by Signe Pike
When Angharad had lost her way in the woods of Cadzow, she would kneel in the brambles or lay her hand on the trunk of a hazel tree. Then the whispers would come. She would know which way to go. She tried to curl inside herself now, to find a place that was safe, a place where she might still be able hear the whispers, but she could not block the nightmare from above: the thud of bodies falling from the ramparts. The cries of the Dragon Warriors, the wet yielding of flesh from metal. The gurgling and choking, as if on blood.
Angharad thought of Maelgwn and Brant, of Gwenddolau and Lailoken. Diarmid had been standing high above the fray, chanting curses into the sky like an angry god. Gwenddolau’s birds had been set loose from the temple. She could not bear to think what might become of them.
The cliff was thick with nettle, spiny with thorn and gorse. The Dragon Warriors once said they sorrowed for any who attempted to scale it. Now reaching the bottom was Angharad’s only hope.
She rubbed the tears from her eyes. She would not fall. Could not—it was too far to the water below. If she could only get down to the river’s edge, she could race to the little hut where Eira would be waiting. Eira had promised. She would know what to do.
Together, they would be safe.
Thorns snagged and tore Angharad’s wool stockings, catching the flesh of her legs as she took a shaky step down. Clutching hurriedly to steady herself, she turned too late to see she was grasping for a fat stalk of nettle. Angharad wrenched her fist away from the sting, hot as a hornet’s barb. An instant was all it took. Her balance teetered, and the earth beneath her feet gave way.
Nettle, thorn, and sticks pierced and battered her as she tumbled down the cliffside, her body tossing like a doll’s. Earth and rock burned past as she clawed, flailing and slipping, picking up speed. One branch after another was wrenched from her hands until her fingers gripped determinedly at something. She cried out as her arm jerked, feeling as if it might rip from her shoulder, but it held—a tree root.
She was not dead. She was only still. Angharad looked about to discover she’d fallen nearly the length of the cliff, tumbling just out of sight beneath a low copse of prickly gorse. A place too thorny for men, where only hares or red foxes might hide.
Her legs were scraped and bleeding, her palms torn, embedded with thorns. She stiffened her fingers to keep them from moving, for she knew if she looked and saw the dozens of prickers poking from deep within her flesh, it might be her undoing.
The gorse was spiked, thick-trunked, and dense. Sliding on her belly to keep herself hidden, Angharad made her way bit by bit toward the water until a boggy wetness soaked her dress and she stood half crouched, her feet sinking into the welcome muck of the river. Here, tall autumn reeds hid her from the eyes of men. Stretching into the woods on the opposite bank of the water, she saw the forest path beckoning her to safety in the woods. Once in the trees, it would not be far to their hut. But to reach the forest, she would have to ford the water.
From her place in the reeds, Angharad looked up at the hill. Smoke billowed from the ramparts, but whether it was from the Dragon Warriors’ brush piles or the fortress itself, she could not tell. From somewhere in the fray, the startling blare of a battle horn sounded.
A man standing downriver shouted, his voice eager. “We’ve breached the dyke! Close in tight now. Any come down, finish them here!”
Gods protect them, Angharad pleaded. I will obey your whispers forever and ever if you will only protect them.
The men in the river beat their spears against their shields with a roar. No. She would not go to those men. And if she was to find Eira, it must be now. The warriors had begun to close in upon the fortress, wading through the water. Angharad dashed from the cover of the reeds.
Brown as a field mouse, brown as dirt.
She gasped as the icy water soaked in, burning her wounds like fire while she sought purchase along the river’s slippery pebbled bottom. Her body caved as the current rushed against her, threatening to sweep her downstream. But she was nearly there. She struggled across the final stretch, nearing the opposite bank, and closed her eyes, imagining she was nothing more than a drift of fog. But she was no Wisdom Keeper. Not yet. She was only a girl.
And so as she pulled herself from the river’s grip, exposed on the stark bank and plastered down by wet wool, she heard a man shout, “Stop!”
Angharad looked up as a warrior in a leather helmet plunged into the water after her. Yanking up the hem of her waterlogged dress, she bolted from the riverbank, stumbling toward the waiting shelter of the wood.
