by J. M. Hofer
Arhianna spit in the dirt. “For the love of Freya? Freya is a weak goddess. She couldn’t help me. And I can’t stay here, in this black horrible place! How can you?” She looked around at the rest of the women. “How can any of you? Let me go!” She yanked her arm loose, ran into the stable and took Ingvar’s horse.
Ragna fell to her knees, hands muffling her sobs, shaking her head in denial. “Please, Arhianna—please, have mercy on me. I am an old woman with nothing, now.”
Ragna’s entreaties found no hold in Arhianna’s heart. There was but a single point of hope in her world, and it lived within Scáthach. Arhianna shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She mounted her horse and rode after the women who had saved them.
She did not look back.
***
The road to Dun Scáthach was nearly impossible to see at times. It crossed over cold, windy moors, wound for miles around huge lochs and rivers, rose up and down through sharp crags and rocky spires, and, to make it more daunting still, it was often shrouded in a thick, disorienting mist. It was no wonder it took Ragna so long to return with Scáthach and her warriors.
Arhianna ruminated on such things as she fetched water, tended the campfires and cooked meals for her new mistress and fierce companions. They spoke a dialect she did not understand, but it was clear from the way they looked at her that Scáthach’s choice to bring her along was not a popular one.
I don’t care what they think. She felt grateful for the endless chores. They kept her mind from straying into the dark places where the demon crouched, waiting to sink its claws into her heart. She enjoyed the pain of her overworked muscles, for her immense fatigue was the only way she could sleep at night. The nightmares were still there, like a pack of mangy dogs sniffing around for something to chew on, but she had grown used to them.
She watched the women as she worked, listening to their strange voices, observing the way they walked and handled their weapons and horses. Where did they all come from? She assumed from Scáthach’s aversion to children that none of them had been born wherever they were going to.
She spoke to no one but Scáthach, and only when she was spoken to. She felt safe, as if she were wrapped in a dark, protective blanket. No one looked at her. No one barked at her. No one hit her.
Every dawn inspired gratitude in her—gratitude for the open sky, no matter how grey or cold it might be, instead of the foul stench, shame and fear of the slave house. She threw herself into her work the moment the sky began to blush. Every morning, she gathered wood and water, started the cook fires, and had breakfast started before any of the other women stirred.
Each day, after a quick and silent morning meal, they broke camp and rode ever northwest, following the sun across a vast, rolling landscape of hills and lochs. The hours were filled singing ballads of the great heroes Scáthach had trained, among them the great Cu Chulainn, known as The Hound of Ulster, the fiercest warrior to ever draw breath in Eire.
When the sun disappeared below the horizon, Arhianna prayed to Morrigan. As the days passed, she began to see giant, dark wings closing around her as she prayed, but she was not afraid. To the contrary, she felt hidden and protected in a way she had not felt since she was a little girl cradled in her father’s arms.
In gratitude, she offered the goddess the only thing she could—tribute. Mighty Morrigan, if this child within me survives, it will be because of you. I swear to name him after you.
***
Days later, near dusk, they came to a vast, wide plain. Beyond it, reigning on the horizon like a giant king, rose a rough, lone peak.
Without warning, Scáthach kicked her horse in the flanks and charged headlong into the emptiness. Her women exploded into battle cries and rode after her, leaving Arhianna in a cloud of dust. The fading light and open land swallowed them up within moments, as if they had ridden underneath the waters of a deep ocean.
Terrified she would lose them, Arhianna rode in pursuit. They seemed to be riding at twice her speed, however, for, no matter how hard she drove her horse, the gap between them widened with every passing minute.
Dusk turned to darkness. Soon, Arhianna could no longer see or hear her companions. The stars provided only the slightest bit of light, not nearly enough to illuminate the landscape before her. She kept on for a while in the direction she suspected the mountain to be, but a growing sense of uneasiness finally caused her to rein in her horse. She dismounted and sat down to wait for the moonrise, lest she end up off course.
