by J. M. Hofer
“That’s Gwion’s cousin, Creirwy,” Aveta explained, grinning. “She’s Cerridwen’s daughter, but I nursed her.”
Gwion and Creirwy splashed ashore, and Aveta put her arms around them. She held Creirwy especially close, tears pooling in the corners of her enigmatic eyes.
“Come, Lucia.” She turned and led the way through the trees.
CHAPTER SIX
Ruins
Bran and his companions left Talhaiarn’s fortress in the crisp, clear cold of the night’s final hour. Moonlight reflected off the frosted leaves and tree branches, and breath swirled from their horses’ nostrils like phantoms as they made their way down the steep trail.
They reached the bottom and Talhaiarn reined his horse to a stop, turning to speak to them. His wrinkled brow was damp with sweat, his silver hair escaping its leather cord in pieces around his face. “This is where we take our leave, brothers. Keep the relics safe.”
“Rest assured, if you find the Helm out of my possession, you will find my head inside it,” Belenus claimed. “I will await your message anxiously.” He bid them farewell and rode toward the breaking dawn, his white horse moving like a ghost through the forest.
Taranis sighed. “I’ll ride as fast I can, Bran, but it’ll be at least four days before my men will be able to reach you, even if there are no delays.”
“Understood. We’ll manage.”
“I’m sure you will. Rest easy, I’ll not let you down.”
“You never have, my friend. I’m disappointed I missed celebrating the harvest with you this year—especially now that this hell has crawled up out of the pits to our doors. I promise, when this is over, we’ll raise the rooftops together.”
“We will, gods willing.” Taranis smiled and turned his horse toward home as well. Bran looked fondly after him as he rode away.
“Ride on, Bran,” Talhaiarn encouraged. “Gethen is much faster than my horse. I’ll send word after I’ve learned what I can from Lady Rowan. There is much that I suspect, but I won’t know for certain until I speak with her.”
Bran gave him a somber look. “In my experience, if you suspect something, it’s likely true.”
“In mine as well, unfortunately, but I’m hopeful that this time I’m wrong. Now, go—your sister needs you.”
Bran did not pry any further. He took off, riding south along the wider roads, stopping very seldom.
He was worried about his clan, but also about Lucia and her small family. I must take them south, where I can protect them. It was not safe at the villa—not until whatever savages were roaming the countryside were found and killed.
The afternoon sun was fading to dusk when Bran and Gethen emerged from the forest. To make the most of the day’s dying light, he cut across the open spaces instead of following the river. He stopped to rest only until the moon rose, and then continued through the night, the full moon’s silver beams illuminating the road.
The next morning they rode hard again. They reached the lake by early afternoon, passing by the spot where Lucia had pulled her knife on him. He chuckled. He was eager to see her again.
As they neared her villa, Gethen became skittish. “What’s wrong?” he asked, patting his side.
He smelled the burned villa before he saw it, the stench curdling his stomach. His heart sunk as the road wound around the last of the trees blocking his view.
Smoke from a still-burning field was blackening the sky over the charred remains of her stable and house. Gethen tarried, not wanting to go any closer. Bran dismounted and took him by the reins. “Come now, shhhh.” Gethen allowed himself to be led up to the stables, but no further.
Bran approached the villa, sword at the ready, until he stood within the destroyed remains of Lucia’s once beautiful garden. He walked through the doorway he had first seen her standing in only two nights ago.
He stepped carefully between the stone walls where the rooms of the villa used to stand, lifting up charred objects to search for clues that might explain what had happened. Please let there be no bones. He searched every room, but found nothing except ashes.
He abandoned the villa and explored her land, scanning the horizon. His heart jumped into his throat as he spied a woman’s body lying face-down in what was left of her barley field.
He ran to her and turned her body over gently. It looked as if wild dogs had fed upon her in several places. A wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he looked away, covering his mouth.
He then noticed more bodies in the field, three at first glance. All had been fed upon in the same manner. He assumed they were the folk who helped farm her land. No doubt they had seen the field burning and came to help. Poor wretches. They had been sadly rewarded for it. He inspected each body in turn, but Lucia, Aveta and Gwion were not among the dead.
Damn the gods! Where are they? Anger surged in his breast until he could take it no longer. He unleashed a gruesome, vengeful cry toward the horizon. Again, he was too late—too late for his mother, and now, too late for them.
He leapt back in the saddle and kicked Gethen fiercely in the flanks, thundering south with fury.
He would not be late a third time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chieftain of the South
Bran reached the forest that surrounded his village by late afternoon. The trees had turned, ready to shed their leaves and sleep through winter, and the air smelled of coming snow.
Riding through the familiar forest brought back childhood memories. He thought back on a summer from his youth when his sister had found a twisted walnut tree with a perfect hollow in it, just her height, where she would hide things she loved.
“Bran, do you want to know something? A secret?” she asked him.
“I don’t know – is it someone else’s secret? It’s not good to reveal secrets. It means you can’t be trusted.”
“No, Bran, it’s my secret, and I’m going to tell you! Just you. No one else. When I die, I want you to know about it.”