“Catch her!” one of the men commanded.
“Come here, you river rat!” The warrior splashed, erupting from the water, but Angharad was on the forest path now, and she was fast, faster than her sister or any of her brothers, faster than any of these stupid soldier men.
“Leave her,” she heard the commander call out. “We have the forest. She won’t get far.”
Angharad’s boots slipped on the blanket of decaying leaves as she left the trail and cut a new path through the underbrush. A secret way, deeper into the wood. Was it only yesterday they’d walked with baskets on the crooks of their arms, humming and laughing as they picked blackberries? When the horn had sounded, they’d left the hearth fire burning. But when she reached their dwelling beneath the cluster of ash trees, no smoke breathed from the thatch.
Angharad stopped. The sturdy wooden door of their hut lolled open, half-splintered on its hinges. The sight sent a shiver through her, and she bit back her rising panic of tears.
Be brave, Eira had told her. She could see no men in the forest. Quickly, Angharad dashed through the door.
Inside, the hut was dim. The pine table had been overturned. Berry pulp stained the floor beneath the unlatched window, where Eira’s wreath lay limp upon the ground.
“Eira?” she whispered.
An autumn wind gusted through the open door. Eira’s weaving waved in strings from her broken loom.
“Eira?”
Angharad stepped toward the overturned table, and broken pottery crunched beneath her feet. Then a strong hand gripped her and yanked her to the wall, nearly knocking her from her feet. “Angharad, sweet gods, I nearly struck you!”
Eira had pulled her into the shadow of the broken door. One hand clung to Angharad and the other, white-knuckled, gripped an axe. Eira’s dark hair was disheveled, and one eye had swollen nearly shut. Blood ran in a rivulet from her nose. Eira dropped the axe as Angharad collapsed into her arms. “You waited!” Angharad’s voice shook with her tears.
“Oh, Angharad! My sweet girl. Hush now, hush. You’re here now. You’re safe.” She pressed her lips to Angharad’s hair and held her tight with trembling fingers. She drew back, raking the little girl with her eyes. “You’re soaked to the bone. What happened? You were meant to go to your father!”
“He did not come. He did not trade for me!” Angharad cried.
“I cannot understand it.” Eira cupped her face, kissing her again in relief. But when she reached down to take the child’s hands, Angharad cried out. Eira’s eyes widened as she saw the mass of embedded thorns. “Oh, Angharad. You’ve endured too much. We must find your father.”
“No, no!” Angharad panicked. “I don’t want to go back to the war!”
Eira glanced worriedly over Angharad’s shoulder. “Angharad, I know you are frightened, but we cannot stay in this hut. The soldiers who come—they set fire to everything. They are slaying any in their path. It is not safe here. Can you walk?”
“I… I can walk,” Angharad said. “But you are bleeding.”
“Never mind it.” Eira swiped her face with her sleeve. “Come, we must hurry. Until we can find Rhydderch, we must keep ourselves from sight.”
Eira drew the girl under the shelter of her arm to hurry her from the cottage, but something slick covered the floor. Reaching too late to catch herself, Angharad’s feet slipped from under her, and she landed on all fours in the dim.
Eira cursed and bent to help her up—tried to keep her from seeing—but it was too late. Angharad was staring into the vacant eyes of a dead man, his head attached only by sinew to his neck. She screamed, scrambling back like a crab.
“Shh! Shhhhhh!” Eira squatted, clamping a hand over Angharad’s mouth. “He was a bad man, Angharad. That is all.” She leaned her forehead to Angharad’s, forcing the child to look into her eyes. “But if they find us with this dead warrior, they will kill us. They will kill us, do you understand?”
Angharad nodded, and Eira stood, hurrying to the wardrobe. She yanked out a dry shift, thick socks, and one of Lailoken’s spare woolen tunics. “You must have warm clothes. Here, quickly. Put these on.”
Angharad struggled out of her soggy boots and torn stockings, pulling on the dry garments. She swam in her uncle’s tunic, but upon her the short sleeves were long, and it had a hood like a cloak.
