The camps were all just a distant memory now, she
knew her gifts could be used there, but she had her
orders to remain in Castle Marrion. Wandering back
into his chambers, her work was done, the room was
perfect. She had tidied all she could, she had cleaned
all she could, there was nothing left for her to do, only
wait.
The afternoon became night, she heard a faint
sound in the courtyard. She darted from Harris’s desk
where she had been sat for hours; she quickly opened
the door. Harris had finally returned, he glanced to
the mezzanine to see her while he called, “To arms!”
The reserve army began to move, the dungeons below
were being used as makeshift bunkers. Soldiers
poured from the Castle Marrion towards the field.
Harris frantically moved them along, forcing them
from every corner of the castle.
Branwen knew it was serious. Harris broke his
own orders, as the soldiers ran towards the castle gates,
horses began to pile from the stables. Harris ran
towards the stairs and quickly made his way up. His
limp had almost gone. Harris seemed unnerved.
“Inside,” he insisted as he pushed Branwen’s back.
Rushing into his chambers he finally had a moment
alone with her. The door slammed closed. He seemed
breathless and panicked as he looked to Branwen
from under his sweat covered brow. “I may be gone
for some time.”
Branwen panicked, her voice was a shudder of
worry, “What’s happening out there?” She had never
seen Harris in such a state of panic and uncontrol.
“Their numbers have grown,” he quickly
explained. Branwen walked towards the bed, close to
the wall. “Branwen, I need something from you, send
word to your mother, she needs to send the third.”
Branwen knew that the third was a stronger army than
most, usually used to end battles much like Harris’s
red army. “We are nearly finished here.” He hissed
with excitement, “a matter of days.” His heart was
racing, and she could see it, although she remained
calm.
“I will send word,” her whisper worried Harris,
“just stay safe,” she begged him.
“One more thing,” said Harris, he removed a
glove. He did not seem to calm as he looked to
Branwen. “You wanted to know,” he softly said as he
took a quick, deep breath. His hand struck out and
held her delicate neck, holding her under her jaw, fear
filled her eyes as he pushed her back into the wall, he
released his grip and gave an intense kiss to her soft
caramel lips. A lifetime seemed to pass in seconds as
she embraced him. His warm hand, soft lips and firm
grip gave her a feeling she never believed was possible.
Her chastity was no longer an option. Harris released
his grip. “Thank you,” he said with a breathless nod,
“that should keep me going.” He ran from the room,
Branwen stood speechless, breathless, and feeling a
passion she never thought she would experience. She
was on fire with a want and need she never knew she
had.
The night turned to morning, nothing was heard
from the courtyard, all returning were being taken
straight to the medical camps outside the castle walls.
She could not see the field from his chambers and did
not want to venture onto the high turrets. She wanted
to stay in his room, but mostly in his arms. She slept in
his bed, clinging to one of his tunics, her lust had
turned to obsession, the smell of him remained on his
pillow and sheets, a scent of clean sweat, soap and tea
tree oil clung to the sheets where he had last slept, it
was the smell of him.
The second day of fighting hit. A rattle of armour
woke Branwen as she slept in Harris’s bed. Quickly
she stood and ran to the mezzanine overlooking the
courtyard.
“A lot,” she heard Kyla say as she sped through the
centre of the courtyard with Dominic and Anna.
“Numbers are holding.” Her voice quickened as they
stopped by the entrance to the dungeon.
“And the third?” asked Dominic, his gruff voice
was hard to hear through his helmet and visor. “Did
he even ask?”
Anna stepped forward and looked up towards the
mezzanine. “Branwen!” she called. Branwen peered
over the mezzanine to see the three of them stood.
“Did you sent it?” she clearly knew that Branwen had
been listening.
Branwen quickly nodded. “Sent by falcon,” she
clarified, “is Harris…”
“He’s fine!” Anna called, before Branwen could
even ask. She laughed as she turned to the others.
“Although after this,” her voice was deep and
daunting, “every woman in the kingdom will need to
avoid him for a while.” The others laughed but
Branwen did not understand what she meant, rather
than ask, she remained on the mezzanine to watch the
comings and goings of war.
The roads from Cronnin were clear, not a single
sign of a traveller could be seen as the king’s carriage
made its way. Marrion was on the horizon, his
purpose was to bring his champion home before he
killed himself.
His eyes widened as the carriage rocked along the
hot red road to Marrion.
“He has promise,” Brenin affirmed, “you have
seen his figures yourself.”
