Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  She feels oddly cold to the touch, those blue snaking tattoos along her arms making my skin prickle. I’ve never seen her skin paint so close before. More like sea monsters and dragons than serpents, they almost seem to writhe as her muscles move and contract. She calls for Bal before turning back to me.

  “You are too weak to ride. Spend the night and rest before returning to your camp.”

  I shake my head.

  “No, I’m fine, truly.”

  She smiles at me like I am a headstrong child.

  “If something happens to you, it would bode ill for our truce.”

  “If I do not return by sundown, I assure you my husband will put an end to the truce himself.”

  Sab’s smile fades. Perhaps I should have phrased it a better way, but the truth is the truth. Much as Sab’s and my relationship has improved these past weeks, no amount of negotiation will move my husband if I go missing. Sometimes Artagan is more like a force of nature than a man. My presence is the only thing that can calm him once his blood is up.

  “Very well,” Sab replies. “Perhaps we should take a respite from our sessions. One day will put nothing amiss, no? Rest tomorrow in your own camp, and you may return the next day. I will keep our end of the truce until then.”

  I nod my head, grateful for her flexibility. I could use a day of rest. All this riding back and forth has taken its toll. Sooner or later these daily jaunts on horseback may have an ill effect on the child. If I choose to keep the child, that is.

  The memory of my screams returns, the vision from the scrying bowl making me sweat anew. I know in my heart that the future I foresaw cannot be altered. Neither the pregnancy nor my death can be avoided. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts of such ill forebodings.

  Bal sees me to my mount, and within a turn of the hourglass I ride alone, far across the moors in the fading light. A rising wind chills my sweat-soaked skin. Just before dusk, the wooden keep and campfires around Ogham Stone loom in the distance.

  I ride slowly into camp, trying to collect my thoughts and allow the color to return to my cheeks. If Artagan sees me worn-out and pale as a ghost, he certainly won’t let me keep riding to Dun Dyfed to treat with the Picts. Then our truce with the barbarians would meet an abrupt end indeed.

  Something nags the back of my mind. Not since that first day have I seen Sab’s vixen daughter. Not that I mind, of course, but it strikes me as odd. Perhaps the harlot has chosen to avoid me during my visits. If so, all the better. I still have half a mind to put an arrow in her after the way she fawned over Artagan. Maybe Queen Sab has seen fit to separate us. When it comes to such matters, Queen Sab has a truly perceptive mind. Ness and I would probably test the bounds of our newfound truce sooner rather than later.

  I dismount and wend my way among the tents. Several peasants recognize me, bowing their heads as I pass. Many of them murmur “Mab Ceridwen” under their breath. Do even the commoners in Dyfed refer to me as such now? The very same pet name my subjects in the Free Cantrefs call me by. I suppose my daily efforts to keep the peace with the Picts may have something to do with it. But from what Rowena tells me, my lone jaunts to the standing stones atop the tor seem to have become popular gossip amongst the camp. No one other than myself dares to go up there. I nod and smile back at the refugees who bow my way, still unsure how to feel about such undeserved reverence. What have I done that any queen in her right mind would not also have done?

  Inside the ever-growing keep of wooden timbers, I stable my pony before joining Artagan and his men around the central campfire. Gavin shouts merrily as he and little Cadwallon try to snatch glowworms in the grass. Rowena’s little girls, Mina and Mora, cackle as the boys tumble over one another in their efforts to ensnare the tiny glowing bugs. A broad smile spreads across my cheeks.

  I too once chased fireflies in my youth on these very moors, following the flickering lights as though they were tiny pixies. How remarkable that my son should repeat the same pastime I enjoyed as a child, even though I’ve never mentioned it nor remembered until this very moment. Artagan wraps an arm around my shoulder as the two of us watch the children dart after the iridescent lightning bugs.

  A horse whinnies outside the palisade. Several guards call out to the rider, and my ears perk up, hoping that Ahern has returned to us. Instead, the bowmen escort a stranger into the keep and allow the traveler to dismount. Cloaked in a large white fur, I cannot make out our visitor until the person stops before me and lifts their hood. I falter back a step as my eyes go wide. Queen Olwen.

