The Emerald Flame (17 page)

The townsfolk were gone from here, and the entrance to the barn faced away from the gate—which meant that if she could prevent these men from sounding the alarm, there was a chance of surviving the encounter and escaping.

Blood spurted from the neck of the man Blodwedd was attacking. He fell onto his knees, clawing at her, his face full of horror. Another man stabbed at Blodwedd, but she managed to twist herself and her victim around so that the spear sank into the kneeling man’s shoulder.

The barn door swung slowly closed, shutting out much of the light, throwing the combatants into deep shade.

Good! That is to our advantage!

Three to one! Branwen had faced worse odds. She sprang forward, almost impaling herself on the thrusting spears, dodging from side to side as the leading man struck at her, parrying the lunging spears with her improvised weapon. She used all her moving weight to bring the sharp point of the length of timber into his face.

She felt the shuddering impact but avoided looking
at the damage she had caused. She felt none of the euphoria of the battle with Skur. There was no red mist before her eyes. No wild cyclones in her brain. This was just a job that had to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. For her and Blodwedd to live, these men had to die. It was harsh, it was brutal, and it was very simple.

The first man fell with a choked cry, his hands coming up to his ruined face. Branwen turned, crouching low, her bloodied weapon jabbing at the two remaining men.

She heard a muted cry from behind her. Blodwedd’s voice—pained, cut off short. Branwen gritted her teeth. Her attackers were coming closer, their eyes hard, their spear points aimed at her heart. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Blodwedd was sprawling on the ground, the lower part of her face a mask of Saxon blood, hissing and spitting as the second man prepared to stab down at her. She writhed away from the spear, but the man’s foot came stamping down on her chest, pinning her. Her arms and legs flailed as he raised his spear for the final thrust.

Branwen swung around, falling to her knees as she flung her weapon at the man’s head. It struck him a jarring blow on the temple, knocking him sideways so that he came staggering up against the wall of the barn.

But before she could turn back to defend herself, Branwen felt a heavy blow to the small of her back. Not a spear point—that would have finished her;

it must have been the butt end of a spear crashing viciously into her spine. She was flung onto her face, the air beaten out of her. In trying to save Blodwedd she had doomed herself. A savage kick to her side spun her onto her back, a fierce pain raging under her ribs. A booted foot came down on her throat. Enraged eyes stared down at her from beyond the barbed iron tip of a spear.

“No! Don’t kill her!” called one of the other men. “Better to take them alive! I’d know what they are doing here—and what
that
is!”

He clearly meant Blodwedd. The owl-girl was on her feet again, thick drops of blood dangling and dripping from her chin. The soldier was holding her at bay with his spear, and the only way for her to get to him would be by throwing herself onto the point of his weapon.

“I am death that comes on silent wings!” cried Blodwedd, spitting blood. “I am the raking claw! The stabbing beak! I shall swallow you whole and cough up your bones! Come—I long to taste your flesh!”

“It’s not human!” gasped the man, thrusting toward her with the spear. “It’s some
waelisc
demon!”

The man looming over Branwen pressed down harder on her breastbone with his boot, crushing her into the ground, making it difficult for her to draw breath. “What is that thing? Do you control it?” He brought the spear point close to her face. “Answer me!”

Branwen glared up at him. She could see her death
in his angry face. She would need to do something sudden and shocking if she wished to come through this.

“Release me or you will suffer all the torments of Annwn!” She gasped. “I am protected by powers you cannot comprehend!”

The two men stared down at her. “What is she saying?” asked the one with his boot on her. “Do any of you speak this barbarous language?”

“Do you not know who I am?” Branwen snarled. “Run from me, Saxon curs! I am the Emerald Flame of my people! Have you not heard my name? I am the mighty shaman of the
waelisc!
I am Branwen ap Griffith!”

The man jumped back as if from a sudden fire. Even if they did not understand anything else she was saying, they recognized that name!

“By Welund’s blade, it is the sorceress Thain Herewulf spoke of!”

“Kill her!” howled the second man. “Before she casts a spell on us! Kill them both!”

Gasping for air, Branwen rose to her knees. She lowered her head, grimacing at the two men, staring balefully at them through veils of hair. She had hoped to throw her attackers off balance for a few moments—for long enough to fight back—but it seemed she had underestimated the terror she instilled in them.

