by J. M. Hofer
“Well, whether I see a hand-fasting come this spring or not, any woman capable of taming a heart as wild as yours, even for a season, I must meet.” Bran clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations.
“That you shall—come this May there’ll be a wedding for the ages!”
“I’m sure it’ll be quite the celebration.” Hopefully, we’ll all have something to celebrate when this war is over.
“Aye, that it will—a week’s worth of feastin’ and dancin’ all night, just like we used to!” Taranis slapped Bran on the back. “And what of you, brother? Anyone special been warmin’ your bed?"
Bran thought of Lucia, wishing he had her to look forward to that night. Instead, it would be the cold ground again.
“There’s a woman I favor,” he shared.
“One of your own?”
“No, from outside the Circle as well.”
“Nothin’ better than the taste of something new, eh?” Taranis chuckled.
“True.” Bran smiled, almost to himself. He thought of Lucia’s body wrapped around his, her curls spilling over his chest while she slept on his shoulder. He changed the subject. “Let’s discuss our plans with Ambisagrus.”
Taranis nodded. “Saw him earlier—he’s up the mountain a bit.”
Bran knew Ambisagrus would have good battle counsel. He was anxious to plan the attack with him. Taranis led the way. Soon, they came upon him sitting on a boulder, sharpening a well-cared for blade. The fur of a great black wolf lay across his shoulders.
No doubt his own kill. He likely kills any wolf he encounters now, after what happened to Belenus. Bran had heard many stories of how nobly he had defended his adopted king. It was not hard to understand why Maur had considered him a better choice for chieftain—Southerner or not. “Ambisagrus!” he called out in greeting.
The hero looked up, relieved to see him. “Seems we’ve got plenty of men and weapons, but what have we for a plan?”
“That’s what we’ve come to discuss.”
Bran told him everything that Gawain had reported, as well as what he and Taranis had spoken of.
“I’m with Taranis,” Ambisagrus proclaimed, after hearing it all. “We need to rescue Talhaiarn and get him back here where he can guide us in these matters of sorcery. We’ve no idea what we’re up against, and I’ll not walk my men into a trap or an inferno.”
“Nor I,” agreed Bran.
“My lord!” All three men turned to see Gwion running up the path. “I’m going with you—I understand her, and I know the way.”
To Bran’s surprise, neither Taranis nor Ambisagrus disagreed. Gwion looked at him, awaiting his answer.
All he could do was nod. Great Mother, please don’t let anything happen to him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lost and Found
It was unanimously decided that Bran, Taranis, and Gwion would go to the Grove and attempt to rescue Talhaiarn with the protection of the Shield. They left as soon as the sun came up. Gwion led the way, Taranis’ hounds at his heels and Taranis close behind, his Shield providing protection for them as they made their way through the dense forest. Half the day had passed by the time they reached the outskirts of the Grove, but Gwion stopped short of entering.
“What is it?” Bran asked.
“No one’s here,” Gwion replied.
“No one? Are you sure?”
Gwion nodded.
“What of Talhaiarn?” Taranis asked.
“I sense him,” Gwion said, “but from far away.”
“He’s escaped, then!” Taranis concluded with a happy smile.
Gwion said nothing and proceeded carefully. Bran scanned overhead and in all directions, but he neither saw nor heard anything unusual.
They moved slowly to the edge of the large circular grove. An immense oak reigned at its center, her dark branches heavy with acorns and her gnarled roots twisting deep into the earth, clutching it for surely dozens of feet in all directions. Alder, birch, rowan, hazel and ash trees encircled her like graceful dancers around a bride, reaching toward the sky with fingers intertwined and feet rooted in the silver stream that curved around their ankles like a delicate crescent moon.
“Where is he?” Bran asked, expecting the worst.
“I tell you, he’s escaped!” Taranis said optimistically.
They entered the Grove and suddenly Taranis exclaimed, “Great Mother, the bloody Cauldron!”
Bran looked and there it was, a strange, unearthly light dancing around it. The dogs would go nowhere near it, giving it a wide berth and quickly crossing to the other side of the Grove.
