly meant Blodwedd. The owl-girl was on her feet again, thick drops of blood dangling and dripping from her chin. The soldier was holding her at bay with his spear, and the only way for her to get to him would be by throwing herself onto the point of his weapon.

  “I am death that comes on silent wings!” cried Blodwedd, spitting blood. “I am the raking claw! The stabbing beak! I shall swallow you whole and cough up your bones! Come—I long to taste your flesh!”

  “It’s not human!” gasped the man, thrusting toward her with the spear. “It’s some waelisc demon!”

  The man looming over Branwen pressed down harder on her breastbone with his boot, crushing her into the ground, making it difficult for her to draw breath. “What is that thing? Do you control it?” He brought the spear point close to her face. “Answer me!”

  Branwen glared up at him. She could see her death in his angry face. She would need to do something sudden and shocking if she wished to come through this.

  “Release me or you will suffer all the torments of Annwn!” She gasped. “I am protected by powers you cannot comprehend!”

  The two men stared down at her. “What is she saying?” asked the one with his boot on her. “Do any of you speak this barbarous language?”

  “Do you not know who I am?” Branwen snarled. “Run from me, Saxon curs! I am the Emerald Flame of my people! Have you not heard my name? I am the mighty shaman of the waelisc! I am Branwen ap Griffith!”

  The man jumped back as if from a sudden fire. Even if they did not understand anything else she was saying, they recognized that name!

  “By Welund’s blade, it is the sorceress Thain Herewulf spoke of!”

  “Kill her!” howled the second man. “Before she casts a spell on us! Kill them both!”

  Gasping for air, Branwen rose to her knees. She lowered her head, grimacing at the two men, staring balefully at them through veils of hair. She had hoped to throw her attackers off balance for a few moments—for long enough to fight back—but it seemed she had underestimated the terror she instilled in them.

  Both men raised their spears, drawing back their arms, ready to throw.

  Branwen braced herself, watching the spear points, chancing all on her ability to evade the coming attack. Expecting to die.

  A sudden flood of bright light struck the two men, dazzling them as they threw. Branwen flung herself on the ground as the spears whirred over her. She heard the familiar whiz of an arrow—and then another. Two cries cut short. A noise from behind her and the grunt of a man in pain.

  She heaved herself onto her feet, not understanding what had happened.

  For a moment the three figures outlined against the sunlit open doorway were just a dark blur. But then she heard a voice.

  “Bryn—finish that man!”

  It was Gavan ap Huw. Branwen narrowed her eyes against the glare. Gavan stood just inside the barn door, his sword in his hand, bloodied to the hilt. The man who had been holding Blodwedd at bay was crumpled at his feet.

  Bryn was crouching over the other man with a knife in his fist. The man whom Blodwedd had first attacked. A quick, silent slash across the throat and it was all over.

  Padrig was also there, bow in hand, a third arrow ready.

  Gavan drew the door closed, and the barn became dim again. He looked into Branwen’s face, pointing to the man she had struck first—the man into whose face she had thrust the broken piece of wood. He lay curled up on the floor, staining the earth with blood from his wound, his breath rasping.

  “He’s alive still,” Gavan said grimly. “Finish the task!”

  “How did you come here?” Branwen gasped.

  Gavan did not look at her as he replied. “Think you I have no skills in the hunt?”
he said. “I saw you right enough, standing in full view up in yonder hatchway!” He gestured to the ladder that led to the upper floor. “Do you think yourselves invisible that you showed yourself thus? Any of a score or more men could have shot you down from there!”

  “They could not see us,” said Branwen. “We were protected from their sight by … certain gifts….“

  “I can imagine the nature of the gifts!” said Gavan. “You need not speak more of them.” He pointed to the dying man at Branwen’s feet. “Give him peace, child! Do your duty to him!”

  Branwen looked down at the helpless man. His face was turned away from her, but she could tell from the blood that soaked into the hard-packed floor that he was dreadfully hurt—hurt probably to the death.

  She stooped and pulled his seax knife from his belt. A single cut across the windpipe and all would be done. But she could not do it. Not in cold blood.

  Grim-faced, Gavan strode across to her. He snatched the knife from her hand and crouched to draw it across the man’s throat. There was a choking gurgle, then silence. Branwen looked away, shamed that she had been unable to kill for mercy as Gavan had done. The old warrior wiped the blade on the man’s tunic and then stood up, slipping it into his own belt. “Padrig—guard the door; give the word if any come nigh this place. Bryn—strip the dead of their weapons; we may find use for them.”

  Obediently, the two boys did as they were told; Padrig went to the door and peered out through a crack in the timbers while Bryn went from one Saxon corpse to another, taking their seaxes and spears.

  The eyes of Branwen and Gavan met in the gloom.

  “There’s no mercy in letting a dying man suffer needlessly,” Gavan said. “Or maybe mercy is no longer of interest to you, Branwen?”

  Branwen stared at him, her jaw clenched. “We would maybe have died here if not for you,” she said at last, looking briefly at Bryn and Padrig. “You have my gratitude, if it means anything to you.”