  She flashes an uncharacteristic grimace, but even her twisted frown cannot mar her fair complexion and hourglass figure that draw the gaze of every man in camp. But why has she come, and come alone without guards or a train of attendants? Artagan and I exchange looks. Before either of us can speak, Olwen bores into us with her violet stare.

  “I have been replaced as Queen in the North, ousted by some harlot upstart who has put a spell over my husband. She and her Pictish friends have taken over our castle in Gwynedd. The little tart calls herself Ness. I believe you know her?”

  A leaden weight sinks in my throat. Suddenly, the past few weeks, the raid into Dyfed, and my meetings with the Pict Queen all merge together in my mind, leaving me with one undeniable conclusion. Queen Sab has played me for a fool.

  9

  At dawn, our army prepares to march on Dun Dyfed. Smoke rises from the dowsed hearth fires across the vast encampment beneath Ogham Stone. Within the ring of standing stones, I watch from atop the hill. My pony shifts her weight nervously beneath me. I pat her side. Save your strength, girl. We’ve a hard road ahead.

  My writing hand aches from penning messages throughout the night, inking notes for riders and ravens. Correspondence to our forces at Aranrhod, our Gwent neighbors in South Wales, and anyone else who will listen. I stifle a yawn as I rub my eyes. I will feel awake enough once the march begins. A few hours of sleep will have to do.

  Under the red sunrise in the eastern foothills, another contingent of several hundred bowmen joins our camp. Sir Emryus and Keenan lead the reinforcements from Aranrhod, jogging double-quick. Green dragon banners flutter in the early morning breeze. Every so often I note a female archer amongst our green-clad columns. Unlike most Welsh armies, our Free Cantref warriors have always counted a few spear-wives in their ranks. I smile with grim satisfaction, clutching my birch bow in hand. The Picts aren’t the only ones with woman warriors.

  Hunting horns blare as the archers march out of camp, my husband’s half dozen knights leading the way on horseback. Scores of spear-men in dun-colored tunics line up beside them. Dyfed foot soldiers. At least Bowen and Carrick have managed to rally some of their countrymen to join us. Rarely since the days of the Old Tribes have spearmen from Dyfed and archers from the Free Cantrefs fought side by side.

  I kiss my palm before pressing my hand to one of the standing stones. Watch over us, old gods and new. We will need all the help we can get today. My mount seems only too eager to descend the hill of ancient watch stones, nervous as always beside the ancient ruins.

  I join Artagan in the forward ranks as the army disentangles itself from the encampment. Elders, women, and children cluster within the half-built keep. It will offer them some protection, but we cannot spare a single soldier to protect them. Our warriors must succeed today, or their kinfolk will have no defense should our enemies seek retribution.

  Olwen nudges her white filly in front of me, barring my path. I clench my jaw as I move my pony off the main trail, allowing the rest of our soldiers to march past. The former northern Queen aims a stern finger at me.

  “You deliberately endangered my son by bringing him along on this little adventure.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but she cuts me off.

  “We’ll discuss that later! We’ve little enough time as it is. Where are the children now?”

  I make no move to answer her. The ungrateful woman! I’ve looked after her boy and my own these past th
ree years, keeping them safe and sound with Rowena’s brood. Now we must leave the protection of Ogham Stone, although I am still unsure why these ancient rocks have mysteriously kept the assassin at bay. But I won’t let anyone know the children’s whereabouts. It’s for both my son’s good and hers. The assassin might not distinguish between the two boys if he strikes again, possibly thinking it safer to dispose of them all. Even though my son has auburn locks and her boy is dark of hair. I fold my arms as I stare her down. I wouldn’t tell her where the children are if the Pope himself threatened to excommunicate me.

  Olwen’s mare paws at the earth, sidestepping nervously. I fight back the urge to take a riding crop to the beast and send both Olwen and the horse out of my path. The Queen leans down, close to my ear.

  “Your handmaiden and that nun have both gone missing. I know you sent them somewhere with the children.”

