Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  Cordelia joins in, tasting more than a little from each barrel as she grabs armfuls of dried goods. Our soldiers and the Cornish sailors haul more crates up to the gates of the fortress, where the inhabitants greet them with boisterous smiles and embraces. Ahern gnaws on a cut of dried jerky, speaking low next to my ear.

  “Far be it from me to look down on the miracle you’ve wrought, but this is but a temporary victory, is it not?”

  I smile at my brother, glancing around to make sure none can hear us.

  “Brother, you’d see clouds on the horizon during the brightest summer day.”

  “’Tis my nature. The food will last us a good while, but Sab’s armies will still overwhelm us, and gut our bellies no matter how full of food we are.”

  “And you account Queen Cordelia’s support for nothing? We have an ally now.”

  “An ally? The South Welsh will remain loyal to their King, not her. And as for her royal cousin in Cornwall, the Cornish kingdom is worse off than ours. They’ve lost half their lands to the Saxons in the last generation alone. The Cornish have no troops to spare us.”

  “They don’t need to. They’ve already given me the two things we need.”

  Ahern raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Two things? Food perhaps, but what else?”

  “Their ships. Six solid Cornish ships and their sailors.”

  “Six ships are not many.”

  “More than we had before. Besides, I only need a few for what I intend.”

  I turn to Ahern, my face suddenly serious.

  “Brother, I must ask something of you, probably the most dangerous thing I’ve ever asked you to do.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “You’ve asked all manner of perilous things of me these last few years. What more, pray tell, could you conjure up that would be more dangerous?”

  “I need you to take command of these ships and sail on a secret errant for me.”

  He blinks incredulously, struggling to keep his voice down.

  “Blast it, Branwen, I’m no sailor! I’ve hardly set foot on a boat in my born life.”

  “You’re the only one I can trust, Ahern. The only one with the will to see it done. Will you do this for me?”

  He throws up his hands.

  “Do what exactly? All I know is that you want me to get myself seasick for some secret plot.”

  “Keep your voice down, kinsman.”

  I take him by the arm, faking a smile in case any onlookers in the crowd watch us. He manages only to leer and frown by turns, his face an unmasked cipher open for anyone to read. Fortunately, everyone from Cordelia down to the peasants crowd the unloaded foodstuffs, sharing laughter and drinks as though it were an impromptu harvest festival. Let them have their joys. With so much grief these past few moons, the people deserve a little reprieve. It may be the last break we catch before Sab descends on us for the final siege.

  Ahern and I wend our way up to the easternmost parapets, alone together as we stroll arm in arm. We pause, finishing the rest of our bread and dried goods now that no one can see how quickly we eat. It feels like paradise to have a full belly.

  Swallowing my last bite, I tell Ahern the details of my plan. He listens without interrupting me once. When finished, he shakes his head.

  “What you’re proposing has never been done.”

  “Which is exactly why it will work, why it must work,” I reply. “Even for Sab, it’ll be the last thing she expects me to do.”

  “I don’t like it, Branwen. Not one bit.”

  I grin sheepishly.

  “When has that ever stopped you from doing the impossible?”

  He merely screws up his eye in reply.

  A horseman gallops headlong toward us on the eastern battlements, one of our green-clad scouts responsible for patrolling the heaths. He neither smiles nor waves at the commoners eating their fill of Queen Cordelia’s horns of plenty. Instead, he dismounts before Ahern and me, his steed panting breathlessly. The scout bows slightly, his limbs shaking with fatigue.

  “My Queen, our scouts on the moors have just reported back. An army of Picts and North Welsh horsemen marches this way.”

  A knot forms in my throat. Dear God, we’ve run out of time, after all. I fight the roiling churn of a half-digested meal threatening to rise back out of my stomach. Ahern and I exchange grave looks. It takes me a moment to find my voice.

  “You best depart, brother. There’s no time to lose.”

  He nods and turns to go. He halts halfway into his stride as though contemplating something. He spins on his heel and takes my hand before pressing his lips to my fingertips. Ever the chivalrous guardsman. I wrap both arms around him and embrace my brother, possibly for the last time. Neither of us may live to see another full moon rise over Wales.