It was cold. Summer would soon come to an end, though she had heard it never fully took hold up in the north. Losing her Firebrand had rendered her vulnerable to the cold for the first time in years. She longed to light a fire but had no wood. She crouched down and felt small patches of dry grass upon the ground, but such fuel would not burn for long. She settled for a wool blanket and got back on her horse. She laid her body against his, taking what comfort she could from its warmth. Though she did not mean to, she drifted off to sleep.
***
Arhianna awoke with a start a few hours later. The moon had risen, revealing a different horizon than the one she had glimpsed at dusk. She sat up to discover her horse had wandered while she slept, no doubt in search of fresh grass, for he had succeeded in finding some and was grazing away. At least you won’t go hungry, friend. Her stomach growled in response to the idea of food, but she had none. Thankfully, she did have water. She drank a modest amount, knowing it would need to last until she reached her destination or happened upon a spring. She did not want to take a chance on running out.
She let her horse finish his meal and then turned him toward the silhouette of the dark mountain looming in the distance.
They rode for the rest of the night, navigating the lonely plain by the faint light of the moon. Her thoughts descended into the mood of the land. What am I doing here? I’m no warrior. I’m with child. I’ve lost my Firebrand. This was a mistake. But where else can I go? I can’t go back to that horrible village—that hell—never! She thought of home for a moment, longing for the comfort it promised. No. I would suffocate from the lies I’d have to tell. They can never know what’s happened to me. She thought of the man she had killed and wished, with all her heart, that it had been Ingvar. Great Morrigan, if there is any way it can be so, keep that man alive so that I may kill him.
She mourned how she had spent her earlier years, only now understanding how truly blessed she had been. Never again would she see the world the same way, or feel as safe as she had before Ingvar and his men destroyed her. And what did I leave behind? Nothing. I’ve disappointed everyone I ever cared for. My parents. Jørren. Ragna. My adopted clan. Anxiety coiled around her like a serpent as she thought of the babe in her belly. You poor, unfortunate child. You’ve no father to protect you, and I’ve nothing to offer you. You’ll live a bastard’s life with no prospects. And when you’re old enough to leave me, I’ll live out my days alone. No man in this world would take me for his wife if he knew what had happened to me, and I could not live a lie.
The wind picked up, blowing in cold, sudden gusts across the land. Anger surged up in her chest. She fixed her eyes on the fortress mount and cried out in a burst of frustrated rage. Startled, her horse bolted, running as if she had whipped him. She welcomed it. She was tired of the journey and angry Scáthach had abandoned her. She galloped all the way to the foot of the mountain on the wave of her rage, never taking her eyes off the fortress. It was far larger than she had imagined. It stared down at her in the faint moonlight like a giant bird of prey, clutching the side of the mountain with its merciless talons. Occasionally, the flicker of firelight could be seen within its enormous grey body.
She examined its rocky mount but could see no road or path to the top. She dismounted and ventured closer, squinting in the faint light for any sign of a way up but saw nothing but sheer cliff walls for miles in both directions.
She thought of Ragna as she stared up at the impossible rock face before her. How di
d she do this? Alone? A woman twice my age with no one to guide her? Her stomach tightened, cramping with guilt. It’s because of her that I won’t spend the rest of my life as a slave. And how did I thank her? I snatched away her one hope of happiness.
She pulled her cloak tightly around her against the cold and leaned against a tree, fatigue and loneliness pressing in on her. She remembered the last time she had slept in Jørren’s arms. A knot of sorrow tightened in her throat. “I still can’t believe you’re gone, my love.” She could not rid her mind of the look on Jørren’s face when Ingvar had stabbed him. Though his eyes had met hers for only a brief moment, they had said everything. He had known. You saw my dark and terrible fate and knew you could not save me from it. She clutched her belly. You knew you would never meet your son. You knew all was lost.
