Twilight of Avalon

by Anna Elliott

  AS THE VOICE DIED AWAY, ISOLDE became aware of Bran, speaking beside her, his eyes still on Kian as the older man continued the tale.

  “Trystan’s teaching me sword fighting,” he said in an undertone. “Just with sticks, for now. But he says he’ll let me try it with a real sword soon.”

  He paused a moment. Then, brows drawn together in a frown, he shot one of his quick, sidelong looks at Isolde. “So you’re really not a witch, then?”

  Isolde was silent, watching the fire’s dancing flames as they leapt toward the darkening sky. The fire had been built with driftwood; there were shooting jets of blue and green amid the yellow and orange. And if Kian could know what I hear in the wind, she thought, he would think me a sorceress indeed—whether the mark on my arm bleeds or no.

  “No,” she said. “I’m really not a witch.”

  Bran was silent a moment, chewing. Then he shrugged. “Well, I guess you can still have this back.” He held out his hand, palm up, and she saw that he was offering one of the bronze bracelets she’d brought from Tintagel.

  Isolde took if from him. “Thank you,” she said slowly. “But why?”

  “Oh. Well.” Bran frowned fiercely at the ground, scuffing one foot in the sand. “You know some good riddles, anyway.” He turned abruptly away to Hereric, seated beside him. “Hereric, you ever heard this one? How did it go?” He stopped, his brow furrowed in the effort of remembrance. “Thousands lay up gold within this house, but no man made it. Spears…”

  Isolde let her mind drift, too tired to think anymore. She’d fallen into a kind of half-waking doze, when she realized abruptly that Kian had stopped singing and had stiffened, his head turning from side to side like that of a war-hound scenting the air for danger.

  “Bran.” His voice was a low, curt bark of command, and he didn’t turn as he spoke, but kept scanning the darkened beach around them and the cliffs above. “Go to Trystan. Tell him there’s trouble. Now.”

  Bran had gone quiet as soon as Kian spoke his name, and now he moved instantly to obey, scrambling to his feet and darting toward the mouth of the cave. Beside her, Hereric drew the knife from his belt with one hand, while reaching with the other for the club at his feet. Kian had gone on with his song, of how the treacherous Vortigern ceded the land of Ceint to the warrior Hengist to secure his beautiful daughter Rowenna’s hand. Isolde saw, though, that he, too, had drawn his knife, and that his eyes never left the cliffs, even as his lips shaped the words.

  She sat, straining her ears, and then she heard what Kian must have done: above the song and the pounding of the surf, the high whicker of a horse.

  Kian and Hereric exchanged a glance. Kian shook his head, breaking off singing to say, briefly, “Won’t bring horses down here—too chancy on the slope of the cliff. Have to come on foot if at all.”

  It seemed to Isolde that the moments of waiting stretched out unendurably as they sat, both men’s hands tight on the hilts of their swords. And then she heard a wordless shout from above, and the men came in a roaring, bellowing charge, down the cliff path to the beach.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE MOONLIGHT SILVERED THE SHAFTS of their upraised swords and spears, but their bodies were at first only shadowy blanks, deeper darkness against the gray-black of the cliff. Then they drew nearer, and Isolde saw that they wore the leather tunics and helmets of soldiers, and that the shield the first man carried was marked by the crest of Cornwall’s blue boar. Marche’s guardsmen. Four of them.

  Isolde had time to realize so much before Bran was beside her, tugging frantically at her arm.

  “Here, now—with me. Trystan said I’m to see you out of the way.”

  As he spoke, he was pulling her away from the fire and into a shallow cleft in the cliff behind them. Isolde stood, back pressed against the rock, with Bran beside her. Hereric and Kian had both risen and now stood unflinching, braced for the attack, their eyes on the figures surging toward them across the sand. And then, from out of the shadows, Trystan joined them, armed like Kian with knife and sword, a leather jerkin hastily dragged on over breeches and tunic.

  Isolde saw Kian give him a quick, disbelieving glance and open his mouth as though about to protest. But there was no time. Marche’s guardsmen had stopped a few paces away, and for a long moment, the two groups of men stood stock-still, staring at each other across the open expanse of sand. Then, with a shout, Kian charged.