“Great Mother, Seren, you’re only ten! You’re not going to die for a very long time.”
“One day I will. Do you want to know or not?” She sounded disappointed that he had not been more enthusiastic toward her offer.
“Yes, go ahead and tell me. I hope it isn’t anything terrible.”
“No, it’s not. It’s my secret place.”
She took him to the gnarled tree. After looking around to make sure they had not been followed, she reached into its large hollow and pulled out a box.
“See? Isn’t it the perfect hiding place?” She opened the box tenderly. “Look at my treasures! The tree promised to protect them.”
Inside were a shell, a pressed flower, a small gold ring, and a tiny dagger with a bone handle.
“Don’t tell anyone—only you know!”
Later that summer, he had left a few gifts in the tree for her to find. Soon after, however, he had gone to war, and the tree was forgotten.
Forgotten until now. Passing through the grove, he followed his intuition to the tree. Curious, he reached into the hollow and was shocked to feel Seren's wooden box still inside of it. He found her little childhood treasures still safe inside—the shell, the ring, the flower and the dagger—all undisturbed.
He took his mother's amber pendant from around his neck. Seren had always loved it. He remembered her sitting on their mother's lap as a small girl, turning it over and over in her tiny hands, holding it up to the sunlight and pointing to the tiny cracks and bubbles, her eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He kissed the pendant, laid it among Seren's things, and returned the box to its hiding place. One day, she’ll find you.
He rode along the grove path, grateful for a moment of happiness after the pain of the past few weeks. He came to the river and found a place to cross. Soon, the trail emerged from the trees and traversed the meadow. Miles of rolling hills spanned out before him, the late afternoon sun giving them a golden glow.
Once he crossed the meadow the trail split—the right for
k climbing steeply upward into the hills. He spied a woman coming down the path, beckoning to him. Seren.
She ran down to him. “I’m so glad you’ve made it back! What news do you have?”
“Not good, I’m afraid,” he answered bluntly. “Where’s Dyrnwyn? Is it safe?”
“Yes.” The smile melted off her face.
“Has anything happened since I’ve been gone?”
Seren nodded. “There have been a few attacks in some of the farms and villages in the area. We’ve been keeping watch through the night, but so far nothing has come into the village.”
Bran gripped the hilt of his sword. Visions of carving up whoever was responsible flashed through his mind. “They also laid waste to the villa of a Roman woman who gave me food and shelter on my way north. She treated me as clan. I passed that way on my way back, intending to invite her and her servants to live with us. I found her villa and fields burned to the ground, her livestock mutilated, and the folk who farmed her land ripped apart. I didn’t find her body.”
“Gods, Bran,” Seren exclaimed with a horrified grimace. “What do you think they want? They attack only at night, refusing to show themselves, yet take nothing and have made no demands. What did Talhaiarn say?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know tonight, which, unfortunately, isn’t much. Let’s get home.”
“Of course, but first, help me bring down a few more weapons from the caves above. We thought it best to arm ourselves more heavily. The others have already gone ahead. I saw you coming and told them I’d wait for you.”
Bran agreed and followed her up the path.
“We moved the armory up into these caves a few years ago,” Seren told him as they climbed. “It was Uncle Einon’s idea. He thought our weapons would be safer here, away from where the Saxons or raiders could find them. If the village were ever taken, the swords would be hidden from our enemies and couldn’t be used against us.”
“He’s a wise man. How is he?”
“Well—but troubled.”
Bran sighed heavily. “As are we all.”
Next to himself, he suspected Einon was taking his mother’s death the hardest. Her elder brother by only a few years, the two of them had always been close. He had nearly died fighting the Saxons that attacked their village and carried her off. He had fought his best, but like her, he had been very young and was no match for a battle-seasoned chieftain twice his size. Driven by the guilt and weakness he suffered that day, he had spent the rest of his life forging and mastering weapons. Regardless, again, he had been unable to prevent the tragedy that had befallen his sister. Bran knew it surely weighed as heavily on him as it did himself.
He followed Seren to a narrow opening in the mountainside. She turned sideways and entered. He did his best to follow her. She had a torch lit by the time he managed to squeeze his way in.
The chamber opened up considerably on the inside, the ceiling at least eight feet tall. Iron nails bent upward had been hammered into the rock walls, and hung upon them rested the hilts of a good many swords.
“Some of the boys were up here playing one afternoon and found this cave. We made the opening larger and turned it into what you see now. The cave extends back into the mountain for quite a distance, but we haven’t explored it enough to know if there’s another way out. Between this chamber and the passageway, there’s enough room to hide all the women and children if the village is attacked. We have a few days’ food and water stored here as well.” She pointed to several clay pots.
Bran nodded toward her in approval, hoping he would not need to be sending the women and children there anytime soon. “Good work.”
She smiled and took a few swords down from their perches. He lingered a bit more on his choices. Once he was satisfied, they squeezed back out and returned to the road. They had to retrieve Gethen, who had meandered off a bit in search of grass, but soon arrived in the village.
