The Emerald Flame (16 page)

So saying, he stepped back and left his platform above the gatehouse while the crowds shouted and screamed and bellowed his name.

It took a while for the adoring throng to dissipate enough for Branwen and Blodwedd to slip away to a quiet place between two buildings, but at last they were alone and able to speak.

“I wonder the words did not choke him!” Blodwedd said, shaking her head. “Not one scrap of truth he spoke! Not one!” A cold grin spread across her face. “But in one case he lied despite himself! Skur will not come! That threat is lost on the wind, for sure and certain!” She frowned. “Branwen? What is the matter?”

“Didn’t you see? His face?”

“Aye, torn in half!” Blodwedd chuckled, her spirits recovered now that she was away from the crowds.
“You told us that Fain came to your rescue! A goodly piece of ruin that brave falcon inflicted on the great liar! Ironfist will not quickly forget that encounter.”

“He has only one eye!” said Branwen. “Merion told me I would know the one-eyed warrior when I saw him! She was right—I do! The one-eyed warrior is
Ironfist!”

Amazement filled Blodwedd’s face. “Can it be?” She gasped.

“It must be!” said Branwen. “But he would not take such a prized thing as Caradoc’s prison with him into battle. It must be in the camp—in the Great Hall that he has made his headquarters!”

“Then we have come by good fortune to the very place Merion of the Stones wished,” said Blodwedd. “But this means that to find the Shining One’s prison, we must first pass through the greatest gathering of warriors that the Saxons have ever assembled!”

Branwen’s eyes narrowed. “Then we shall,” she said. “And may the Shining Ones look kindly on our endeavors!”

T
HE TOWN WAS
alive with outrage as Branwen and Blodwedd made their way back to the marketplace, cautiously following a moving clot of people cheering Ironfist and his warriors through the streets. They were heading for the southern gate of the town, beyond which lay the army camp.

With the sheer force of his oratory, Ironfist had managed to turn the minds of the people from his defeat to the wickedness and deceit of their enemy. Branwen heard voices raised in fear and anger all around her.

By chance she came close to the two women whom she had heard speaking before. Ironfist’s words had whipped them up into a seething rage.

“Under Wotan’s grace, Thain Herewulf has returned to us!” said the first. “But did you see his poor face? So terribly hurt!”

“And yet they are noble injuries,” said the other. “And against such evil!” She spat the words with a new hatred in her eyes. “I’d see that shaman girl’s head hung above our gates! Death to Branwen ap Griffith! Why, I’d kill her myself were I a man!”

“I hope the thain can rally his men quickly,” said the first. “It is our duty to hurl those wicked barbarians into the ocean!”

And theirs were not the only voices speaking Branwen’s name and cursing it. All about her she heard the same thing.

Death to Branwen ap Griffith! Death to the foul
waelisc
shaman!

As she pushed her way through the people, Branwen clutched the white crystal tightly in her fist, more scared now than she had ever been in battle. To face an enemy with sword and shield was arduous and daunting; but to be surrounded by such disgust and loathing—and to be trapped among these people, unarmed and protected only by Merion’s powers—was truly terrifying!

The knot of people surrounding Ironfist came to a sudden halt just inside the gate. Branwen lifted on tiptoe, trying to see the cause of the delay. But it was invisible among so many, and she could hear nothing above the cheering.

Blodwedd tugged at her arm, gesturing for them to move out of the main mass of the crowd.

“From there we will see clearer.” The owl-girl
pointed to a tall thatched building that stood close by the outer wall of the town. Judging by its height, Branwen assumed it must be some kind of storage barn for grain; and high in the timber and white plaster wall she saw an opening and a winch for hauling up goods to a raised floor.

Blodwedd was right—from such a vantage point they could look down on the crowd and see what was causing the delay.

It was odd the way people would pause and stare around themselves as Branwen and Blodwedd pushed past. There was no doubt that Merion’s magic was working. Occasionally someone would look directly into Branwen’s face, as if startled to see her there; but a moment later the eyes would slide away, and it would be as if nothing had happened.

It was easy to slip into the barn unobserved. Its interior was dark and full of the smell of barley, but there was light enough for the two of them to move among the piled sacks of grain and to find the ladder to the upper floor.

