by H. Barnard
At the edge of the Sacred Forest, Sorsha gazed down into the city, where a giant fire had been lit in the centre circle. Around it, dancing and cheering, were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. The drums echoed, and the horn blew again, long and dismal.
Flickering torches continued to line their path along the main lane, where villagers had gathered to watch the procession. They had almost reached the centre circle when Sorsha noticed Deryn and Brin, standing as torchbearers. As the procession entered the circle, the crowd had parted to form a clear path to the massive bonfire in the middle. The beat of the drums grew faster. When they were close enough to feel the heat of the fire, she saw Brei. Shadows danced across his chiselled, angular face. His arms were painted, but his muscled chest was bare. Carved into it was a crescent with curled swirls inside it, and over the top of the crescent was a broken arrow bent in a “V” shape. Around his bicep was a black ink band and inside, an enormous snake curled across a bent arrow. Below the serpent he wore a bronze armband. His brown, wavy hair came to his collar bone atop which his golden Torc glistened. She held his gaze as she passed him, close enough to touch.
The faces of the gathered crowd seemed to swirl, and the paint on their faces pulsated. Taran stood by the fire, and the sparking orange flames appeared to leap behind him and lash at his face. His blond hair was still loose and sprawled down his back. Across his broad chest and muscled arms, he had the same tattoos as Brei. She looked down as she passed him.
The king, wearing a silver crown, climbed with Elfinn to a wooden throne on a raised platform to the left side of the fire. The Druwydds chanted as they entered the circle, making guttural, elongated sounds. It was difficult to focus on the crowd through the fog in her mind, but she could sense the anticipation. Sorsha followed Serenn to the fire and stood by her side.
Warriors dragged three bound and unpainted men into the circle as Serenn and the other Bandruwydds sang in a haunting wail. They sang about the winter, about the urgency for spring, and the end of the suffering. The men were brought before Sorsha and Serenn, and the Druwydds encircled them, their flowing white robes blocking the crowd. Two of the men stared at the ground. Their greying tunics were grubby and their skin blotched with dirt. The man in the middle gazed up at her, his wide eyes awash with tears. An insatiable urgency rose inside Sorsha to help him.
Raising a decorated dagger in the air, Serenn chanted to the Gods. Sorsha closed her eyes, and the roar of the crowd disappeared. When she opened her eyes, all she could see was the dagger. It glinted in the flames, held aloft in Serenn’s claw-like hands. Serenn bent down and placed one hand on the head of the first bound man, and with the other she sliced along his throat with the shimmering dagger. The wound was deep red, but the blood seemed to hesitate, as if unwilling to abandon the protective embrace of the flesh. Serenn slashed at the throats of the other two men. Blood tumbled from the open wounds, spilling down all three necks. The man in the middle continued to stare at Sorsha while he choked, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
The Druwydds formed a close circle around them, preventing the crowd from observing. Sorsha knelt as the drums roared. The blood pooled on the ground and crept towards her knees. Serenn nodded to Sorsha. “Individuals perish, but the Ancient People survive.”
The drums stopped, and all Sorsha could hear was the low chanting of the Druwydds. Sorsha shuffled closer, her knees wet with blood, as she studied the men. Their gurgling breath caught in their throats as they were supported in a kneeling position by the Druwydds. She knew she could not save all of them. This is the test. Tingles rippled through her hands, itching to be put to work. Individuals perish, but the Ancient People survive.
Giving in to the pull, she placed the palms of her hands on the throat of the man in the middle. She swayed as heat formed in her chest and surged along her arms. The man spluttered, and his chest heaved as she withdrew her hands.
The heads of the other men hung limp over their necks and Sorsha watched as their sluggish bodies fell forwards. She was barely aware of the surrounding huddle when Arian carried a white cloth over to the surviving man and wiped the blood from his throat. A deep, white scar remained. The Druwydds stopped chanting and gathered next to the king, leaving Eluned and Arian to drag the bodies to the fire. Warriors soon assisted, seeming to notice how ineffective Arian was with her limp, and the bodies were thrown onto the pyre. The fire hissed as it accepted the offering. A warrior led the saved man away, the scar along his throat the only evidence that he had been so close to death.