  As though the cry had released a tightly wound spring, the men of Marche’s guard charged, too, and all at once the beach was a nightmare of confused, frenzied movement, of men, grunting, swaying, slashing at one another with swords and spears, knife blades flashing wickedly. Kian had caught up a spear and was fending off two of the soldiers, his mouth set in a fierce, grim line, while Hereric wielded the heavy club against a third.

  Isolde had lost sight of the fourth man, but then, all at once he was there, looming up out of the darkness before her and Bran, sword upraised. There was no time to move—no time even to scream. Isolde drew Bran tight against her side with one arm, the other flying up instinctively to protect her face from the slashing blade.

  She felt the sword tip slash across the back of her wrist, opening a stinging cut, but even as the man struck, Trystan appeared suddenly at his back, seized him by the shoulder, and spun him round. The guardsman struck out again, at Trystan this time. Trystan raised his own weapon to block the blow, and the next moment he and the guardsman were locked in a furious struggle, muscles straining, chests heaving as they dodged and wove, blocked and slashed with their blades.

  Trystan would have had the better of the other man. The guardsman was heavier-built, but Trystan was the better swordsman, his thrusts quicker, more keen to spot an opening in the other man’s defenses. But Trystan was tiring; even in the firelight, Isolde could see that plainly. His face was streaked with sweat, and he still favored the injured left leg, leaving his movements off balance, slower that the guard’s.

  As well as the sword in his right hand, he fought with a dagger in his left hand—not the knife Isolde had given him, but a larger weapon, with a carved bone hilt and a long, deadly blade. The knife served to guard his weaker side and back up the work of the sword, but all the same, Isolde thought that his sword arm must have taken injury in his escape, as well. As the fight went on, his movements grew slower, his mouth tightening each time he swung the heavy blade.

  And then it happened. The guardsman struck a blow at Trystan’s left hand that knocked the dagger from his grasp and left him armed with sword alone. Then he aimed a kick at Trystan’s injured leg. Trystan staggered, thrown off balance. He twisted, and in struggling to regain his footing, he lowered his sword. And as Isolde watched, every muscle frozen in place, she saw the guardsman’s sword arm rise to strike.

  She acted without hesitation, without even conscious thought.

  “Bran—your knife.”

  The boy only gaped at her, his face a blanched, frightened oval in the shadow of their niche. Isolde snatched the knife from his belt herself, turned back to where Trystan still faced the guard, and threw. The knife was a small one, more suited to cutting meat or gutting fish than fighting. She couldn’t hope it would pierce the soldier’s stiff leather tunic, and so she aimed instead for the exposed sword hand. The knife struck the guard’s wrist—a glancing blow only, but enough. The man gave a sharp, startled cry, his head jerking round to see where the knife had come from, and then he went still, eyes on Isolde, his face a frozen mask.

  That moment was enough for Trystan to regain his balance. His chest still heaved, and he was without a dagger. But he was able to raise his sword, block a fresh blow from the other man, and then twist away to continue the circling dance as they edged around each other, blades weaving, seeking an opening.

  The guardsman was losing patience; as Isolde watched, his blows grew wilder, relying on sheer brutal force rather than subtlety or skill. Before the furious attack, Trystan fell back a pace, and his opponent raised his sword w
ith a bellow of rage and slashed again. Trystan ducked just in time, and Isolde saw the blow aimed at his heart glance off his shoulder instead, ripping a jagged gash in his tunic. And then she felt Bran pull away from her side.

  Isolde’s heart gave a sickening lurch, but it was too late for her to hold him or even try to call him back. The boy ran across the sand and flung himself at Trystan’s opponent, kicking, biting, screaming curses, flailing his thin arms against the guardsman’s broad back. Trystan was still off balance from the blow, blood dripping from the cut in his shoulder, and before he could move, the other man had turned and lashed out automatically to meet Bran’s attack. The sword flashed. Isolde saw Bran’s face change, as he looked in wide-eyed astonishment down to where blood had begun to spurt from a wound in his own side.