They had to clamber over tight-packed sacks to find the opening under the thatched roof. As Branwen had hoped, the wide aperture allowed them to look right down into the crowded courtyard directly behind the gatehouse.

And from here the cause of the delay was quickly made obvious.

A small group of warriors had assembled to greet
Ironfist at the gateway, and among them was a young man who particularly caught Branwen’s attention. He was tall and broad shouldered, and handsome in a fierce way: black haired, with a beard closely cropped and high, sharp cheekbones. He was finely dressed, with a scarlet cloak pinned at the right shoulder by a brooch of gold. The tunic was brown, embroidered at the wrist and hem; and about his waist was a belt studded with gold. A scabbard hung from the belt, also chased and adorned with gilding.

From his bearing, from the opulence of his clothes, and from the cold blue glint of his eyes, Branwen felt in no doubt that this was Ironfist’s son, of whom Dillon had spoken: Redwuld Grammod—Redwuld the fierce, Redwuld the cruel.

And as if to confirm her in this opinion, Branwen saw a young woman standing at his back dressed in the simple, unadorned gown of a servant, her head bowed, her long chestnut brown hair hanging down past her shoulders. And even from this distance Branwen could see that the woman was a rare beauty—and that, although softened and reshaped, her features closely resembled those of Gavan ap Huw.

“Alwyn,” Branwen breathed.

So even if Gavan ap Huw and the boys of Doeth Palas had found their way here, they had not yet had any success in stealing Alwyn away from her master. And how could they if she was kept forever at Redwuld’s side? Branwen could imagine how
the old warrior would chafe to see his child held in thrall to the Saxons; but it would take an army of thousands to assail Ironfist’s camp. Even with all his hard-won skills and his desperate love for the girl, Gavan ap Huw’s mission seemed to Branwen to be doomed to failure.

“Indeed, it must be she,” murmured Blodwedd, close at Branwen’s side. “And the other is Ironfist’s son, come to greet his father. Do you see the ice in his eyes, Branwen?”

As they watched, Redwuld knelt before Ironfist, lowering his head as the general’s hand came down on his son’s shoulder. The crowd roared as Redwuld rose to his feet and father and son turned and walked out through the gate together, the band of warriors following close behind. The cheering of the crowd continued for some time, but eventually people began to peel away and return in twos and threes to their work; and at last the only people left at the gateway were the guards with their iron helmets and their long-hafted spears.

The opening at which Branwen and Blodwedd were standing was not high enough for them to see over the town’s walls; but through the open gates, they had a narrow glimpse of the encampment with its huts and its tents and its busy workshops.

Even this restricted view showed them how crowded and full of activity the camp was. Iron was being forged into spearheads and swords. Tanned
leather was being nailed to round wooden shields. Horses were being exercised; and in open spaces, men were training with bow and arrow and with javelins, while others were fighting together, watched over by the sheriffs and reeves of Ironfist’s mighty army.

Moving through Chester unobserved was one thing—but passing through an entire army without being seen? Was that even possible?

“So, Branwen,” began Blodwedd, as though voicing her thoughts aloud. “Do we dare cross this nest of snakes in broad daylight? And if Merion’s powers are sufficient to hide us from prying eyes, how are we to find the place where Caradoc is imprisoned?”

“And how do we get that prison away from here?” added Branwen. “Merion said it might be a small thing—it could be a casket or a box of some kind, possibly. Marked by a lynx. But even were it something that could be carried between us, how are we to bear it away without being challenged?”

“I’d say this is a task suited more to the night than the day,” Blodwedd mused. “At least in the dark of night many of the men will be asleep—and in shadows we may be able to perform deeds that the sun would make all too apparent.”

Branwen slipped her crystal into its pouch and untied the golden key from her waistband. She held it on her open palm. “Or do we dare open the prison and let Caradoc go free?” she wondered. “I know Merion spoke against it, but it would make things
much easier for us—and his powers might even aid us in our escape.”

“You must not release Caradoc,” Blodwedd said. “You do not know his power. I foresee death and disaster if you follow such a course.”