Seren motioned to him. “Come to the motherhouse with me. We have venison and good ale.”
“Gladly.”
Bran followed his sister to the motherhouse in the center of their village and ducked under its familiar arched doorway.
“Lord Bran, you've returned!”
“Thank the gods you’re back!”
A few young women took notice and jumped up to serve him meat and ale. He could not help grinning. Though Cadoc had spurned him, he had always felt well-loved by his people. If not for his ever-present conflict with him, he would have returned home far more often.
“You’ve been missed, brother.” Seren smiled, motioning for him to sit beside her.
Moments later, the hall erupted again, and Bran turned to see who had arrived. At first, he did not recognize the man, for he had cut his hair and beard short, but the dark eyes beneath his heavy brow gave him away. He cringed as the man made his way over to them. Aelhaearn.
“How go the preparations?” Seren asked, as he sat down across from them.
“Well.” A woman rushed to bring him food and drink. “The look-out posts have been reinforced. We can put as many as six archers up on all of them. They’ll be able to see for miles.” He then motioned toward Bran. “And this was the first invader we spotted.” He reached across the table to clap Bran on the shoulder. “Saw you crossing the meadow this afternoon. What news do you bring from the Crossroads?”
“Bad, I’m afraid.”
“Well, let’s have a drink then, before we all have to hear it,” Aelhaearn suggested, raising his drinking horn.
At least that was something Bran found agreeable. They drained their horns.
“Seren tells me there have been no sightings of anything out of the ordinary since the attack,” Bran said to him.
Aelhaearn swallowed. “None at all. The morning after you left, we searched around and found the tracks of what I can only think is the biggest wolf to ever walk the face of the earth—but stranger than that, was that we also found bare hand and footprints leading away from the chieftain’s house into the trees behind it. The others are convinced they were made by one of us, down on hands and knees searching for clues—but if that were true, why would the prints move off into the forest? Besides, no one in the clan goes barefoot now. The summer has left us.”
Wolf. Again, there it was. But Mother insisted it wasn’t a wolf… “You’re certain nothing out of the ordinary has happened since?”
“No. Not to our people. There are reports of attacks on the roads, but they’ve left us alone. Perhaps they’ve moved on.” Aelhaearn shrugged.
Bran ignored his comment, knowing it was overly optimistic. “Where are the rest of the men?” He was eager to end the conversation.
“Setting snares,” Aelhaearn replied. “They’ll return when the sun has set.”
“Good. I’ll be back then.”
***
The air was bitter cold outside. Enemy attack or not, one thing was certain to fall upon their village that night, and that was snow. Dark shadows were already beginning to ripen, reaching their long, ominous fingers in between the trees and thatched houses.
Bran took a long, slow walk around the perimeter of the village, scouring the ground with what was left of the day’s light. He searched until darkness swallowed everything, and then returned to the motherhouse.
Seren was tending the fire in the large pit at its center, like their mother had done before her. When she finished, he went to her side and the two of them stood together watching the flames dance.
“Bran,” his sister said quietly, “The Council and I have made a decision. We want you to be our new chieftain.”
Bran was taken aback by the news, but before he could say anything, she grabbed his arm. “You are our strongest warrior. The clan looks to you when there is danger from abroad. You’ve never once let any of us fall into the hands of the raiders. We need you now—more than ever. It may not look like it, but I’m terrified.”
Aelhaearn approached and Seren fell silent. “The men will soon be here
.”
“Good.” Seren nodded. “I want to speak to you before they arrive.”
“What is it?”
She hesitated a moment, looking around. “Privately.” She lit a torch and he followed her outside into the crisp darkness.
Bran could overhear their conversation from inside the motherhouse.
“The Council and I have chosen Bran to take Cadoc’s place as chieftain. I wanted to tell you before we announced it to the clan.”
A long silence followed. Bran wondered if they had perhaps walked off where he could no longer hear them, but suddenly he heard his sister say, “Aelhaearn, please understand.”
“Understand what?”
So vehement was his tone that Bran went outside, fearful he might strike her. Aelhaearn glared at him, the air heavy with his anger. Steam rose from his chest and arms into the chill night surrounding them.
“Aelhaearn, you’ve served the clan well—“
“Spare me your speech, woman! After everything we’ve been through, and all I’ve done for you? Gods, Seren—you come regularly to my bed! Have you no honor?”
Bran raised his arm to backhand the brute for his insolence, but Seren stopped him. “Let him speak.”
“When have I ever failed you? Or the clan?” Aelhaearn continued, unrelenting. “You know your father would have chosen me to follow him!” He turned on Bran. “And you! You’ve been gone for the better part of ten years! What do you know of this clan anymore? Believe me, when the Council calls out for challengers, you can be certain I will answer!”
Bran had a week’s worth of fury in his bones and was no longer able to control himself. “Why wait? Let it be done now!”
He moved toward Aelhaearn, but Seren yanked on his arm. “Bran, please—“
“Stay out of this!” Bran warned, giving her a look that stopped her in her tracks. She backed away.