Sorsha remained kneeling in the pool of blood. A strange smell, like roasting pig, wafted over her. She glanced over her shoulder at the corpses. The flames engulfed the bodies, throwing the scent of pork into the air.
Serenn raised her arms and cried. “There will soon be an end to winter!” The crowd cheered, and the drums resumed a rapid beat that drew people forwards to dance.
Sorsha stared at the ground, watching dancers reflected in the pooling red. The dancing bodies appeared monstrous, and the acrid pork stench of the corpses filled her lungs. A wave of nausea passed from her stomach into her chest as the dancers threw their torsos back and forth, jumping, swirling, and screeching.
“Are you okay?” Someone had their hands on her shoulders. She blinked. Gwyddion.
“Can you help me stand? I feel sick.”
Gwyddion bent down and placed a hand on her elbow and lifted. Lines of blue and white marking his face blurred together and spun. She stumbled, fell to her knees, and vomited into the fire. Her vision cleared and seemed to zoom forwards into the flames, magnifying the corpses as tongues of fire licked their faces. The skin had charred, but the bodies remained intact. Incessant drumming and screeching swirled around her as she heaved once more. A strange sensation tickled her right hand, and she looked up to see it was resting in the fire. It was numb. The flames lashed her, the skin was melting, but she heaved again without removing her hand.
Sorsha felt herself being lifted out of the fire, as Serenn’s painted face floated in and out of focus.
“Sorsha!” Serenn’s voice seemed to start soft and grow loud.
But Sorsha was not interested in trying to stay awake, and she closed her eyes. A caustic aroma burnt her nostrils, and her eyes snapped open as Serenn pressed a soft cloth hard against her face. Sorsha pushed the cloth away and pressed her left hand into her face. The familiar sensation of heat flowed from her heart to her hand, and her head cleared.
“Put me down.”
Gwyddion did not move.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
Through the dancing crowd, she saw Taran pushing past people towards her.
“I am serious, put me down, Gwyddion.”
She looked down at her hand. The paint had melted off, and the skin was red and mottled white. Gwyddion lowered her to the ground, and Serenn took her by the wrist and examined her hand.
As Taran approached them, she pulled away from Serenn’s grasp and put her hand behind her, placing the palm of her other hand over it.
Taran pushed in front of Gwyddion to speak to her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I was just a little sick.” She smiled. “Serenn was over-generous with her wine.”
Gwyddion stepped forwards, his shoulder grazing Taran’s. “But your hand?”
Sorsha held it up. “My hand is fine, Gwyddion. I think you’ve also had too much wine!”
Gwyddion frowned. “But the fire–”
“What about it? Honestly, no one can handle their drink around here.” She laughed. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going back to the tower.” She spun around and pushed through a group of half-naked teenage dancers covered in swirling dark blue paint.
“Sorsha!”
She turned around.
“Here,” Gwyddion said, holding out a plain leather scabbard hanging off a leather belt. “Your sword is ready.”
Flames glinted in the hilt of a sword sticking out from a long scab
bard. Her hands trembled as she held the beautifully worked metal.
“Here, let me.” He held out the leather belt and passed it around her waist. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She pushed Gwyddion away and finished tying the belt herself. Once tied, Sorsha pulled the sword from the leather scabbard. It had been hammered and polished to perfection.
“It’s so beautiful. I feel like I should pay you more than I did.” She glanced through the crowd of dancers and saw Taran and Serenn still by the fire, watching her and Gwyddion.
“Of course you cannot pay me more.” He smiled as a strange intensity grew behind his black eyes.
A fresh wave of nausea rose into the pit of her stomach. “I really am not feeling well, if you’ll excuse me.” She stepped backwards and melted into the Imbolc dancers.
Twenty-Two
Spring, 367 C.E., Caledon
Brei and Gruffydd patrolled along the river, a half-hour ride from Caercaled. Usually, Brei was accompanied on patrol by Taran, but he was not expecting him back with Sorsha for many days.