  Ahern goes without another word. I blink back the water in my eyes so that the messenger rider will not see me weep. As I glance out toward the eastern moors, a dark foreboding wells up inside me, black as poison in my heart.

  Queen Sab and her army will be here by nightfall.

  19

  Artagan stands beside me in the darkness, holding my hand. Torches dot the moors in the distance, snaking their way toward Dun Dyfed like a giant fiery serpent. Sab’s army. Thick clouds obscure the moon, but the Picts seems to thrive in the utter darkness. As unhindered by nightfall as a cloud of bats.

  Horses whinny faintly on the wind. Iago’s northern horsemen must follow close behind the Picts, trailing the glow of their firebrands as they encircle the dun from the landward side. I swallow a heavy lump in my throat. We are cornered, trapped like a fawn before a pack of wolves.

  My husband squeezes my palm. He leans against his sheathed longsword, using it like a makeshift crutch. He puts on a brave face but cannot help wincing in the dim twilight. His wounds ail him far more than he will admit. He can barely stand, let alone fight. Our outnumbered spearmen and archers will not have the famed Blacksword to inspire them in battle. I put my arm around him, feeling the faint puff of his breath against my cheek.

  “You should not overtax yourself, my love. Your wounds need time to mend.”

  “I’ve had worse,” he lies with a half-grin.

  “You’re fortunate to be alive. Thankfully, the bone spear carried no poison. Although it pierced your side, it narrowly missed your vitals. One in a hundred men wouldn’t be so lucky.”

  “I don’t need luck. I’ve the loving protection of the Mab Ceridwen watching over me.”

  I feign an indignant scoff. Even on his deathbed, my love would still be cocky as a rooster. Does he truly still think himself invincible after all he has seen and endured? Maybe in spite of it.

  The two of us stand on the easternmost battlement, watching the enemy loom closer across the nocturnal heaths. I’ve ordered watchmen to guard every stretch of wall, our spearmen concealing themselves in the shadows. As per my command, every hearth and flame has been extinguished within our walls. I’ll not give Sab any advantages tonight. Let her army find me in pitch-blackness if they must. We won’t provide a single light to guide their way through the treacherous bogs.

  The lookouts give Artagan and me a wide berth, not a single soldier lingering within earshot. The two of us may at least speak in private. With so many demands on our time, I can’t recall the last evening Artagan and I were truly alone together. Between being leaders by day and parents by night, I don’t think we’ve spent an evening just the two of us since we left Aranrhod. All those months ago, before the Picts came. And now we stand in the dark, a lone married couple taking stock of what may be their last moments together. The night before our enemies come to wipe us out.

  By the silvery starlight, I can just make out Artagan’s face. He squints into the misty gloom, eyeing the nearing glowworm of Pictish torches in the east. He pulls me close as I lay my head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart.

  “Why do they not attack?” he whispers suspiciously. “The P
icts don’t seem to mind the dark.”

  “I bet Iago’s North Welshmen do. Sab will wait for daylight.”

  “But why did Sab take so long in bringing her minions here against us? Even for an army her size, she could have marched the distance sooner. It’s taken them weeks to get to Dun Dyfed when it should’ve only taken days.”

  I shift my jaw from side to side, pondering awhile before I reply.

  “It’s no secret that Arthwys’s soldiers blocked the roads east of here. Sab would have guessed our rations had dwindled, especially with more and more refugees pouring into Dyfed.”

  “You’re saying she was waiting for us to starve?”

  “I’ve told you that her ways are different, her thinking sideways, her actions indirect and shadowy. Why rush to meet us in battle when by delaying she could arrive after most of us had already starved to death?”

  “Thank Providence that Queen Cordelia came to our relief with supplies. I bet Sab was mad as Lucifer when she found out.”

  “Perhaps. You have to first understand the manner in which a Pictish chieftess like Sab thinks.”

  “It seems you comprehend her mind better than any of us these days.”