Both men raised their spears, drawing back their arms, ready to throw.

Branwen braced herself, watching the spear points, chancing all on her ability to evade the coming attack. Expecting to die.

A sudden flood of bright light struck the two men, dazzling them as they threw. Branwen flung herself on the ground as the spears whirred over her. She heard the familiar whiz of an arrow—and then another. Two cries cut short. A noise from behind her and the grunt of a man in pain.

She heaved herself onto her feet, not understanding what had happened.

For a moment the three figures outlined against the sunlit open doorway were just a dark blur. But then she heard a voice.

“Bryn—finish that man!”

It was Gavan ap Huw. Branwen narrowed her eyes against the glare. Gavan stood just inside the barn door, his sword in his hand, bloodied to the hilt. The man who had been holding Blodwedd at bay was crumpled at his feet.

Bryn was crouching over the other man with a knife in his fist. The man whom Blodwedd had first attacked. A quick, silent slash across the throat and it was all over.

Padrig was also there, bow in hand, a third arrow ready.

Gavan drew the door closed, and the barn became dim again. He looked into Branwen’s face, pointing to the man she had struck first—the man into whose
face she had thrust the broken piece of wood. He lay curled up on the floor, staining the earth with blood from his wound, his breath rasping.

“He’s alive still,” Gavan said grimly. “Finish the task!”

“How did you come here?” Branwen gasped.

Gavan did not look at her as he replied. “Think you I have no skills in the hunt?” he said. “I saw you right enough, standing in full view up in yonder hatchway!” He gestured to the ladder that led to the upper floor. “Do you think yourselves invisible that you showed yourself thus? Any of a score or more men could have shot you down from there!”

“They could not see us,” said Branwen. “We were protected from their sight by … certain
gifts….
“

“I can imagine the nature of the gifts!” said Gavan. “You need not speak more of them.” He pointed to the dying man at Branwen’s feet. “Give him peace, child! Do your duty to him!”

Branwen looked down at the helpless man. His face was turned away from her, but she could tell from the blood that soaked into the hard-packed floor that he was dreadfully hurt—hurt probably to the death.

She stooped and pulled his seax knife from his belt. A single cut across the windpipe and all would be done. But she could not do it. Not in cold blood.

Grim-faced, Gavan strode across to her. He snatched the knife from her hand and crouched to draw it across the man’s throat. There was a choking
gurgle, then silence. Branwen looked away, shamed that she had been unable to kill for mercy as Gavan had done. The old warrior wiped the blade on the man’s tunic and then stood up, slipping it into his own belt. “Padrig—guard the door; give the word if any come nigh this place. Bryn—strip the dead of their weapons; we may find use for them.”

Obediently, the two boys did as they were told; Padrig went to the door and peered out through a crack in the timbers while Bryn went from one Saxon corpse to another, taking their seaxes and spears.

The eyes of Branwen and Gavan met in the gloom.

“There’s no mercy in letting a dying man suffer needlessly,” Gavan said. “Or maybe mercy is no longer of interest to you, Branwen?”

Branwen stared at him, her jaw clenched. “We would maybe have died here if not for you,” she said at last, looking briefly at Bryn and Padrig. “You have my gratitude, if it means anything to you.”

Bryn’s sullen, beefy face was as impenetrable as ever; but Padrig had a fierce, uneasy light in his eyes. Branwen guessed that the two Saxons were his first kills—he seemed both proud and alarmed by what he had done.

“Your thanks are not needed,” said Gavan. “I’d not see even a Powys brach die under a Saxon sword.”

A brach! Is that what he thought of her—no better than a female hunting dog?

She and Gavan ap Huw had once been pupil and
master—there had been trust and affection between them. But now they stared at each other like rival wolves meeting in disputed territory. No trust. Just suspicion and tight-lipped enmity, despite the fact that Gavan’s intervention had almost certainly saved her and Blodwedd’s lives.

“I have seen your daughter,” Branwen said hesitantly, her eyes moving from his face, a flush rising in her cheeks.

Gavan nodded. “I, too, have seen Alwyn,” he said. “We were at the gate when Ironfist met his son.” His eyes narrowed. “The great general of the Saxons is not dead, as you thought.”