The disapproval from Afie was still clear. “For
over a hundred years I have sat by your family’s side,
you are the only one, of disobedience,” she sneered,
“if he is as good as you say, let him return, when
Marrion is safe.” Her deep voice sent a clear warning
to Brenin, but it was one he would rather ignore. Her
hair was tied tightly back in a bun, her hands were
delicately placed on the lap of her lace dress.
Brenin looked directly to her, the view from the
window had become drab. “Disobedience,” he
sniggered in his deep voice, “my family have never
obeyed. My father needed a wife, so he chose the
worst one possible,” his eyes shot from the window,
the patches of long grass seemed to be getting fewer.
“She drained the kingdom, something I am not
doing.”
“Your mother was a different story, and now she’s
dead so no longer my burden,” she defended.
“Burden?” barked Brenin. “I never considered
myself a burden.”
Afie nodded, “One of the worst.” Brenin could
not help but laugh, as did Afie. The two were clearly
close, from the easy conversations, to the comfort they
both found in each other’s company. “And now
you’ve mentioned it.” Afie could not help herself, she
needed to raise the subject.
Brenin’s brows raised, he looked Afie in the eyes
as he warned, “Don’t do it.”
Afie held her head high, her delicate voice was
filled with a certainty, “I have to. If Kailron, Ryan or
that bloody irritating shit Connor say another word to
me, we will be reopening the dungeons.” Her
annoyance was felt by Brenin, having suffered the
same thing. Her tone became sombre, “you need to
think of your kingdom, your time on the road, it must
end, as your chief adviser, I would tell you, pay more
heed to the girl you saved, Librye is sweet, give her
time with the council, that could change. You must
find a wife,” her persistence was not going to fade, “it
would be a mother for Librye.”
Rolling his eyes, Brenin wanted to reply, but could
not find the words. Cammbour was a place of
acceptance, royalty, however, seemed to be over-
looked. “I will find one, soon.” Gazing from the
window, Brenin wanted to argue, but he could not.
His upbringing was filled with neglect, he feared he
would not make a good husband or father, he knew he
could be a great king, and with his champion in the
palace with him, the world could again be at peace.
Brutality played a key part in Harris’s life. He did
not care who he slain. He did not care who stood in
his path. There was a critical key to Harris’s success,
his anger fuelled him, his passion guided him, and his
past kept him going forward.
“Forward!” Harris called. The battle was brutal.
Blood puddled on the dry ground. The climate was
dry, the season of rain was far in the future, but Harris
had watered the ground with the Atlanti’s blood. Many
of theirs were lost to the crows as the Atlanti retreated,
having lost too many of their numbers.
Another Commander would feel the wrath of
Kairne, but Kairne had learnt. Barrus, the Atlanti
commander slammed his helmet to the desk in his
tent. It slammed from the desk and to the floor, the
racket made his chiefs jump. Several of his chiefs
surrounded him.
“Whoever brings me the head of The
Commander gets their own fucking army!” he
screamed. His temper would not easily be settled.
“Sir, we did all we could, the next army arrives
tomorrow,” his chief assured.
Wide eyed his maddening dark eyes glared
towards his chief. “We need them now!” He slammed
his fists to the desk. “We nearly had them!” spit fell
from his enraged mouth. Before anyone could speak,
he began to scream in agony, holding his head in pain
his face turned red.
“Lord Kairne, he isn’t pleased,” quivered one of
the chiefs. The screaming from Barrus did not stop.
He fell to his knees and held his head low; his screams
could be heard through the camp. As he looked up to
his chiefs -who still stood watching- they saw a trail of
blood from his nostrils. Again, his head went down,
but as he lifted his head, they saw his bright red face
turning blue, the blood from his nose began to pour,
his tears turned to crimson red. His ears bled. As
quickly as it had started, Barrus was silent. Lifeless; his
face slammed to the floor; his body slumped to the
side. Barrus was dead. Kairne had taken his war a step
further.
The Atlanti were greedy, they were arrogant and
egotistical. Every chief and soldier believed that they
could do a better job. Their Chief Commander Lord
Kairne was waiting for one who could, he would now
dispose of those who did not prove worthy. While he
tried his best to keep a close eye on Harris Bearwood.
The night lingered as Afie and Brenin tried to
spark some form of new conversation. The days and
nights spent travelling were becoming tedious.
“Kairne,” mentioned Brenin. The road was now
dark, the stars were covered that night by rolling storm
clouds, “do we have anything else?”