“Don’t touch it,” Gwion warned them. “It serves only her now.”
He walked solemnly to the Oak and leaned against her trunk like a child against his mother’s thigh. He stayed there a long time, as if she had a heartbeat that he was listening to.
The dogs began to bark, breaking the silence, and Gwion left the tree to investigate. Moments later he beckoned to them. “I’ve found Talhaiarn,” he announced somberly from across the stream.
Bran and Taranis rushed over to where Gwion stood and looked down to behold Talhaiarn’s body lying beneath a yew tree, his hands crossed peacefully across his chest and face pale with death.
“No!” Taranis cried, kneeling down and kissing the old man’s worn hands. “Gods, no!”
Bran swam inwardly in rage and failure at the sight.
Gwion knelt down and touched Talhaiarn’s body. “Hemlock,” he announced, moments later.
“The cowards poisoned him?” Bran cried in disbelief.
“No.” Gwion shook his head, pausing a moment. “He took it himself.”
“What?” Bran cried in desperation. “Why?”
Gwion took Talhaiarn’s hands and was silent for awhile. “He’s in the Otherworld,” he finally said. “He’s gone to speak to Arawn. The hemlock was the only way. There wasn’t time for anything else.”
“What do you mean, there wasn’t time for anything else?” Bran asked. “I entered the Otherworld and returned, and have none of Talhaiarn’s knowledge.”
“You entered by way of the Sacred Grotto, where the veil is thinner than anywhere we know of, sent with Rowan and the Great Mother’s protective blessings. From anywhere else, it’s not that easy. It takes much time and preparation,” Gwion explained.
Bran was about to prod further, when all of the branches from the two alder trees flanking the Oak began to crack. Shocked, they all jumped out of the way before they fell.
“What the hell is going on?” Taranis murmured.
“Collect the branches,” Gwion instructed. “Each of your best warriors are to take one and make a spear of it, whittled by his own hands, and carry it into battle.”
One had fallen not far from where Bran stood, and he knelt down to pick it up.
“He says don’t mourn him,” Gwion continued. “He can do more good from where he is. Once things are set right, he will continue on to the Summerlands.” At this, Gwion smiled, but then his smile withered.
“What?” Bran asked.
“He says you must cut his head from his body so that Cerridwen cannot bring him back from the dead.”
“No,” Bran flatly refused. “I can’t.” Desecrating the body of a High Priest was something he simply could not do.
“She’ll come back, and unless we can stop her, she’ll put his body in the Cauldron,” Gwion said. “A man as powerful as Talhaiarn would be a terror resurrected, my lord!”
“No, that won’t happen, because we’re going to carry him home,” Bran said emphatically. “Tonight he’ll have a proper burial among his kinsmen and burn his body.”
Gwion and Taranis agreed to his plan. They collected all of the alder branches that had fallen, as Talhaiarn had instructed. Bran lashed them together with rope to create a bier and laid their High Priest upon the bier. When the work was done, they began the slow journey back.
***
The men of the Circle burned their Hig
h Priest’s body that night by the light of the moon, their heavy hearts set more than ever against the enemy. Bran presented each of his warriors with an alder branch and bid them whittle a spear from it, as Talhaiarn had commanded.
Their eyes were watchful and full of sorrow and anger as they worked, ready to slaughter any who dared to disturb their ceremony, but strangely, none came.
None, save one. Only Taranis saw her, watching from the cover of the trees. Am I seeing things? He blinked, blaming his confusion on lack of sleep, but he was sure he had seen a woman in the trees and went to investigate. “By the gods!” he cried when he saw the woman’s face more clearly.
She was startled and ran into the trees, and Taranis regretted his outcry. “Wait!” he yelled, but she did not stop.
He gave chase. “Enyd! It’s me! Stop!”
He wondered if he had been mistaken. Maybe he was chasing after a woman traveler who had gotten separated from her people and been drawn to their fire. Either way, he had to know. He put more effort into the chase, wishing he had his dogs with him. They would not let her get away. After a time, she burst into a clearing where a man stood waiting. She ran behind him, taking cover.