In a sudden burst of agony, she threw her head back and cried out into the night. “Did you see what I did to that coward?” she spun about, addressing the stars. “Did you hear his pathetic cries of agony? Did you hear him begging for mercy?” She remembered how it felt to stab the man in the throat and felt a surge of power.
In that moment she again saw the black wings out of the corners of her eyes, only, this time, they were not enfolding her. They seemed to be rising up behind her, stretching outward and moving back and forth, as if preparing for flight. She felt a breeze blow across her skin. “Great Morrigan, I long to deliver a just fate to Ingvar—to force him to crawl on broken limbs down barren roads that never lead to the Summerlands, blinded by the bone shard I sharpened with my hatred of him and bleeding from a wound where his manhood once stood.” She raised her arms to the sky. “Jørren, hear me. With Morrigan as my witness, I swear I will learn to fight like these women do. Never again will I, or anyone I love, suffer at the hands of another.”
***
When day broke, Arhianna found the fortress mount a bit less intimidating, but not much. Even in the soft light of dawn it looked fierce and sharp. Ravens, gulls and tannets sailed off the cliffs into the morning air. She envied their wide, powerful wings as she searched in vain for a way up. Hour after hour, she worked her way along the cliff walls, staring up at the fortress until her neck ached from craning and her eyes hurt from squinting. There has to be a path to the top—how else could the horses make the climb?
She moved in closer, hoping she might catch some detail she had missed before. She crossed the stream, working her way through scrub and trees. Scrambling up boulders that had tumbled down from the wall above, she strove to find a higher vantage point. Bruised, scratched and panting, she stood at last next to the wall itself, staring up its cruel face to the fortress gripping its side. She took a few tentative steps onto the wall, reaching up and feeling for hand-holds. She had climbed no more than twenty feet when she reached a point that offered no holds at all. She looked up at the vast expanse of stone and then down in dismay. I can’t climb this. She made her way back down and returned to where she had left her horse, but he was gone. She walked upriver awhile, following his hoof prints in the mud, until she spied a herd of horses grazing in a field, perhaps a half-mile off. She recognized the silhouette of his dark body and smiled. When she reached the herd, she recognized not only her own horse, but the mare Scáthach had ridden as well—her unique markings could not be mistaken. This is no wild herd. She turned and glanced up at the ominous fortress behind her, high on its cruel perch. They left the horses behind. She let out a long sigh. Perhaps there is no road to the top, after all.
She used what daylight was left to spear some fish from the river, gather firewood, and make a camp. When the work was finished, she sat down and looked at her body in dismay. Her flesh was scratched and bruised. Blood had run down her shins into the leather tied around her feet. I don’t even have any proper shoes. She fought the urge to pity herself. But I’m no longer a slave. I have food and water and a place to sleep. She glanced up at the fortress. Someone will come down eventually—to hunt, to fish, to gather water—it’s only a matter of time.
***
Day after day, Arhianna watched for someone to come down from the fortress, but no one did. Only the land spoke to her. Clouds drifted in, looming over her head in a shifting, blue-grey dance, but then rolled on and forgot her. The river took only a passing notice of her as it rushed by to join the sea, singing a young lover’s song of eager longing. The wind, however, seemed determined to drive her mad. Like a watchdog set to drive wayward travelers away, he assailed her day and night, attacking her face and howling in her ears. He invaded her clothes and stole her heat. He nagged and blustered, whipped and moaned. He was tireless. Merciless. Relentless. Yet, the ravens and gulls remained undeterred. They taunted him with their graceful dance through his blustering tirade, sailing upon his angry gusts with ease.
Arhianna drew inspiration from their example. I’m not leaving.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Child of Summer
Bran awoke to the sound of Lucia lighting a fire in the hearth. It was still dark outside. “What are you doing, now?” She had gotten up several times in the night.
“I can’t sleep. The baby will be coming any time. I keep expecting Gareth to come for me.” She hung another pot of water filled with rags over the fire to boil.
