by Frewin Jones
The bird bobbed his head as though in response.
“Asta, get down now and remain with the others.”
“Would it not be better for me to ride with you until you have to quit the horse?” Asta asked. “I will hold him steady for your return. Who knows? You may wish for a speedy descent of the mountain once the god of the North Wind is let loose!”
Branwen looked into the gentle blue eyes of the Viking maiden.
“Very well,” she said. “We’ll ride together a little farther.” She tapped her heels against the destrier’s flanks, and it began to clop up the long slope.
“I shan’t say good-bye,” Branwen called back to the others. “We’ll meet again soon.”
She glanced back again after a little while. She could see the pale blots of faces turned toward her in the devouring gloom. Then the way ahead turned around a buttress of rock and she lost sight of them.
The horse snorted and nodded its head as it clambered laboriously up the rugged defile. Pebbles clattered away under its hooves.
“It’s better like this,” Branwen murmured to herself. “Better by far.”
“Indeed it is,” came Asta’s soft voice, surprising Branwen a little. She had been feeling strangely alone, and she had almost forgotten that Asta was with her.
The horse stumbled. The way ahead was blocked with boulders and shale.
Branwen brought the animal to a halt. She untied the casket and slid down from the saddle, bringing the casket with her.
She looked up at Asta. The Viking maiden was the one bright thing on the mountain—a shaft of gold in the bleak evening.
“Wait here,” Branwen said.
Asta nodded.
Holding the cold casket under her arm, Branwen began the difficult and dreadful climb to Merion’s cave. She could feel her shield bouncing on her back as she scaled the final heights, hear her sword clinking on the stones as she pulled herself over broken rock and scrambled through the scree. It was tiring work, and the need to keep a firm grip on the casket made things no easier.
There were no more vibrations from the casket; but as she gripped it under her arm, Branwen was aware of the coldness seeping into her body. And as she ascended, she could hear a soft susurration, as though of a faint voice whispering in her ears.
… The key … take the key….
She paused for a moment, listening hard. She shook her head. Imagination! She could not afford to let her own inner demons trick her; she must concentrate on the climb. A foot misplaced and …
… then she saw it. Above her. Black as Annwn. The mouth of Merion’s cave.
She bit down on her lip, tasting blood.
The voice whispered to her again.
… The key … do not fear me…. Take the key and open the lock…. No harm will come to you…. Set me free….
“You are wasting your words on me,” she murmured. “Merion had warned me well of what you are capable! I am not the fool you take me for!”
“Are you not?”
Branwen spun round at the sound of that familiar voice at her back. Her foot slipped, and she came down heavily on one knee. She stifled a cry of pain, her face twisting in a grimace of discomfort and alarm.
Asta stood on a jutting slab of stone, her golden hair flaring like candle flame, her eyes filled with glittering sapphire light. In her two hands she bore Skur’s battle-ax. On her sweet face was a smile as chilling as whetted iron under a winter moon.
“Asta …?”
“I fear I have misled you, shaman girl of the waelisc,” she said, and there was ridicule in her gentle voice. “My name is not Asta.”
Branwen stared at her in confusion. “Then who are you?”
The cruel smile widened. “Can you not guess, child of petty southern gods?” Asta said, her voice ringing among the rocks. “Do you still not know me? Are you so much the fool that you cannot yet guess my name?”
The great double-headed battle-ax swung threateningly through the air. The sapphire eyes flashed. And suddenly Branwen knew. A moment before the Viking girl spoke her name, Branwen knew what Asta would say.
“I am Skur Bloodax!” the Viking maiden howled. “And knowing that, look now upon the face of death and drink deep of uttermost despair!”
31
THE CUCKOO IN the nest! The goraig’s song of the beautiful bird filled with lies!
She never stops singing, till the mountain is near.
Not Alwyn—never Alwyn—but Asta all along!
Fool! Blind fool!
The great battle-ax whirled, and the deadly blade came scything down. Stunned as Branwen was, her thoughts moved quickly enough for her to twist aside and avoid the deadly blow.