  A wave of heat rises through my cheeks. Is he comparing me to a savage like Sab? I pull back and face him, starlight reflecting in our eyes.

  “To defeat a monster I must learn to think like one, but that does not make me a monster. Tell me you understand that.”

  He smiles.

  “You misunderstand me, my love. I was complimenting your cunning, not comparing you to a murderess like Sab.”

  He caresses my brow with a kiss, wrapping his warm arms around me. I relax a touch under his familiar embrace, yet a new though arises like a splinter in my mind. I was quick to jump to a conclusion Artagan did not intend, but perhaps that’s because the same thought has plagued me all along. How different am I really from Sab?

  Is she not another version of me, gazing back from the looking glass? The darker side of my very same moon. She fights for her people, defending them and advancing their interests. They are her family. By the same token, I would do anything for my own people. I’ve suffered plenty of sins and sacrifices for Wales, as have others. How many have I ordered to their deaths? All in the name of protecting my subjects and my family. A shiver runs down the small of my back. Perhaps the real barbarian is the queen who gazes back at me from the mirror each morn.

  Closing my eyes with a sigh, I try to wash such thoughts from my head. The din of shuffling feet and clanking shields advances closer across the moors. With every moment, Sab’s warriors draw nearer, their forces tightening like a noose around the citadel. The sound of their steady tread sets my teeth on edge. The noise of horses and chain mail clouds my reasoning, constricting my mind like a garrote tightening around my thoughts. If only the clamor from their fiery line of torches would stop. It’s enough to unhinge the steadiest of minds.

  But something else Artagan said gives me pause. Something that even the cacophony of Sab’s savages cannot drive from my mind. If Sab simply wanted to starve us out, surely she could have arrived sooner and laid a siege, just to make sure we didn’t try to escape. Even though I can’t think of anywhere to escape to. What if not everything has occurred according to Sab’s well-laid plans either? All my plots have certainly not played out as I foresaw.

  A glimmer of hope kindles within me. Sab’s troops have doubtless been pillaging the countryside, scattering themselves far and wide as they burn villages and gorge themselves on the food stores of hardworking peasants. But perhaps in their revels, Queen Sab has not been able to control them. From what I’ve seen of the Picts in battle and on the march, they are an undirected torrent of fury at best, each a wild, brutish individual, heedless of any commands or restraint. Maybe Sab has unleashed something she cannot fully control. Maybe. But a nagging feeling tells me there is something more to this mystery. Some crucially obvious element that has somehow escaped my notice.

  Artagan turns, putting both hands on my shoulders. His serious countenance draws me up short.

  “I wanted to tell you that I was wrong,” he begins. “When you first brought the children into the wilderness with an assassin on your trail, I didn’t know what to think. But you’ve shown that you’re made of stronger metal than any of us. You truly can be both a mother and a warrior-queen. Forgive me for doubting you, my love.”

  I smile, water welling behind my eyes. It’s hard enough for a man to admit the error of his ways, but even rarer for a king to do so. I fondly touch his stubbled cheek.

  “There’s nothing to forgive, husband. I’ve more than enough love for you, our children, and our kingdom to go around.”

  “Not to mention a will of iron.” He winks.

  I playfully pat his cheek.

  A late autumnal breeze makes me shiver in Artagan’s arms, winter’s breath already thick on the wind. Despite the cold, I cannot retire within just yet. Like a soldier at my post, it seems wrong for me not to stand watch with the others. But the ache in my milk-heavy bosom weighs on me, and I soon retire to my bedchamber.

  Little Tristan already cries out for his evening suckle. Still torn between my role as a queen and a mother, my heart already knows which side will win. Artagan was right in admitting that I can be both mother and spear-wife, but that doesn’t mean it ever comes easy. Was it always thus for the matrons of the Old Tribes? Surely they battled Picts while still having to bear children and keep their menfolk in line. Those women must have been made of sterner steel than I.