Bran moaned. “Come back to bed. You’re going to tire yourself out before the poor thing’s even born.” He rolled away from the firelight, pulling the edge of the large bearskin they shared over his face, wincing as his side flared up. He felt happy in spite of the pain. The thought of holding his first grandchild was one of the things that made inhabiting his body tolerable. Aside from his own joy, he felt Lucia needed grandchildren to love and care for before he could answer Arawn’s final call. And the twins must be settled. Gareth will make a fine chieftain when the time comes, but not yet. He deserves to enjoy his new family a bit longer. And you, Arhianna—gods, I hope you’re safe. Please, Great Mother, watch over her.
Lucia came back to bed and squeezed his arm. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
She lay beside him awhile, but he could tell from her breathing she was not sleeping. She let out a long sigh.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“I’m worried about Arhianna.”
“Please, cariad. Give it some time. It’s quite a journey from here to the northlands. And they may not have a way to send word.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Bran knew better than to argue and instead offered a plan of action. “How about this—after the child is born, I’ll pay Urien a visit.”
Lucia’s brows shot up. “Are you mad? In your condition?”
There was nothing Bran hated hearing more than “in your condition,” as if he were an invalid. His silence must have alerted Lucia to her transgression, because she wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He tried not to let it bother him. “I have enough herbs, now. It shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll take Neirin and Idris with me. There’s nothing to worry about.” He was lying. Truly, he did not know how he would make the journey. Some days, he could not get out of bed.
Lucia fell silent, but not for long. “This is my fault. I was a terrible mother. I fought with her too much. I drove her away.”
Bran could not help but laugh. “Gods, please stop! You were just the mother that girl needed—if you’d have let her run wild, either she would have met an early end, or we would have.”
It was not long before the sun did rise, and Lucia got up with it. “I’m going to fetch more water and herbs. It’s a blessing this child is coming in the summer. Plenty of motherwort and shepherd’s purse to be had.” She put on her shawl and shoes and went outside.
Once Bran was sure she was out of earshot, he let out a groan. He reached for Myrthin’s pouch and put a wad of herbs in his mouth, stretching out to give his battered heart more room until the medicine dulled the pangs into submission. Then he forced himself to his
feet and reached for his staff. Bloody hell, he thought as he gripped it. The great warrior, Bran of the Oaks, needs a fucking walking stick.
***
Buddug came to the motherhouse just before dusk. “Gods be good, it’s a boy—fine and healthy, too!”
Bran and Gareth looked at one another and grinned, as all fathers and grandfathers do when they hear those words. “Congratulations,” Bran said to his son, clapping him on the back. “Go on. I’ll be there shortly.”
Gareth rushed off, Buddug right behind him. Bran smiled and took up his walking staff. He made his way across the village to the house Gareth had recently finished building for his new family. He ducked inside to see his wife sitting next to Inga, sponging her forehead, Laust and Brokkr hovering over Inga, and his son cradling his newborn grandson. Gareth stood up and walked over, his face alight with pride. He tilted the bundle toward him, revealing the child’s red but peaceful face.
Bran nodded with satisfaction, the pain in his heart completely forgotten. “What shall you call him? Have you decided?”
Gareth nodded, shooting a quick look over at Brokkr. We’ve decided to name him Branok, after you and Brokkr, father.”
Bran did not weep often, but when he did, it was nearly always for joy. It was a strange name, but his name was in it. He smiled and nodded, his throat choked with gratitude. “I’m honored.”
“Born in the height of summer,” Lucia said with approval, standing up and walking over. “He’ll be as strong as the sun.” She took her grandson from Gareth and kissed his forehead, her eyes round with love. “Yes, as bright and strong as the sun on the day you were born, my sweet little stag—leaping like fire through the world!”
Bran could not help but think of the day the twins had been born and how he had walked in to find Lucia looking at their own babes in that same way. As if she had heard his thoughts, she looked up at him. “Here, Bran, hold him.”
Bran took the bundle in his arms and regarded his grandson, regretting he would not see him grow to manhood. I’m sorry I won’t be here for you, child, but your grandmother will.