“When will you ride to Caertarwos?” Gruffydd asked, the grey flecks in his brown hair glinting in the sun.
“When Taran gets back.”
“Any idea where he went?”
Brei shrugged. “Somewhere in Gwoddodin.”
“Why?”
“To reunite Sorsha with her family, I think.”
“I still can’t work it out, how her story is supposed to work. The Romans attacked her in Gwoddodin, but she ended up in Caledon? More than that…there’s something about her that makes me uncomfortable. I could have sworn at Imbolc that I saw the fire reflect yellow in her eyes, like it does in a dog or wolf.” Gruffydd shivered. “To be fair, I was drunk, but she gives me the creeps. And what were the Druwydds doing with her?”
“I don’t think anyone saw, did they? It looked like she chose the sacrifices. Which makes sense, I guess. Did you notice the tattoo on her arm? They’ve branded her a Bandruwydd. And Taran said he was returning her to Caledon because Serenn wants her here.”
“Seems reckless to take her into Gwoddodin when he vouched that she was not a spy. But then, Taran has always been a little reckless.”
“Mm. And yet when the time comes, the warriors will choose him as king.”
Gruffydd sighed. “We all make our choices, Brei. You didn’t have to bind yourself to Anwen.”
Brei clenched his jaw and scanned the river path again, but there were no signs of activity. “How are preparations coming along?”
“Gwyddion has the second forge set up, and the Eldar Druwydd sent us one of his Druwydds from Rīgonīn to assist the new apprentices with making swords, spears, and shields.”
Brei nodded. “Good, Gwyddion knows what he is doing.”
“And what about you? What is the plan once you are in Caertarwos?”
Brei adjusted his seat in the saddle. “The kings of the Northern Alliance will hear Talorc’s plan, well, our plan, but it must come from Talorc, of course.”
“No doubt Taran will interrupt with some dramatic speech.”
Brei glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “He is one for speeches.” He looked at the river. The water was so clear, flushed with the snowmelt. “The journey will be slow, King Gartnait is coming with us.”
“Gartnait looks so frail these days.”
“He seemed to have recovered, but this morning I heard his moaning again. He visits Serenn daily and then walks back to his chambers in a sour mood.”
“What do you think that’s about?”
Brei shrugged. “Serenn doesn’t have the cure for everything within her herb stores. He’s also demanded that a wagon be brought for a skin tent, and provisions for a week.”
Gruffydd snorted. “King Uradech never needed a tent. He’d camp under the stars, like the rest of us.”
“Exactly what I thought. But Naoise said that Talorc also now travels with a tent and a cot with blankets and pillows.”
Gruffydd shook his head. “Absolutely soft.”
They ambled along the glistening river while the warm sun shone on their backs. In Brei’s mind, he imagined wielding his sword in the heat of an attack on unsuspecting Roman soldiers. He could almost feel the jarring of pressing metal into human flesh. He did not know what had happened to his mother, but he knew viscerally what had happened to Anwen. It was enough to make a less steady man fly into a bloodthirsty rage. It is almost too much to have to wait to see the fields of dead Romans groping around in the mud, crying out in agony.
As the afternoon sun began its lazy descent, a rider appeared around the river bend, a grey blur in the distance. As the rider drew closer, Brei realised it was Taran. When Taran saw them, he spurred his horse into a gallop.
“Sorsha is not with him?” Gruffydd enquired.
“So, it seems.”
Brei frowned as Taran disappeared around a bend in the river. The afternoon wind picked up, and they continued their patrol along the river until the sun set. As they rode along the bank towards Caercaled, the sky grew a deep purple. By the time they were back in the city, the sky was an inky black punctuated by the white lights of the Gods. Brei entered his chamber, where the fire was crackling. The twins and Anwen smiled up at him. He reached down to touch Anwen’s cheek before taking his boots and leg wrappings off. It was almost too hot for indoor fires, even within the coolness of the stone walls.
“Any news?” Anwen asked, as she passed him some bread and a leg of hare.
“No, nothing. Have you seen Taran?”