  Rowena hands Tristan to me. My handmaid smiles before retreating from the room. A leaden weight rises from my shoulders as soon as I sit down with my babe in my arms. He nuzzles at the breast before finding his way. Tristan feeds as quiet as a cat, so different from Gavin, who used to slurp and murmur at the tit. My first boy will always be a prince of my heart, but this second newborn radiates the tranquility of an angel. I gently put my lips to his brow and caress him as I lull him to sleep in my arms.

  A pounding comes at the door. Before I can chide the careless intruder, Gavin scampers into the chamber. He stops short when he sees I am with his young brother. The toddler cocks his head sideways as though observing a novelty. He suddenly smiles.

  “Little brother.” He points at him, before jabbing a thumb at himself. “Big brother.”

  I grin and nod back, keeping my voice low, so as not to awake the baby.

  “That’s right, Gavin. You’re the big brother. You are the brave protector.”

  Gavin folds his arms with smug satisfaction. He looks like a redheaded miniature of his father. Artagan hobbles in after him, still breathing hard from the stairwell.

  “Sorry, my dear. The lad outpaced me on the stairs. He’s got the legs of a young colt.”

  I bite my lip. Never have I seen Artagan so weak, his injury lingering in his bones day after day. When I first met him years ago, he had the strength of a bear and the daring of a fox. It must be doubly hard on him to be invalided so. He puts a hand on Gavin’s shoulder, trying to steer the boy out of the quiet bedchamber. I reach out to stop him.

  “No, it’s all right, Artagan. I’d have my family, my whole family, together this night.”

  He nods, the firelight from the hearth flickering in his eyes. Neither of us needs to say that tomorrow may be our last. Artagan pulls up a chair beside me, saddling Gavin on his lap. The boy leans his head back against his father’s chest, his fingers playing along the leather scabbard of Artagan’s famed longsword. We listen to the crackling fire while Artagan hums an old Celtic lullaby that echoes both pleasantly and hauntingly off the chamber rafters. I shut my eyes, rocking my baby against my chest.

  I sip in the scent of woodsmoke on the cool evening air, trying to draw out every note of Artagan’s song, to make every remaining drop of my life last a little longer. Just a little longer. The first hot tear runs silently down my cheek. If only we had more time. Just a little more time together.

&nbs
p; * * *

  At dawn, a herald from Sab’s lines rides toward the fortress gates, blowing on a kinked ram’s horn. A line of blue-painted warriors encircles the greens outside the dun. Scalps and polished bones dangle from many of the Picts’ spears. Trophies of their latest conquests. And meals, no doubt. The thought makes my stomach churn.

  A broad column of horsemen stands arrayed behind them, their black dragon banner snapping in the seaward breeze. Not as many as I feared, but still at least two thousand of Iago’s northern cavalry have come. Only a few hundred Picts remain to Sab, but she has relied significantly on the muscle of Iago’s numerous troops of late. Setting Welshman against Welshman, gradually reducing my country to rubble.

  She has more than enough warriors in her army to defeat the few hundred weary defenders within Dun Dyfed. Many more women and children hide behind our walls. But we are still free Welsh, archers of the Free Cantrefs and spearmen of Dyfed. One free man or woman defending their home is worth ten marauding Picts. Or so I hope. Today’s events will prove me wrong or right.

  A lone black bird circles high overhead. The creature lands in the castle rookery before a runner jogs down the inner defenses toward me. Artagan and I stand together, clutching our tartan furs close around our throats in the cool morning air. The runner bows and hands me a scrap of parchment from the messenger raven. I recognize Ahern’s seal stamped on one side of the page. The crumpled sheet has only one small line scrawled in charcoal: It is done.

  Artagan raises an eyebrow.

  “What does that mean?”

  I ball the sheet in my hand, frowning at my own thoughts.

  “It means the die is cast, and now we will find out if what I have done was worth the cost.”

  The Pict herald toots on his warbling ram’s horn again as three riders canter out from the enemies’ lines. Even from a distance I recognize Sab and her daughter, their fair skin tattooed in azure swaths. They ride pale mounts. Iago trots behind them on his chestnut steed, his armor and plate mail as black as the sackcloth banners his horsemen carry. Artagan gives me a sidelong look, clutching his sheathed sword.