“Maybe not,” said Blodwedd, coming to stand at Branwen’s side, wiping the blood off her mouth with her sleeve. “But Skur Bloodax is dead—defeated and slain in mortal combat. Be not so haughty, Old Warrior, when you speak to the Chosen Child of the Shining Ones—she has done great deeds since last we met.”

Bryn’s face darkened, and Padrig gripped his bow tightly, as though the owl-girl’s bold words annoyed him.

“Defeated by witchcraft, no doubt,” said Gavan without looking at Blodwedd.

“No! By muscle and sinew and good iron, with a sharp mind and a cunning eye behind!” said Blodwedd. “You taught her well, Old Warrior; rejoice that she was such an apt disciple.” Her eyes glowed. “Or
would you wish that she had died in the combat?”

“Hush, Blodwedd,” Branwen murmured, not wanting things to become more difficult than was already the case.

“Do I wish she had died?” said Gavan as though testing the words in his mouth, still avoiding the eyes of the owl-girl. “No, I do not wish her dead. But you may wish it, Branwen, ere the Old Gods are done with you; and I’d wish with all my heart that you could see the truth clearly and return to the love of your people.”

“We have spoken of this before,” Branwen said quietly. “My mind has not changed, and neither has yours. Let’s have no more of it.” She met his eyes again. “How have you managed to keep hidden in this place? There are few men here with shaven chins.”

“A deep cowl hid my features for the most part,” said Gavan. “A wrap of fox fur about my chin did the rest. And the boys needed no disguise with their hairless faces. But gaining entry to Ironfist’s camp is another matter. I speak little Saxon, and the boys none. Yet I must and I will find a way into the heart of the camp. I will not leave this place without my daughter. I have made a vow on that!”

“Where are the others?” Branwen asked. “Andras and the boy?”

“They are safe outside the town, with the horses,” said Gavan. “I did not think it prudent to bring Dillon
into Chester—his face may be recognized. And what of your followers? Is Dera ap Dagonet with you still, or has she seen sense?”

“Some are here, and Dera is among them,” Branwen said, not rising to his bait. “They are protected by the same enchantment that hides us from Saxon eyes. The rest are in the forest atop the hill on the far side of the river.” She looked keenly into Gavan’s eyes. “Tell me, Gavan ap Huw—what would you do to bring your daughter safe from this place?”

Gavan frowned at her, his eyes like gimlets. “I’d walk unarmed through every black pit and foul trench in Annwn,” he growled. “I’d pluck the horned god Cernunnos himself by the beard! I’d spit in the face of every demon from here to the fabled court of Math ap Mathonwy! I’d do all a man can do and more besides!”

“Would you ally yourself with me and mine?” asked Branwen, watching his face carefully. “Would you use the gifts of the Shining Ones to set her free?”

She saw Gavan flinch. She was not sure why she had made the offer. To prove to Gavan that the Shining Ones were not as deadly as he believed? Hardly that; she was quite sure they
were!
To offer the hand of friendship—in the hope of retying the bonds between them? Maybe. Simply to
help
him? She hoped her motives were that pure.

“We don’t need their help,” said Bryn, looking distastefully at Branwen.

“Be silent!” said Gavan, his eyes riveted on Branwen’s
face. She could see the conflict in his mind.

Branwen opened her left palm and held up the white crystal to Gavan’s eyes. Even in the darkness of the barn, she could see the rainbow coiling at the white stone’s heart. “This and five others like it I have carried with me for many years,” she said. “They were given to me by my brother, Geraint, although he did not know the power that they could contain.”

Gavan stared uneasily at the stone, his eyes narrowed.

“Merion of the Stones gifted us with the ability to go unseen among enemies while we hold these crystals,” said Branwen. “Do you still think I do wrong to follow the Old Gods when so much of my life has been bound to them?”

Gavan didn’t respond to her question, but she could see doubt and disquiet in his gray eyes.

“With Merion’s stones, we will be able to pass through the ranks of the enemy like a night wind through the trees,” murmured Blodwedd. “They will know nothing of our coming nor of our going. Can you do the same, Old Warrior?”

Gavan’s face contracted into a scowl. “In battle a man will use whatever weapon comes to hand,” he said under his breath. “My mind speaks against it, but my heart will not be denied.” He glowered into Branwen’s face. “But why would you wish to help me? What is my daughter to you?”