Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  “Riders, my liege! Hundreds, nigh thousands of them! They’re coming down through the mountain passes now, flying black standards from their lance poles.”

  A prickly sensation wends its way up my spine. Black dragon banners. King Iago’s Northmen. So the North Welsh army has come. A dim thunder rumbles from the cloud-covered ridges to the northeast, but it is no storm that roars from those heights.

  Artagan puts a hand on his sword, his eyes surveying the foggy downs before us.

  “What of the Picts?” he demands. “Any sign of them?”

  Keenan shrugs. Before anyone else can reply, another set of horse hooves claps up the heath, this time a rider coming from the shore to the west. Arthwys, tall and skinny in the saddle, urges his stud forward. He halts his beast just shy of running us down. The young Prince’s cheeks are beet red, his breath fogging his face. He looks right past Artagan and me, addressing his King.

  “King Griffith, black sails have been spotted offshore! The lookouts say the sailors aboard have blue skin.”

  The back of my neck bristles. Blue woad. Queen Sab and her army of Picts will land from the sea, decked in war paint. She means to give us battle for certain. It looks as though I’ve finally gotten what I wanted, a confrontation with Sab and Iago. Let’s hope I’ve not bitten off more than I can chew.

  One enemy army comes from the east and another from the west. They mean to smash us as though between a mighty anvil and hammer. Despite the cold, my brow beads with sweat.

  Artagan turns and raises his voice so that all in camp can hear.

  “Free Welshmen, to arms! The enemy approaches! Let the bastards hear you roar!”

  A deep, throaty hurrah rises from our encampment, loud enough to shake the pillars of the earth. My skin buzzes from end to end. Even the Picts on the water and the riders in the hills must have heard that. The battle draws nigh.

  * * *

  A thin foaming stream full of rocks and small rapids cuts between the mountains and the sea. A narrow ribbon of blue-gray water, it divides our army from our foes. An unremarkable tributary, it nonetheless marks the border between the northern and southern halves of the Welsh Lands this day.

  On one bank, rows of green-clad archers stand under emerald dragon banners of the Free Cantrefs. Spear-wives number amongst our rough-looking bowmen while Dyfed spearmen with calfskin shields stand at their side. Farther down the flank, Griffith’s men-at-arms march in squarelike formations beneath their crimson flags, looking like a gigantic checkerboard.

  Across the river, a mass of horses tears up the muddy earth. A forest of sharp lances towers over the vast cavalcade. Iago’s cavalry columns look like a massive creature with a thousand horse legs and just as many prickly spines of pikes. Along the beach, throngs of half-naked, azure-tattooed men and women spill out of the beaks of rawhide ships, covering the land like a black-and-blue plague. My nose wrinkles, smelling the horse manure and the odor of the unwashed warriors from across the stream.

  Astride my mountain pony, I turn in the saddle to face Artagan. His dark stallion, Merlin, shifts its weight nervously beneath him. Artagan never takes his gaze off the Picts as I speak to him.

  “Should we try to wade the stream, or let them come to us?”

  “Neither.”

  He nods to a Free Cantref soldier, who in turn raises a white linen cloth atop a battle standard. The warrior waves it high overhead for the enemy to see. My eyebrows rise in disbelief.

  “You mean to ask for a truce?”

  “I mean to parley with them.”

  “What is there to talk about? We’ve come here to do battle, not mince words.”

  “Trust me, Branwen.”

  I swallow but say no more. Of course I trust him. But it seems like an off-kilter world when I ache for fighting while Artagan argues for diplomacy. But so be it. The child in my womb somersaults. My eyes widen like egg whites, but I keep my composure. Just barely. Times like these make being a breeding woman just about the most damned inconvenient thing in the world.

  The North Welsh dip their dark banners in the distance, signaling agreement to the proposed parley. Nothing happens amongst the Picts, but we can only assume they will honor the temporary truce. Or so I hope.

  A small group of us rides to the water’s edge, a little more than a stone’s throw from our army’s front lines. Artagan gallops in the lead with me behind him on my mare. Griffith, Arthwys, and even Olwen, of all people, come gallivanting after us on horseback.