The thundering ax split the rock on which she had been kneeling, sending splinters of stone flying about her ears, spitting and hissing. She scrambled to her feet, the casket falling from her hands. It tumbled away from her and came to rest among the rocks some way below the transformed Viking maiden.
Branwen fixed her eyes on her enemy, pulling her shield off her back and drawing her sword. She leaped up onto higher ground, preparing herself for Skur’s next attack.
The Viking maiden snarled as she wrenched the ax head out of the cleft stone. Although slender and slight, she wielded the ax with disturbing ease, swinging it around her head and lunging forward now to strike the rocks at Branwen’s feet. Stone fragments filled the air as Branwen danced backward, glancing behind to ensure a safe footing on the rubbled mountainside.
She must be stronger than she looks! Rhodri had been all too prescient in that.
“Do not make this hard on yourself, Branwen,” Skur cried out. “Accept the inevitable. You cannot survive Ragnar’s ax; none can! It will cleave sword, shield, and bone as though they were cobwebs. Come—I will make your end as swift and painless as possible. I knew of you, and of your coming, before ever we saw each other. Ragnar told me of you and your destiny, and Mumir guided me to the place where we would meet. But I bear you no ill will, Branwen, witless servant as you are of small and trifling gods. Although it pained me that my good servant Arngrim had to die at your hand for Ragnar’s desire to be fulfilled.”
Branwen stared down at her. “What was the purpose of the deceit?” she shouted. “If your weapon is as great as you say, why hide your true self from us? Why did you not slaughter us in the forest where we first met?”
“That would not have suited Ragnar’s purpose,” said Skur. “Do you not see, Branwen? Sweet as it will be to me, your death is not the reason why I had you bring me to this place.”
Branwen moved slowly to one side, her shield up to her eyes, her sword arm bent back, muscles tense and straining, ready to strike the moment the opportunity presented itself.
If I throw myself down upon her, will I be able to sink my blade into her body before she strikes back? I do not know. It is risky. If I commit myself to such a course and fail, I will not be given a second chance.
“Then what is the reason?” Branwen called down. “Why would such a mighty warrior stoop to falsehoods and pretense?”
Skur’s eyes burned like blue fire. “For a greater prize than the death of the shaman-child of the waelisc!” she spat, and Branwen could see that her taunts had angered her. “You are nothing to the great god Ragnar—you and your paltry godlings! You are morsels to be gobbled up!”
Branwen laughed. “Oh, but we’ll stick in your craw, Skur Bloodax,” she mocked. “Be sure we will! And if Ragnar has such contempt for the Shining Ones, why does he not present himself on this mountain? Why does he send the likes of you to mouth his idle threats?”
Now it was Skur’s turn to laugh, and the sound of it was like claws scraping the inside of Branwen’s skull. “You fool!” she crowed, leaning for a moment on her ax, as though so certain of her advantage over Branwen that she had no need to defend herself. “The ratcatcher must first be shown where the vermin lurk!” she said. “That was my purpose in having you bring me here—to reveal to my lord Ragnar t
he hiding place of the sniveling wretch that you call Merion of the Stones! It is done, and now it is the time for all masks and pretenses to be thrown aside!”
At last Branwen understood—and she cursed herself for being so gullible! Skur’s deceptions had all along been driven by the specific purpose of tricking Branwen into guiding her to Merion’s cave. Now that she knew its location she could return to whatever dark place Ragnar inhabited and lead him into the very home of the Shining Ones.
I should have listened to Dera! I should have driven a sword through Asta’s heart at the first!
A sudden passion of anger and revenge flared in Branwen’s mind. Skur must not be allowed to complete her deadly mission! Reckless of her safety, she flung herself down at the deceitful woman, her sword aimed for the heart, a red fury in her eyes.
But Skur was lizard-quick in her reactions. In a single liquid movement the huge ax rose and swung as Branwen came hurtling down. But Branwen was not entirely unmindful of her own defense. She turned her shield into the coming blow, and the arc of sharpened iron came smashing into the shield’s white face like a hammer striking an anvil.