  My eyes widen. Damn her nosy ways! I doubt anyone else in camp noticed Una and Rowena’s absence, but Olwen has a sixth sense for clandestine affairs. She could ferret out secrets from nuns under a vow of silence. I nudge my pony nose to nose with her mount, our mares snorting in one another’s faces.

  “You’ve trusted me these last three years with the safety of your son. Trust me a little bit longer.”

  “I merely want to see my boy! Do you think I would betray the children’s whereabouts?”

  “You would if you went to recognize them, even if inadvertently. An assassin hunts them.”

  “Who?”

  I hesitate. Anything I say she will consider a lie, anyway. I might as well tell her the truth.

  “My former husband, King Morgan.”

  “The dead Hammer King?”

  “Him or someone who wields his old war-mask.”

  Olwen looks me up and down, like my mind has suddenly addled. I cringe as she looks down her nose at me, half skeptical and half full of scorn. She thinks me either mad or a liar, or probably both. Ironic. Some people immerse themselves so deeply in a world of lies that when they actually hear the truth, they can no longer see it.

  But Olwen and I cannot banter all day. The rear guard of Artagan’s small army passes us as they march into the western moors, their green dragon banners snapping in the breeze. We have a war to fight, no thanks to Olwen and her recently subverted husband. But I hang my head, knowing that part of the blame falls on me as well.

  Queen Sab played me like a pawn, all the while using her daughter Ness to sink her hooks into the North Welsh kingdom. In many ways, this Pictish Queen has wrought more havoc than ten thousand Saxons ever could. She has planted the seeds of our destruction by taking power in the North. Unless we act quickly, she will turn Welshman against Welshman in a bloody civil war.

  I gallop to the head of the column where Artagan and his knights ride. My husband gives me a quick glance. His normally jovial smile and cocky countenance have vanished. Today he is all warrior, a king, a killer of men. He nods my way, knowing I will not be kept out of this coming fight. Besides, we need every bow we can get.

  Artagan alone knows where I have sent the children. Although I know he disagrees with me, he still trusts my judgment. My only hope is that I can outwit the assassin who stalks my boy. Until now, I have kept Gavin at my side or my husband’s. Hopefully, the assassin believes Gavin rides with us.

  Cantering my mare beside Artagan’s stallion, the rumbling hooves of our cavalcade crack like thunder across the moors. Nonetheless, I keep my voice low so that only he can hear me.

  “Do we have anything resembling a plan?”

  “We’ve four hundred Free Cantref archers. And Bowen and Carrick have rallied nearly three hundred of their Dyfed countrymen to join us.”

  “Seven hundred soldiers. Will it be enough?”

  “It has to be. What choice do we have?”

  Artagan yaws into his mount’s ear, spurring Merlin forward. The rest of the column picks up its pace behind him, the warriors on foot jogging faster. I glance back over my shoulder at the snaking column of green-clad troops, half of them toting longbows. The rest heft broad spears and rawhide shields. All veterans, all descendants of the Old Tribes. On any other day, I would bet my last copper on the valor of such troops. But the citadel of Dun Dyfed awaits us beside the sea. It will cost a thousand lives to take that old stronghold. More than we can spare. Brave as our people may be, Artagan and I may merely be leading them to their doom.

  But my husband is right. We have no other choice. Yet we’ve defied the odds before, mayhaps we will again. God willing.

  The fogbanks thicken across the moors as we approach the coast. Mists obscure the horizon, reducing my vision to less than a bowshot in any direction. The perfect conditions for an ambush.

  My forearms prickle as the whoosh of the surf murmurs through the gray vapors. The cries of gulls and the scent of salty kelp fill the air. We have nearly arrived but still cannot see a thing. Artagan sends out several scouts in each direction, but once they descend into the fog, they do not return. I swallow hard, thumbing my bowstring like prayer beads. Olwen rides up beside me in the mists.

  “You grew up in this pea soup?”

  “What are you doing here? Battle is no place for someone worried about chipping her nails.”