Afie seemed remorseful. “Very little.” Her reply
was met with Brenin’s tut of disapproval. “We know
what form, but nothing more.” Brenin waited for her
to continue, he had to nod wide eyed to prompt her.
“We know he uses an old merrow magic, but the
merrow are far too stuck in their ways, they won’t
cooperate.”
Brenin sat back, he had seen the figures he had
been receiving from Marrion. The battle of Marrion
proved to him, sometimes brutality was the only
option.
Brenin’s tone was haunting, “This is why we need
Harris.” Afie was confused. Her look towards Brenin,
with a furrowed brow, seemed to wake something in
Brenin, a side she had never seen before started to
rear its ugly head. “If they are not going to help, then
they are hindering our progress, give them a choice, if
they are not with us, they will be considered as being
against.” He warned, “Let’s see how they persist, when
threatened with the might of the Cronnin army.”
Afie looked shocked and appalled. “Even you
aren’t stupid enough to begin a second war,” she spat,
her croaking voice showed her age, and wisdom. “If
your commander is all what you believe him to be,
send him.”
Brenin slowly shook his head. “He is of Xencliff
blood,” he softly said, “his mother, is Riah Chen Lu,
with Xencliff on side, we can see an end to the war,
within a few turns.”
“Waron refused,” snapped Afie, “he would have
nothing to do with this war, and that is one kingdom
that will not conform, threat or no threat.” She glared
towards Brenin. “Besides, he does not show the
actions of a son who is in good favour with his
stepfather and mother, he is not the one to wake
Xencliff.”
Brenin sat back, his voice softened, his eyes drifted
to the window. “I have faith in Harris, he can unite
Cronnin and Xencliff, even if he does hate Waron, he
values himself.”
Chapter Nine Him
xhausted, beaten and bleeding. The battle was
won. The Atlanti would struggle to regain their
E numbers, Harris had given himself five days to
end the battle of Marrion. Forces from the east were
moving, as the Sonnin third marched towards the
fortified defences of Marrion.
The noise of clattering armour headed towards the
barbican, it was an empty victory, a heavy feeling of
grief surrounded the many who returned.
A large, black stallion walked with them into the
barbican, Svend, his rider was not with him. Branwen
came to the mezzanine to see who was returning. The
cooks had been busy, trying their best to ensure that
the returning soldiers had the best meal possible.
Branwen could smell the batches of stews cooking in
the large castle kitchen.
One after another they poured through the
courtyard, down towards the bath houses in the centre
of the castle. Hundreds had survived, but something
seemed wrong.
Branwen wa
tched as Svend wandered, alone, into
the courtyard. Orange dust covered his majestic black
coat, his lizard skin armour had taken a battering, his
hind was bleeding. Branwen ran towards the beast, she
stopped him, before a stable hand did. Stroking the
side of his neck, his large brown eyes looked to
Branwen, the horse had seen so much. Her fey blood
could sense the sadness from Svend, her connection
to him could be seen by those who watched. She
stroked his face and mane. Svend gave a soft huff from
his nose before he was taken by one of the stable
keeps.
Branwen felt the great depression that had hit the
castle. She looked from the courtyard towards the
gate, walking forwards, she could see no one on the
barbican. The sun had begun to set, casting an orange
and red glow in the skies above. Branwen stood and
waited on the end of the stone bridge, she felt dwarfed
by the large castle barbican, the road was made of
thunderous grey stones. The circling crows blackened
the skies, but Branwen had not lost hope. Something
found her, at the end of the barbican she was overrun
with a compulsion. As fast as she could run, she
headed down the long cobbles and towards the slope
to the battle grounds. The small bushes caught her
flowing dress and whipped her soft skin as she made
her way around the cliff and towards the field.
Branwen stopped; her heart was beating fast as she
looked to the bloodied battlefield in front. The field
was silent, not a single moan could be heard, no cries
of anguish, no clanging of armour, but she could hear
it in her mind. The ground held memory now.
“Branwen!” she heard him calling her name.
“Branwen!” Harris called again. Branwen turned in
the field but could not see him.
“Harris!” she answered as loud as she could.
“Where are you!” she shouted to him. Frantically she
turned in the field entrance, trying to find him.
“Branwen!” he again shouted to her, “look up!”
She quickly looked to the top of the cliff, she could
see the burnt holes where the vitriol had poured from,
the cliff face looked like a burnt orange honeycomb.
She finally saw Harris stood on the plateau, waving to
her, along with Anna and Kyla. Branwen ran back
towards them; they made their way down to meet her
A E Johnson Page 24