The power of Skur’s attack was so great that Branwen was sent spinning through the air, her shield arm numbed from the buffet, her shoulder wracked with pain.
It was impossible to land well among the shifting rocks; and she came down heavily, the breath knocked out of her as she tumbled down in a flurry of loose scree.
Skur was upon her in an instant, legs spread, the ax clasped in both hands, poised high above her head.
And for that moment her body was unprotected. Dizzy among the stones, Branwen thrust upward with her sword. But she was too late. The ax spun as it came down.
Branwen let out a cry of pain as her sword was jarred from her fingers. She saw sparks fly as the blade was cut in two by Skur’s ax. The huge weapon rose and fell a second time, but Branwen was able to bring up her shield in time.
Skur gave a howl of anger and frustration as the blade skidded off the face of the shield.
“So! There is power in that ancient device!” she snarled. “I guessed it was so when first I saw it! But Ragnar’s strength will prove mightier yet!”
“Do your worst!” cried Branwen. “Your blade shall never draw my blood!” She scrambled to her feet. She needed a few moments to recover—the ax blow had shaken her to the very bones.
And yet as she went scrambling up the mountainside, she saw that her shield showed no sign of the impact of the great battle-ax. Not so much as a dent or a scratch disfigured its white face. Her sword might be broken and lost, but with such a shield, perhaps she could hold off Skur’s attack for long enough to make her way up to the cave mouth.
She remembered what the mountain crone had told her after she had filled the six crystals with magic: I have breathed part of my own powers into them. I am diminished by this loss, and I will not be whole again till you return from your mission and need them no more.
Branwen would enter the cave—she would return the crystals to Merion—then let Skur come! Let her see what devastation the Shining Ones could bring down on her!
She turned and swarmed up toward the cave mouth, her shield arm twisted behind herself in case Skur came leaping after her.
But it was not from behind that the attack came. It came from above! First came the dry flutter of wings, then a dark shape dashed into Branwen’s face, claws extended, a heavy black beak pecking at her eyes.
Mumir!
She flung up her arm, and the raven’s claws scored bloody grooves in her skin. Staggering and off balance, she brought her shield round and punched it hard against the attacking raven, her teeth gritted from the agony in her torn arm.
Mumir was driven off. But only for a moment. The bird rose in the air above Branwen’s head, squawking his rage, his wings beating in a flurry, his black eyes glinting evil.
Again he flew at her, making always for her face—for her eyes. Again she hurled him back with her shield, all too well aware that while she battled the black terror, Skur was coming for her.
A claw raked the skin above her left eye. The beak stabbed deep into her hand, making her cry out as she snatched it away. Blood clouded her vision and she swung wildly with the shield, stumbling this way and that over the unstable rocks.
She saw Skur through a flood of red—her features distorted by a malicious grin, the ax already swinging at Branwen’s face. Branwen ducked, feeling the wind of the ax head as it sliced the air a fraction above her head.
She launched herself forward, using her shield as a battering ram, crashing with all her weight into Skur’s side as she spun off balance from her missed blow. Skur tottered for a moment, her mouth stretched, her eyes wide. Then she fell backward, the battle-ax slipping from her fingers as she clawed the air to save herself.
Branwen dug in her feet, halting the momentum that would have sent her plunging down with her enemy. She sprang erect, striking upward with the shield rim, catching the harrying raven with the sharp edge and sending him crashing to the ground in a whirl of black feathers.
Feeding off instinct more than thought, Branwen snatched up a heavy stone and hurled it with all her might at the fallen bird. There was a single cry—cut off. There were scattered feathers. There was blood.
Branwen turned to where Skur lay, weaponless and defenseless, a little way down the mountain. Wiping the blood out of her eyes, she picked her way down, her shield up and ready in case Skur was not entirely defeated.
There was blood at the Viking warrior’s lips, and more in her hair. She had struck her head in her fall, and Branwen could see how the bone above her ear was dented in and showing white through the ruptured skin and the matted hair and the thick gore that crawled down over the gray stones.