“Good girl. Let me help with your boots.” Eira bent to shove the waterlogged leather back onto Angharad’s feet. As they rushed through the door, Eira’s gaze lingered on the axe.
“Take it,” Angharad said.
“We cannot risk it. If Gwrgi’s men should find us first…” The look on Eira’s face frightened Angharad. It was as if she could not speak. Eira cleared her throat. “If Gwrgi’s men should find us, it will be better if we are not armed.”
“But then we cannot fight.”
Eira bent to draw up Angharad’s hood. “You will fight no one, do you hear me? We must hide from the men we cannot trust, and seek out those who wear your father’s standard instead. Do you understand? Angharad. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” Angharad said. But her fingers moved in secret to the gold-handled knife Eira hadn’t noticed was still belted at Angharad’s waist, hidden now beneath her uncle’s tunic. The knife her mother had given her.
They ran through the forest, dropping into thickets at the slightest snap of a stick. Soon Angharad no longer knew which direction they’d traveled. And as the day wore on, she did not know how much time had passed, only that they were alive. The sky had gone dull, and now Angharad’s feet in her wet boots tormented her with each step as if poked by knives. At last she cried out and could go no farther. Eira sank down beside her, half her face swollen into a woman unrecognizable, her upper lip crusted with dried blood. “We must rest,” she said. “You have done so well, my love. So very well.”
Night had fallen, and with it the cold. Angharad could feel it in the tightness of her cheeks and the clamminess of her blistered feet.
“Sit just here and drink.” Eira nestled her in the hollow of a log and handed her a skin of water. As Angharad drank, Eira looked about, shaking her head. “I thought I had some idea of where we might be. But the sun is gone. For a time we were following the water, but now even the burn has disappeared.”
“If we are lost, perhaps we are safe,” Angharad said.
Eira threw up her hands. “No, Angharad, we are not safe! We are alone in the wild, among warriors and wolves and all manner of terrible creatures! We have been traveling all day, and I no longer know whether we are running from battle or toward it. I must get you to your father! That is the only way you will be safe from danger.”
Eira turned her back to Angharad and her breath caught, shoulders shaking with silent tears. Angharad stood with some effort and went to her. She wrapped her arms round her waist and buried her head against Eira’s stomach. They wept until they were wrung out, the black wood heavy with names they would not say. Those of their loved ones. Those of the dead.
Angharad loved those on both sides of this battle. Even now her father could be lying in the field high above the river. Or her uncle Lailoken. She swallowed. Her brother Rhys.
Had there been any food in her stomach, Angharad would have been sick.
“It will be very cold, Angharad. It may even frost,” Eira said at last, straightening. “We must build a fire. We may be seen, but there’s nothing for it. Besides, it will keep the animals at bay.” She sniffed gently and bent to her satchel. “I could not carry much, but I have a flint. Stay here and gather the driest kindling you can find. I’ll fetch some fallen wood. Then we will remove your thorns, yes? You cannot sleep with them digging like that.”
Angharad nodded. Once she’d gathered a pile of kindling, she returned to the log to wait, pulling her knees to her chest.
Soon a fire was burning. They set Angharad’s boots and socks to dry beside it. Her bare feet were swollen, fluid weeping from her blisters. Eira divided a loaf of bread, and they fell upon it, too hungry to speak. Eira had given her the larger portion, and Angharad could tell she still hungered by the way she glanced away as Angharad ate.
“Here, take mine,” Angharad offered.
“Nay, little one. I’ve had enough to fill me up. Here. Come nearer to the light. I’ll have a look at your hands.”
“It will hurt.” Angharad heard the fear in her own voice. Already her hands pulsed with pain. At the thought of Eira digging the skelfs from her palms, Angharad began to sweat despite the cold. Eira searched her satchel and came out with a different skin to drink from, one that smelled sharp. Angharad knew it held whiskey.
“Sip this. It will help with the pain.”
Even to sniff it burned. Angharad had only ever drunk watered wine. But she closed her eyes and swallowed it down, coughing as its fire blazed into her belly.
“More,” Eira urged. Angharad tipped the flask again as Eira reached to unfold her palm. “I will have to use my fingers. I have no pincers. Would that we had a knife.”