  For an instant, Bran stood, swaying, blood seeping between the fingers of the hand pressed to his wound, his small, thin face still a bewildered blank. Then, slowly, his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground, face twisting. Isolde ran toward him, heedless of the fighting that was going on all around.

  Trystan had managed to regain his dagger and was fighting Bran’s attacker again, the knife in his left hand, the sword in his right, circling, thrusting, raising his own weapon to block the other man’s savage blows. As Isolde dropped to her knees beside Bran, she was peripherally aware that Hereric had felled one of the other men and now, with a great bellow of rage, charged another, swinging the heavy wooden club in a wild arc above his head. And that Kian was locked in combat with the remaining guard. She scarcely noticed them, though, scarcely even heard the ringing clash of swords or the grunts and heavy panting of the men as they lurched to and fro on the rocky sand.

  Bran lay in a crumpled heap, eyes still closed, the blood still flowing from the wound in his side, soaking the rabbit-skin tunic and pooling on the ground. His face, beneath streaks of dirt and ash, was white, and the breath came through his lips in a labored rattle. Quickly, Isolde fumbled beneath her skirt for the edge of her shift. The thin linen tore easily, and, with a quick jerk, she ripped a strip of fabric from the hem and held it, tightly wadded, against Bran’s side. Almost at once, it was wet through, saturated with blood.

  She glanced up to see that the three remaining guardsmen now lay on the sand—dead or unconscious, she couldn’t tell—leaving the man Trystan fought the only guard still standing. The fighting had carried them closer to the fire, and she saw that, tall and heavily muscled though he was, this guard was younger than the others, with a full, soft-lipped mouth and the roundness of youth still about the shallow planes of his face. His nose looked broken, and blood dripped from his nostrils onto his chin and the leather tunic he wore.

  He glanced from his fallen comrades to Trystan, still facing him with dagger and sword, and then to Hereric and Kian, now advancing toward him. For a moment, Isolde thought he would take them on single-handed. He stood, sweat pouring over his brow beneath the leather helmet, feet planted wide, braced to meet the onslaught. Then he wavered, turned, and a moment later was running back up the beach, toward the path leading to the top of the cliffs.

  Kian and Trystan exchanged a look, and then, as though a command had been uttered or a decision made, Kian plunged after the fleeing man, sword at the ready. He vanished, as the guardsman had done, into the shadows of the cliffs, and Trystan turned and came to stand by Isolde, looking down at the boy.

  Hereric was there already, crouching beside Isolde, his face twisted in anguished fury. He made a sign—a question, Isolde thought, echoed a moment later by Trystan.

  “How bad is it?”

  The stillness left by the end of the fighting was almost shocking, the sound of the wind and the waves all at once unnaturally loud. Isolde looked from Trystan to Hereric. Then, “It’s bad,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  She’d known, as soon as she heard the ugly, bubbling rasp of Bran’s breathing, that he couldn’t live. Already his closed eyes looked shadowed and sunken in their sockets, his lips bloodless, and when she felt for the pulse in his neck it was hectically fast, light and already uneven.

  “How long?” Trystan asked.

  Isolde took one of Bran’s small, bony hands in hers. Men—and boys—died from the outside in, the life draining out of their bodies first from feet and hands, then legs and arms; then at last the beating heart would stop. The hand she held was icy cold, the fingers like a bundle of dry twigs.

  “An hour, maybe. Not more.”

  Hereric gave an anguished cry, sounding like a wounded child himself, and Isolde raised her eyes to his.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “He won’t suffer, though. I doubt he’ll even wake.”

  But even as she spoke, the boy’s lids fluttered, then flickered open. His gaze, dull and unfocused, passed over her and moved to Hereric, then away, and the thin face contorted in pain.

  “Hurts…hurts…” The words ended in a whimper.

  Isolde felt a twist of helpless anger, even as she pressed the hand she held more tightly. Unfair, she thought, laying her other hand across the boy’s brow. A kind god would have let him just slip away instead of calling him back into consciousness now, to pain and fear. But though she’d never helped a child die of battle wounds, she’d sat this way beside countless men.

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know it hurts. But you’ll be brave.”