Skur opened her glittering blue eyes as Branwen stood over her. The warrior’s breath was loud, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Branwen was too exhausted and heartsore to feel triumphant. One question drummed in her head as she looked down at her sprawling foe. Is she dying of her injuries, or must I kill her where she lies?
Skur smiled. There was pain in it, but there was something else—something that sent a shiver down Branwen’s spine. There was exultation—there was dark joy, as though Skur believed that even now, broken and bleeding on the mountainside, she had done what she had come here to do.
“Too little, too late,” Skur breathed. “It is accomplished! This night … I shall sit in victory … in Valhalla … at Ragnar’s right hand!”
“What have you accomplished?” Branwen asked. “Mumir lies crushed, and you are close to death. What have you accomplished?”
Skur swallowed, her forehead contracting—clearly the pain was growing in her ruined body. “Ragnar’s will!” she mouthed. She lifted her right arm, and for a moment Branwen thought she was trying to claw at her with her curled fingers. But then she let out a snarl and brought her arm crashing down, the wrist striking rock and the dull bronze torque that circled her arm breaking in two.
For a moment nothing more happened. Then Branwen became aware of a sound, like the distant shouting and screaming of many voices; and as the sound grew louder, a thick black smoke began to pour from the broken ends of the torque.
Branwen staggered back as the plume of dense oily smoke curled and billowed all around her. Up from the shattered torque it gushed, filling the sky, shedding curtains of darkness. And as the brume of blackness grew, so the noise became louder, and it was no longer only the sound of voices; it was the clash of entire armies: the dreadful ring and clatter of iron on iron, the thud of arrows into flesh, the frantic neighing of horses, the screams of the dying, the howls of the conquerors—it was all the dreadful clamor and mayhem of war.
The black cloud rose high above her head; and in the heart of the expanding darkness, Branwen saw two red eyes.
And the eyes saw her and burst into livid flame.
“Well done, Skur, my worthy servant!” shouted a voice that shook
the heavens. “Ragnar’s will is fulfilled! And now let this land know of my power! Let the Shining Ones tremble—for I have come to devour them!”
32
THE BRONZE TORQUE! No wonder the Viking maiden had beaten Bryn unconscious when he had tried to take it from her. It contained the essence of a god. A god that was now released to bring annihilation to the land of Brython.
Branwen fell to her knees as the column of black smoke rose higher and higher into the sky. As it soared up, its shape changed, its colossal thunderhead bulging outward, its tail narrowing like a whiplash. It began to spin, whirling faster and faster, sucking in darkness, looming up over the mountain. And yet all the time the fireball eyes kept their position, glaring down balefully at her.
She felt as small as an insect, and smaller still as the dreadful Viking god roared up into the night and blotted out the entire world.
I did this! I brought this terrible thing here! The Shining Ones were fools to trust me! I’ve doomed them all!
The tail of the monstrous cloud went skidding across the ground, screaming like a thousand banshees. Rocks, stones, shingles, and boulders spewed out in its wake as it tore a deep furrow in the mountain’s flesh.
Branwen threw up her shield to protect herself as the debris came raining down all around her. She felt sure she would be killed by the devastating rain of ruins, but although huge boulders and sharp spears of stone bounced and crashed all around her, she was untouched. The mystic shield was sheltering her from Ragnar’s wrath.
The mind-shredding noise abated, and Branwen peered over the rim of her shield to see that the tail of the whirling cloud was now making its way up the side of the mountain toward Merion’s cave, ripping open the mountainside in a spume of pulverized rock. Like a blind finger it probed the mountain, stabbing and searching until it found the black cave mouth.
Then, with a sound like a screaming hurricane, the black cloud began to feed into the cave mouth. Ragnar’s burning eyes turned from Branwen, filled now with unholy triumph. And as Branwen knelt there in helpless horror, the whole sable mass of the Viking god drove deep into the mountain and was gone.