“I have a knife.”
Eira looked up. “Angharad, I said no arms! What should happen should one of Gwrgi’s men find a blade on you?”
Angharad reached beneath her layers and drew out the knife. “But Lailoken bade me wear it.”
At the mention of Angharad’s uncle, Eira expelled a shaky breath. “Your mother’s blade.” She took it gently. “We must not give up hope. We must believe we will all be reunited soon.”
Angharad could find no comfort in her words. The well of Eira’s sorrow felt bottomless and swirled with shadows of doubt. She dared not look too deeply lest she fall in.
Eira flexed her hand gently toward the firelight. “You mustn’t watch,” she said. “Speak to me. Or I shall speak to you.”
Angharad tensed, fixing her eyes on the night forest as Eira applied the blade’s tip to the first thorn.
“Ah!” Angharad tried to jerk away, but Eira held fast. Tears sprang, hot and unrelenting.
“Drink, love. Drink,” Eira said. Angharad could not speak. She could only weep. With her free hand, she raised the flask and sipped, then sipped again.
“Good girl. I will give you something else to think on. This battle. Do you understand what has happened?” Eira asked.
Angharad squeezed her eyes tight, trying to play along. “My father has waged war upon my uncles.”
“Yes. Though it is not only your father who has waged this war. I saw many standards I have seen before.”
“Which standards did you see?”
“The otter of Dunawd the Stout. The serpent of his cousin Cynfelyn the Leprous, petty kings whose lands lie south of Ebrauc. And I saw the lion of Urien, king of Rheged. No doubt you have learned of these men in your lessons.”
Angharad sucked in her breath as Eira began work on another thorn. “A mighty confederation has united to end the reign of Uther Pendragon,” Eira said, then fell quiet.
A mighty confederation. Angharad felt at once bleary and crystal sharp, her insides all thorns and spiked edges.
Her father had not sent for her.
Perhaps she, too, was considered the enemy. The thought was a barb in her chest, and Eira looked up, understanding.
“Your father will have commanded the entire army to find you and keep you safe, Angharad. Even now you must believe he is doing everything in his power to find you.”
“But why did he not make me safe bef
ore the attack? He did not trade for me or offer terms. They attacked knowing I was within!”
“Nay, he could not have thought so, or he would never have let a single spear fly. No doubt he knows how much your uncle loves you. I am sure he imagined you’d be offered up safe.”
Angharad could not understand. She had watched her father and uncle play fidchell. Seen how they laughed. Now her father had brought war on her uncles and left Angharad to die. Eira mistook her tears for pain from the digging.
“Enough for tonight.” She wiped the knife clean and slid it back into Angharad’s belt. “If your father did not trade for you, it was with good reason. Dreadful things happen in times of war. Men are not themselves. We must try to get some rest. Everything will seem clearer in the morning.”
They dabbed Angharad’s wounds with the last of the whiskey. Then Eira banked the fire, gathering Angharad close. “You have been so very brave.” She stretched an arm beneath Angharad’s head for a pillow, covering them both in the warmth of her heavy fur-lined cloak. “Sleep now,” she said.
But Angharad could not sleep, though her body was wrung out and hollow as a shell. Instead she settled in Eira’s arms and tried to go still. It was easier now, without the clanging of weapons.
Or perhaps it was due to sheer exhaustion, for when Angharad closed her eyes, she could clearly envision her home. It was dim in her mother’s chamber. Embers were dying in the hearth. Her mother lay in bed, chest rising in sleep, dreaming. Angharad felt her feet upon her mother’s floor. The cold seeping up from the slate.
“I’m all right, Mama. I’m all right,” she whispered, but her mother did not wake. “Mama, I’m all right,” she said, reaching to stir her, and now her mother bolted upright with a gasp.
“Mama!”
Her mother blinked into the darkness, eyes searching. But she could not see Angharad. Could not hear her. And as the Knowing struck, her mother’s chamber was ripped away.
Angharad opened her eyes, feeling utterly alone. In the shadows thrown from the firelight, she saw faces of the warriors she had come to know, men who’d been strangers only one winter ago, now so warm and familiar.