  An equally small band approaches the opposite bank. Iago rides on horseback with his scantily clad mistress, Ness, sitting just behind him in the saddle. She wraps her arms about Iago’s middle. Other than a large fur covering her shoulders, I doubt she wears more than a loincloth from her hips down to her bare feet. She glares malevolently at Olwen and me with a smug, self-satisfied grin. Sab approaches on foot, alone save for her long bone spear in hand. A few more tattoos than I remember have appeared on her face. The Picts certainly have the Devil’s sense of beauty.

  None of us, save Artagan, have any idea what this parley could possibly hope to accomplish. Does he intend to issue a few threats? Maybe taunt them or try to get inside their heads? I cannot even begin to guess, and judging by the looks Griffith and Arthwys exchange, they too seem equally puzzled. Olwen glares directly at her husband, grimacing until lines form on both sides of her normally flawless face.

  Across the stream, Iago shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. Ness strokes and paws at his chest, petting him like a tame cat. As little as I ever sympathize with Olwen, even I would like to put an arrow between Ness’s eyeballs. The sultry harlot spares a longing gaze at my husband as well before winking at me. My hand tightens along the grip of my longbow.

  Sab speaks first, her voice deep and rough as a hag’s despite her almost youthful appearance.

  “Blacksword, I never thought you one for much words. More the strike-first-and-ask-questions-later type of man.”

  “Aye, and so often I am,” he replies, grimly staring her down. “But I’ve a proposition for you.”

  Ness smiles from behind Iago.

  “Come to surrender and join us?” she says with a wicked smile. “My big Blacksword?”

  She bites her lower lip, clearly thinking more than she should about my husband, even while she has an arm on Iago. My skin grows hot. I urge my mount forward until I am beside Artagan. Queen Sab’s eyes focus on my round abdomen.

  “The child comes soon, no? Pity. You’ve not told him what will happen, have you, Mab Ceridwen?”

  I glare back at the savage chieftess, wondering if she even has a heart in which I could embed a dagger. Of all times to bring up my vision of perishing in childbirth! Artagan glances my way, his brows furrowed in thought.

  “Told me? Told me what?”

  Ignoring him, I keep my heavy gaze squarely on Sab. I don’t even blink. Now is not the time to reveal my deepest fears and put one more worry in my beloved’s head.

  “Let my husband say what he has come to say. If it were up to me, we’d already be raining down arrows on your head.”

  Sab smirks, clicking her tongue in disapproval. She knows she’s gotten under my skin, just like she always has. To think I once sat across from her in a room and talked like we were two human beings. Given the chance again, I’d just as soon run her through with a rusty cleaver. Small wonder the women of the Old Tribes and the Picts were such bitter foes for so many centuries. A Saxon barbarian may try to rape and murder, but a Pict settles for no less than crushing one’s very soul. Sab’s crooked smile spreads wider across her painted face.

  “Very well, speak quickly, King Artagan. I’ve a war to win.”

  Artagan draws his long blade, making every soul on both sides of the stream suddenly tense and quiet. His voice sounds sterner than I’ve ever heard it, his face a mask.

  “I challenge you to the ancient rite of single combat. Two warriors in a fight to the death. Our best champion against your best champion, and the
victor accepts homage from both armies.”

  My skin runs cold, my voice deserting me. Has Artagan gone mad? A battle of champions! That’s his brilliant idea? Everyone on both sides of the brook exchanges glances. King Iago’s baritone laughter breaks the silence.

  “You honestly expect us to agree to such an outdated custom? Do you take us for fools?”

  Sab raises a hand to silence him. Little wonder who really runs the kingdom in the North now. Neither Sab nor Ness are laughing. The Pictish Queen steps to the edge of the stream, looking at Artagan with wide-eyed wonder.

  “That is the ancient Pictish way of resolving wars.”

  “As it was with the Old Tribes, or so my mother always told me.”

  “And you would abide by the outcome, no matter who won?”

  “Just as I would expect you to do the same.”

  Glancing back and forth between Sab and my husband, I feel everything rapidly spiraling out of control. In another time and place, perhaps Artagan’s proposal would not sound so bold, but the more Sab nods her head in agreement, the more my stomach turns over. Every fiber of my being tells me never to agree to anything Queen Sab says. Never.