“What could he do?” asked Branwen. “What powers does he have?”

“The power of all the winds of the world,” said Blodwedd, her voice slow and solemn. “The ice wind from the north that cracks rocks and freezes the soul. The south wind that comes like a scorching dragon. The storm wind that scours over the ocean, bringing the flood and the lightning’s fierce fork. The blizzard’s blast and the snowy gale—all these forces he commands, Branwen. None can stand against him in his anger, nor none should dare to try.”

Branwen stared at her. “How was he ever imprisoned if he’s so powerful?” she asked.

“I do not know,” said Blodwedd. “But it must have been a great and a fearsome incantation that trammeled him. Let Merion of the Stones calm his anger when he is released. Put the key away, Branwen. Do not think to use it!”

Branwen nodded, alarmed by the owl-girl’s words. She leaned out of the opening, looking for the sun. It was high above, floating in a veil of thin white cloud. Half the day was already gone. “Let’s go, then,” she said. “We will meet up with Rhodri and Iwan and the others where we arranged—and we will plan for
a night raid on Ironfist’s camp.”

Branwen climbed down the ladder and made for the door, her mind still full of the images that Blodwedd’s warning had put into her head.

She opened the door into bright sunlight, and stepped out of the barn.

A group of five warriors were approaching. They stared at her, their faces grim.

One of them spoke.
“Hwaet la! Ceir aern plegestre leas gitung?”
The voice was angry, questioning.
“Astyntan! Gefylce aeht!”

Branwen stopped in her tracks, taken aback to have been seen and horrified that the man’s words were no more than a meaningless spew of sound in her ears. But then it struck her!
Fool!
She had slipped the white crystal into the pouch at her waist when she had untied the key. Too late she realized that its power must only work when she held it in her naked hand.

Worse was to come. Blodwedd stumbled into Branwen with a gasp, and the owl-girl’s hood fell back, revealing her face.

“Wodena leoma! Hwaet yfel naedre!”
shouted one of the men, pointing at Blodwedd with shock and fear in his voice.

Her eyes! They have seen her eyes!

They will not make you invisible!
Those had been Merion’s words to her in the cave. Now that the warriors had seen Branwen, it was as if the glamour of the stones had fallen entirely from their eyes.

Branwen was only dumbfounded for a moment. Realizing their danger, she leaped backward, bundling Blodwedd along with her, throwing the door closed in the faces of the Saxon warriors.

But there was no way to bar the door from the inside, and against the strength of five men it was impossible for Branwen and Blodwedd to hold it closed.

“Run!” gasped Blodwedd, fighting to keep the door shut as the men heaved on it from outside. “Go to the upper floor and jump! I will hold them back for as long as I can!”

“No!” Branwen dug in her heels, gripping the door with both hands, leaning back with all her weight. “You’ll be killed!”

“Better one than both,” insisted Blodwedd. “Your life is more precious than mine, Branwen! Do as I say!”

The door edged open, the timbers shivering and groaning from the strain.
“No!”

The uneven struggle came to a sudden end. The strip of wood that Branwen had been holding split away from the door. She crashed onto her back as the door was wrenched outward, dragging Blodwedd along with it.

Branwen lay gasping as the five Saxon warriors entered the barn, their spears held ready, their eyes blazing.

B
LODWEDD DID NOT
hesitate for a moment. Like a wild animal she flung herself at the men, her hands curled into claws, her eyes blazing fury and her white teeth snapping.

Branwen was still struggling to her feet as she saw Blodwedd clinging to one man’s back, her fingernails sunk into his face, her teeth at his throat as he staggered and choked and tried to throw her off.

Branwen thrust her fingers into the leather pouch at her belt, feeling for the crystal and pulling it out. It was too late to remain hidden, but knowing what the men were saying to one another might help in the fight.

Closing the fingers of her left hand over the crystal, Branwen took a firm grip on the piece of wood that had snapped off the door. It was about the length
of a throwing spear, but much thicker and with a jagged, broken end. Not the ideal weapon against the iron-tipped spears of her opponents, but better than nothing.

Her battle-instincts took over, assessing the situation in a single moment, deciding on a course of action.