Thieves! Taranis suddenly thought, chiding himself for his foolishness.
“Your weakness for women will be the death of you,” the man said in disgust, drawing his sword.
“And your weakness alone will be the death of you,” Taranis replied with confidence. He paid the man little mind, knowing a thief was no match for him in a fight. He drew nearer, determined to get a good look at the woman’s face. I was sure it was her.
He moved slowly toward the pair, hand on the hilt of his sword, and looked round the man’s shoulder to the woman standing behind him. “Enyd!” he cried out. There was no mistake. It was her. “Why do you pretend not to know me, woman?” he asked, truly crestfallen.
“Oh, she knows you, better than you know yourself,” the man said, drawing a sword Taranis knew well. “It’s you who does not know her.”
For the first time, Taranis looked closely at the face of the man who threatened him. “Aelhaearn,” he said with disgust. He must have kidnapped her to lure me away from the camp. “Don’t worry, my love,” he reassured her. “I’ll slay this traitor and take you home.”
Taranis lunged at his enemy, striking a mighty blow that knocked him back, but Aelhaearn merely laughed. He returned the attack, delivering blow after blow, but Taranis deflected them all, sparks flying in all directions each time Dyrnwyn struck the Shield of the North. Both men had bodies and wills forged from hard work and an unyielding stubbornness that demanded everything of their enemies. They matched each other, time and time again.
“You have no idea who that woman is, do you?” Aelhaearn asked through labored breath.
“She is my future queen, and the mother of my unborn son, and tonight you will die for bringing her here!”
Taranis looked over at Enyd. By the light of the moon, he saw tears in her eyes. They encouraged him, kindling his fury to new heights. He soon had the better of his opponent, knocking him to the ground with a violent blow.
“She’s played you for a fool,” Aelhaearn gasped up at him in desperation. “You call her Enyd, but she’s known far better by her true name: Cerridwen, Daughter of the Isle.”
Shock ran through Taranis, stunning him. He made the mistake of turning to look over at his queen, but she had disappeared. No, it couldn’t be, he thought at first, but slowly the truth sunk in like a bitter poison. She has played me for a fool, indeed.
Aelhaearn took advantage of his confusion and rose up again, sword in hand. He cast a ring of fire around them that Taranis knew only the victor would step out of. His blows began to lose their focus as the passion of his fight drained out of him, knowing he had been used. I don’t deserve to hold the Shield of the North any more than Aelhaearn deserves to wield Dyrnwyn.
Aelhaearn could smell his doubt and attacked with renewed force, driving him into the fire over and over again.
Inevitably, Taranis made the fatal mistake of putting his Shield between himself and the flames. Aelhaearn seized his opportunity and drove Dyrnwyn through his unprotected breast.
Taranis of the North fell to his knees and died of a wounded heart.
***
Dawn broke, but neither Bran nor his men had slept.
It was late into the night before they realized Taranis had disappeared. Gwion had found Taranis’ hounds roaming the fortress looking for their master. He told Bran, who began to search for him. When it became clear Taranis was nowhere to be found, Bran enlisted the help of Ambisagrus, who immediately asked the Eastern trackers light torches and search the surrounding areas. The Northerners joined the search the moment they heard, eager to find their king.
It was not long before the trackers found a clearing with scorched earth and burned trees where a fight had clearly taken place, but there were no bodies to be found, and only two pair of tracks leading away from it. Things were bleak. The enemy surely had the Shield, for if it had been Taranis who had been the victor in that fight, he would have returned.
Now that the enemy had managed to capture all four relics, they were out of time. Neirin would not be back with the men of the South until the following day, at the earliest, and by then it would likely be too late. The best they could hope for was that the South would arrive in time to help finish the battle.
***
Bran sought out Ambisagrus and found him in the fortress stable with his horse. “We have to take the Grove and hold it until the others arrive,” he said.