  I admit that Artagan’s way would certainly reduce the bloodshed, especially with Welshman fighting Welshman on either side of the battlefield. But I’ve little doubt whom Artagan would select as our champion. He is my love, and I’d not sacrifice him for all the Welsh in Christendom. And whom will the Picts select as the best warrior in their army? Artagan may be an unsurpassed swordsman amongst the Free Cantrefs, but does that make him the best in all Wales? I don’t want to put such presumptions to the test. Not here and now. Not like this. My head starts to spin as I hold a palm up to my dizzy head.

  Sab raises her deathly pale bone spear high over her head.

  “We agree to your terms, Artagan Blacksword. Who will be your army’s champion?”

  Both Griffith and Olwen start to protest, but Artagan silences them with a quick stare. He too will not be swayed from this agreement. I reach out for him, weakly failing to even touch him. My entire body and soul seem sapped of strength. This cannot be happening. Artagan sets his jaw.

  “I shall be the champion for the Free Welsh.”

  Sab’s smile forms a deep V. She turns back toward the Pictish mob a few dozen paces behind her, shouting out something quick and harsh in her barbaric tongue. A wave of ululating cries reverberates from the Pictish lines. A lone figure emerges from the crowd of blue-painted savages. Someone with a dark silhouette, towering over every other warrior on the field. Sab lobs her bone-white spear into the grasp of the combatant’s hand as he approaches without a word.

  My eyes narrow on the huge, well-muscled stranger. I blink furiously in sudden disbelief. My heart plummets within me, sinking like an iron weight. The champion of the Picts twirls the massive bone spear in his hand, his face obscured behind a steel mask with broken antler horns. The mask of my first husband, the Hammer King.

  16

  A sickening wave of heat rises through my chest. My pony moves back a step, startled by the presence of the Pictish champion. My lower lip trembles as Artagan and I exchange glances. Morgan still lives? The man who once shared my bed, and of late has tried to assassinate my little son, seems to be a ghost no longer. The other members of our small party look equally shaken. Griffith leans forward in the saddle, his voice quivering as much as his bearded jowls.

  “The Hammer King? It cannot be…”

  Across the tiny stream, even Ness and Iago give the Pict champion a wide berth. Only Sab smiles beside her silent warrior. Behind his steel mask, he looks first at Artagan and then at me. The gorge rises in my throat and I can barely keep my breakfast down. Artagan shifts his steed in front of me, the stallion we stole from King Morgan several years ago, no less. My husband aims his long blade across the water.

  “The Hammer King perished fighting the Saxons at the Battle of the Bloody Fords, years ago!” he bellows. “I was there when it happened. I never feared King Morgan in life, and I certainly shan’t fear his ghost. Show yourself!”

  The masked warrior glances at Sab, who in turn nods her head. He removes the iron mask and its antlered helm. A boyish, tattooed face blinks stoically at us. Somehow, I find my voice again.

  “Bal? You came to us as Sab’s herald when we besieged Dun Dyfed. What are you doing wearing the Hammer King’s mask?”

  Sab laughs in reply.

  “He speaks no Welsh, remember? But surely you recognize him, Queen Branwen? I believe you’ve met Bal quite often these past few moons … at your castle in Aranrhod, on the road to Dyfed…”

  My mouth opens to reply, but the words stick in my throat. No. The assassin who first struck that night in Aranrhod. The one who tracked us into the wilds and would have slain Ahern and me had it not been for the arrival of Artagan’s army. My brows furrow in thought. But that was before I had even met Sab, which could only mean … Oh, God.

  My eyes widen while Sab watches me. She smirks as though she can read my thoughts unraveling the mystery. Her voice sounds haggish and harsh as ever.

  “Yes, my little Queen, it was I behind the attacks all along. I sent Bal to strike terror into your hearts, better than an army might have done. What better way to do so than in the guise of your long-dead husband? Bal acquired the mask as a trophy from a raid last year against the Saxons. Fortuitous, no? First he threatens your son, and today your husband … I will draw every drop of agony from you, daughter of the Old Tribes, before I am through with you.”

  I shake my head, still trying to make sense of it all.

  “But we parleyed, and talked so often at Dun Dyfed. Why did you not strike us then?”