Anwen shook her head. “I thought you said he would be gone for some time?”
Brei grunted through his full mouth.
“I hope he doesn’t come back too soon. With that woman gone, I’ve been able to sleep for the first time in a moon without clutching a dagger,” Anwen said, and began to rub her index finger and thumb back and forth.
Before Brei could respond, Nia crept to him and tapped on his shoulder. He put his arm around her and waited for her to speak. She put her mouth against his ear and whispered, “I saw Taran, Papa, riding a strange horse. I tried to say hello, but I don’t think he saw me.”
Brei kissed her and turned back to Anwen. “What did you and the girls do today?”
“We walked to the farmstead to visit Mother. She will need help with shearing the sheep soon.”
Brei turned to the hearth and stared into the flames. Why would Taran leave Sorsha?
“Brei?”
“Sorry, yes, I agree.”
Anwen smiled. “Good, I’ll tell her you will do it soon then.”
“Do what?”
“Shear her sheep.”
Brei sighed. “Tell her I’ll send down Dylan or Naoise to help.”
Anwen pursed her lips. “Don’t bother with Naoise. He is so unreliable these days. He’s almost always in Caertarwos.”
Brei raised his eyebrows. “Is he? Why?”
“To spend time with his cousins,” Anwen said and smiled.
Brei turned to the fire again. What if something happened to Taran on the journey? Perhaps Sorsha has died? Brei wondered if it was bad to hope.
The following night Brei and Taran rode out from the stables on patrol together. Under the ancient trees of the Sacred Forest they rode in silence, and left the city through the Western Gate. On the fringe of the forest near the farmstead they stopped their horses. Brei breathed in the scent of damp, rotting leaves after the snowmelt.
“You all right, brother?” Brei asked. Taran did not respond. “Did something happen?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because you vouched for someone accused of spying for the enemy. Taran, it was a condition of her staying here that you would watch her, and yet…here you are alone.”
“You’re infuriating, you know that, don’t you?”
“If that’s what you think, but still, I’d like to know where she is.”
Taran bowed his head, his hands fiddling with the leather reins. “We
got to the mouth of the River Forth, to the harbour city there, Caeredyn, and now she’s…” He paused and cleared his throat. “And now she’s gone. She wanted to go the rest of the way on her own, and I searched Caeredyn. Went as far into Gwoddodin as I dared, but I couldn’t find her. And so, yes, here I am…alone.”
Gwyddion hammered the blade that would be Taran’s new sword. In the back of the forge, a Druwydd instructed an apprentice as they huddled near the furnace, demonstrating the use of the bellows. The sharp clang of metal on metal rang around the wooden workshop.
Taran put his foot up onto the blacksmith’s chair and leaned forwards. “This should have been done yesterday. How long until this fucking sword is ready?”
Brei shook his head, but Taran glared at Gwyddion.
Gwyddion stopped striking the blade and looked at Taran. “Where is Sorsha?”
Taran removed his foot from the bench and drew himself up to his full height. “That’s none of your business.”
Neither the Druwydd nor his apprentice seemed to be doing any work anymore.
Gwyddion rested the hammer on the anvil. “When she asked me to make her sword, I thought it was strange, but I knew you were bound in obligation to her and that you’d be responsible for her crimes. But now I’ve heard you lost her in Gwoddodin. And it got me thinking. Would you make a deal with the Romans in exchange for the throne? To be a bought-and-paid-for king, like those jokes in Gwoddodin?”
Taran lunged before Brei could prevent him and grabbed Gwyddion by the throat, picking up the sword simultaneously. He pressed the sword into Gwyddion’s abdomen. “How dare you speak to me like that! Don’t make the mistake of thinking you are irreplaceable, blacksmith.”
Brei glanced at the Druwydd by the furnace, and he stepped closer. “Taran.”
Taran turned his head and seemed to consider the Druwydd. He looked back at Gwyddion and squeezed his throat. “Finish the fucking sword today.” He released the smith, threw the sword on the ground, and spat. “Bring it to me tomorrow.” He turned around and brushed past Brei as he left the workshop.