  Olwen hisses back at me. I thought she stayed behind at Ogham Stone. She may have ridden the length of Wales to warn us about her husband’s alliance with the Picts, but that doesn’t mean I trust her. Olwen remains with us only because our purposes suit her own. Today will be bad enough with Pict barbarians in front of me without having to worry about Olwen putting a knife in my back.

  Her dark tresses hang in straight perfect sheaves, so unlike my own frizzy raven locks. In her spotless white gown, she looks like she rides to a ball, not a battlefield. She clutches a small dagger on her belt. I flash a wicked grin. I half-hope she tries to wield that little toothpick against the Picts today. Those blue-painted warriors will give her a surprise she isn’t likely to forget.

  The black outline of Dun Dyfed emerges before us as we halt outside its defenses. Artagan speaks in hushed tones, ordering his men to deploy for battle. A long line, three men deep, forms behind us. I crane my ears for any hint of the enemy, but their lookouts have not blown their horns to sound the alarm. Sweat chills my skin. They will wait until we come right up to their walls before they reveal themselves, like snakes coiled within their lair.

  Artagan raises an eyebrow when he sees Olwen in our midst. He probably wonders as much as I do of what use she could possibly be on a battlefield. Perhaps she comes merely because she still bears a torch for him. But that ship has long since sailed, and it would be sad indeed if she doesn’t realize it. Artagan takes my hand and gives is a kiss. I smile, despite the impending battle, glad to have his love and to have him near me. He turns his gaze on his soldiers, all business once again.

  His poise and countenance today could not be more different from when we first clashed with the Picts a fortnight ago outside Dun Dyfed. He was all red eyes and fury then, barreling down on foes with all the wrath of a young knight. But today his gaze is cold and calculating, probably determining in his mind what troops to place where. Having to decide who will die and whether such sacrifices will bring us victory today.

  And I always thought I was the tactician and he the valorous one. Perhaps I’m rubbing off on him. Although I know I could still find the headstrong hedge knight under his skin if I but scratch a little, Artagan has truly begun to transform into the tactical persona of a king. Ready to lead his men from the vanguard if need be, but, more importantly, laying out battle plans for his troops with the cool, passionless logic required to win battles. In his own way, I suppose he has also rubbed off on me. Despite my best-laid plans, I’ve found myself more often than nought having to improvise, and my decisions of late have been a bit more ruled my emotions than I care to admit.

  Artagan turns to me in the saddle.

  “Branwen, command the archers from here,” he says in a gravelly vo
ice. “Try to soften their defenses before I lead the main assault, but wait for my signal.”

  My heart stops, thinking of Artagan in front of his men and first into danger. But I steady my trembling cheeks. He needs me to be strong today, to show no fear or doubts. I nod toward Olwen.

  “What about our shadow here?”

  “Just keep her behind you. We may still need her, if we’re ever to get King Iago back on our side.”

  I grab his arm as he turns to go, pressing my lips to his. Artagan’s hard cheeks soften a moment under my touch. I cling to him, knowing I may never hold him in my arms again.

  “Be careful, my love.”

  He flashes his old familiar grin.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  That’s what worries me. He dismounts and leads his men silently into the mists, toward the foot of the hill fort defenses. His warriors creep noiselessly amongst the mossy rocks and dune grass. Our only hope is to take the Picts by surprise and overwhelm them before they know what hit them. But Queen Sab is a crafty viper. She will not give up easily.

  The archers with me silently nock their arrows and wait for my command. I put an arrow on my bowstring, wiping the dew off my sleeve. These pervasive mists bead every skin and fur with droplets of moisture. Olwen sidles up beside me, whispering beneath the wind.

  “I don’t understand. Why attack Dun Dyfed now?”

  I grimace at Olwen standing so close to me, but I know that the only way to shut her up is to answer her question.

  “The Pict Queen may have fewer forces since she sent her daughter to seduce your husband. She may not yet know that you have ridden to our camp and told us what happened at Iago’s court. Our only hope is to catch Queen Sab off balance and attack her here at Dun Dyfed before she can gather her strength. Once she unites her forces with the North Welsh, she’ll be too formidable for us even if we rally every soldier we have.”