  “You intrigued me for a time, so I called Bal off. But I changed my mind. You and I can never be allies.”

  So it was not any magic in the boulders at Ogham Stone that kept the assassin at bay. Sab merely toyed with me, like a mouse caught between a cat’s paws. My fists shake at my sides as I struggle to reply, my mind still reeling from all she says.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Sab’s smile fades into a flat, broad line.

  “It’s an old hate. Your people drove mine into the northern wastes generations ago. Now it’s our turn. The Picts shall rise again!”

  I eye Sab closely. The manuscript regarding my mother’s youth when she lived near the Picts suddenly returns to my mind. Somehow my mother’s dealings with the Picts has bearing on Sab’s actions now. They must. It’s time to know the truth, one way or the other. I aim my index finger at Sab.

  “Is this because my mother would not side with the Picts against the Saxons all those years ago?”

  Sab’s gaze darkens.

  “So you’ve finally figured that much out, have you?” she replies with a hiss. “Your mother betrayed my people! Leaving them to be slaughtered by the Saxons. My mother was the Pict Queen who offered your mother an alliance. Instead of finding an ally, she was abandoned to be slain on the battlefield by barbarians. I was young, but I remember it well. Those of us who survived fled north to scratch out a living amongst the barren rocks where it was too cold for the Saxons to follow.”

  My eyes widen. Her mother and mine once rivals, then potential allies, and finally enemies once more. Just like Sab and I now. Now the root of Sab’s hatred for me becomes all too clear. She plans to avenge her deceased mother by striking down the daughter of her old enemy. But instead of swelling with anger, a flame of hope kindles within my chest. I reach out to Sab, imploring her as earnestly as I can.

  “Whatever befell our mothers resulted from their decisions, not ours. We’ve a chance to start anew, this very moment, you and I. We can choose the same follies all our foremothers made before us in the ceaseless rivalry betwixt the Old Tribes and the Picts. Or we can choose peace. The future is not written, Sab. We can change it, right here, right now.”

  Sab’s lips merely twist into a sickeningly sour smile. The blood runs cold in my veins. There is no c
ompromise, no mercy behind her hard eyes. Her mother is dead, because of a choice my mother made long ago. Our lives have darkly mirrored one another’s, each taking up the mantle of our mothers, our fates set on a collision in which only one of us can be permitted to survive. Suddenly, the full fury of Sab’s vengeance is so plain to see.

  Without another word, Sab backs away from the stream, both Iago and Ness doing likewise. Bal stands alone, twirling his bone spear and flexing his broad, pale muscles. The Hammer King’s steel mask rests at his feet. Nothing can stop this contest of single combat now.

  Griffith, Olwen, and Arthwys turn their steeds to go. The duel requires only Artagan and Bal. Still, I cannot leave, my mare and I rooted to the ground. Griffith nods toward us as he departs.

  “God be with you, Artagan.”

  Olwen says nothing, her eyes watering as she looks her last on my husband. Even now some small part of her still longs for the young hedge knight who was once her lover. Before he met me and asked me to be his wife.

  Artagan dismounts and hands me the reins of his stallion. Our hands meet. I lean down in the saddle, as much as I can with my heavy belly. He presses his lips to mine.

  “Look after Merlin.” He nods toward the horse. “He trusts no rider other than you or myself.”

  I plead with him, grasping his hands.

  “Artagan, you don’t have to do this. They have as many troops as we do, we have an even chance of defeating them in battle.”

  “And how many Welshmen would die, one killing the other? No, Queen Sab would win either way because of that, and you know it. Today only one man need die, and I intend to make damned sure it’s the one who tried to harm our son.”

  He speaks this last part through clenched teeth. All this time I feared the foe hunting our boy might be Morgan’s ghost. Now that my husband knows the assassin is a man of flesh and blood, Artagan only sees red. He will try to take the Pict’s head. Or die trying.

  I clasp Artagan’s hand in mine, not ready to let go. Both armies look on from across the field, an audience ten thousand strong murmuring amongst themselves as word spreads that two champions will duel for the fate of all Wales. North versus South, Pict versus Welsh, evil versus good. I shut my eyes, the child in my womb shuddering.