“That we do,” Ambisagrus answered in a somber tone, stroking his horse.
They discussed various options, but in all of them they both knew they would be attacking blindly. They had no idea what awaited them.
Ambisagrus grumbled. “It’s a bloody hell of a place for a battle. Those damned things crawl through the trees like spiders. I prefer a good, honest fight on a battlefield where I can see my enemy coming.”
Bran did too, but that was decidedly not what was in store for them. Instead, they would be fighting in the dark of night, made even darker by a thick canopy of treetops, without horses or much room to swing a sword, against an enemy that would likely attack from overhead or the ground below.
“We should leave now while we have the advantage of daylight,” Ambisagrus suggested. “Leave a few men here with some of the dogs for protection. When the South arrives, they can send them down into the valley. Hopefully some of us will still be alive with some fight left in us.”
“Agreed,” Bran said. “I’ll rally the men.”
Bran circulated throughout the tents of the Northerners, giving orders to prepare for battle that were well-received in spite of the odds. Talhaiarn’s death and the disappearance of Taranis had fueled the rage and blood-lust of the warriors, and they were eager to take skulls in honor of their leaders.
Within the hour the men set out for the Grove, Gwion leading the way. Bran found it unsettling that those with the most experience fighting the cauldron-born were not among them now for the most important battle of all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Grove
They reached the Grove. Bran scanned the area in all directions.
The Eastern archers would watch along the outer edges as well as from the trees with as many arrows as could be hoisted into the canopy, and armed with their daggers for close combat. The Northerners would surround the Grove ready to meet the cauldron-born with their spears. Hopefully, gods willing, Southern steel will arrive by nightfall.
It was late afternoon when Gwion came to Bran, a worried look upon his face. “She’s coming.”
“Ambisagrus!” Bran yelled, “Ready the archers!”
Bran watched their surroundings intently, Gwion close by his side. Moments later, he spied a lone woman approaching. She stepped lightly into the Grove, features fine and kind. Her dark hair flowed down her back. She’s with child?
&nb
sp; Bran could not have conjured up a woman more unlike the image of Cerridwen he had carried in his mind. How can such beauty be responsible for such darkness? What disturbed him most, however, was the feeling that he somehow knew her—as if they had played as children long ago.
“The thief who stole my son’s birthright, and the murderer who took his life, here together,” she said softly, bringing him out of his thoughts. “It would seem the serpent has swallowed its own tail.”
Even her voice is familiar.
Gwion cried out. Bran turned to see Aelhaearn holding his dagger to the boy’s throat. In the other hand he held the Shield of the North. He was covered in blood; blood that Bran knew belonged to Taranis.
“Treacherous dog,” Bran seethed, drawing Caledgwyn. “Before the gods, you shall die today!”
“Sheath your sword, Chieftain of Women,” Aelhaearn spat. “Or I’ll gut this servant boy and you can watch him die at your feet.”
“Better a defender of women than a coward who threatens innocent children.”
“This boy is a thief, and today, he’ll pay for what he stole.”
Bran felt a wave of disgust. “How dare you speak of crimes? You, who betrayed your clan, and stand covered in the blood of a fellow chieftain who trusted you!” Bran moved closer, taunting him with his sneer. “How many others have you betrayed? I’d bet my life you were the coward who murdered Cadoc in his sleep, out of lust for his title.”
Aelhaearn attacked, as Bran had hoped. “Run!” he yelled to Gwion.
Gwion did as he was told, leaping like a rabbit out of Aelhaearn’s grasp and disappearing into the trees.
“No fire in the Grove,” Cerridwen warned Aelhaearn as she left in pursuit.
Bran soon learned Aelhaearn had no need of fire, however. He now wore the Helmet and wielded both Dyrnwyn and the Shield, attacking with a focus and intensity Bran had never seen in any adversary. He could barely keep him at bay. He knew without Caledgwyn, he would have no hope of beating him. To make matters worse, out of the corner of his eye Bran noticed silhouettes closing in from the trees around them. “Bloody hell! Cauldron-born by day?”