  She doubted Bran took in the words; his eyes were still glazed with pain. But he might be comforted by her tone. She went on, holding his hand, the other hand stroking his brow. “You will be brave. Brave as Macsen Wledig. Brave as Ambrosius.”

  Bran stirred, his eyes moving slowly over them once again. And this time, when his gaze fell on Trystan, another spasm twisted his brow, and his gaze sharpened into groggy awareness.

  “Trystan. Am I…going to die?” His voice was a reedy whisper, and as he spoke blood rose and bubbled between his lips. Gently, Isolde wiped it away with a fold of the cloth she’d held to the wound, afraid, for a moment, that Trystan would offer an empty platitude or soothing lie.

  But Trystan met the boy’s look without flinching, dropping to kneel on the sand beside him and laying a hand on Bran’s shoulder.

  “You die a hero, Bran. You will journey straight to Waelheall as all heroes do.”

  But another spasm—of fear, this time, Isolde thought—passed across the boy’s face, and his eyes widened as though in panic.

  “But you said—,” he gasped. “You said…hunters…in the sky…You said the dead—”

  Trystan stopped him with a gentle pressure of his hand. “I know what I said.” He spoke steadily. “But I meant only the dead that had not been sent by fire to the gods. Heroes who die in battle journey to Waelheall, where they feast on boar and ale. And spend their days in training for battle with the beasts of the underworld. You must have heard the tales. Do you trust me?”

  Bran’s head moved, slightly, in a nod.

  “Then listen to me, Bran.” Trystan held the boy’s gaze with his own. “You know I do not lie. We will build a fire for you, and it will send you straight to Waelheall, where all warriors who die bravely are sent. You have no need to fear. I promise you that you will live forever—and become as mighty a fighter as Arthur himself. Do you believe me?”

  Bran’s eyes—wide, the pupils dilated—moved once more over Trystan’s face, and then the boy’s breath went out, his head moving in a brief, feeble nod. Isolde saw the terror ebb out of his face, felt the frail, light body relax in her arms. Then, slowly, with a painful effort, Bran turned from Trystan and looked up at Isolde.

  The slender throat contracted. His voice was fainter now, only the barest thread of sound, so that she only just made out the words above the noise of wind and sea.

  “Voice…pretty…talk?” And then: “Please?”

  Isolde saw Trystan’s eyes flash to her face, but he didn’t speak. Isolde drew in a shaking breath above a lump of ice lodged in her chest. She brushed Bran’s cheek very lightly with her fre
e hand, and the boy’s mouth trembled slightly, but he made no sound, not even another whimper of pain. Like Con, Isolde thought again, all those years ago. Sick with fear, but still trying desperately to be brave.

  “All right,” she said softly. This, too, she had done many times before. She squeezed Bran’s hand. “I’ll tell you another story. The story of a great hero—one that has the same name you do, in fact. This is the tale of Bran the Blessed, King of Britain.”

  Bran was still watching her, and he smiled a little at that, before his lids drooped and then slid shut.

  Isolde drew in her breath and began. “Bran the Blessed was king of the island of Britain, a mighty warrior, and a mighty king, brave and powerful and just. Now, it happened one afternoon that he and his fighting men were looking out to sea. And they saw thirteen ships come gliding over the rolling waves.

  “‘I can see ships out there,’ said the king, ‘making straight for us and coming in fast. Tell the men to arm themselves and find out what they seek on our shores.’”

  Isolde paused. Bran’s eyes opened, flickered shut, opened, then closed again. Already she thought she could see the grayness of death beginning to steal over his face, though the cook-fire they had sat around, what seemed an eternity ago, was beginning to die down, leaving only the light of moon and stars for her to see.

  The story was one of the old legends, a long, rambling tale of battles lost and won, marriage alliances broken and made. Of talking birds and a magical cauldron and spears dipped in poison. At last, King Bran was fatally wounded in battle against the Irish king Matholwch.

  “Nearly every fighting man in Ireland had perished in the war,” Isolde went on. “And only seven of King Bran’s own men had survived. They gathered round the deathbed of their dying king, with the tears running down their cheeks like rain. And King Bran spoke to them all.”