The Emerald Flame (2 page)

His sword struck her shield like a thunderbolt, and had she not been holding it at an angle, the hungry iron would have split it in two. As it was, the force of the blow numbed her arm and shoulder and sent her rocking back in the saddle.

She had never fought on horseback before. She was used to feeling solid ground under her feet to be able to maneuver—step forward, step back, circle the enemy, come at him from the side. She felt awkward and vulnerable in the saddle—and like an easy target in the darkness of the forest.

The man’s sword arm rose again, this time swinging in a low arc, clearly intending to slip the blade in under the curve of her shield and strike at her belly. The natural defensive move would be to smash down on the encroaching blade with her shield, driving its tempered edge into Stalwyn’s neck.

No!

Instead, she threw herself forward, lunging half out of the saddle, beating her shield hard into the attacker’s chest, her own sword jabbing for his neck.

She felt the hilt of his sword strike against her side, hurting her, taking the breath out of her—but her sudden move forward had caused his blade to sweep past her, gouging the empty air where she
had
been only a moment before.

She followed up, using her shield as a ram, pressing in on him with all her weight. She felt him slip sideways from his horse as she pushed him. But even as he was falling, his sword arm hooked around her waist and she was dragged down with him.

For a few moments she was too winded, dizzy, and hurt by the heavy fall to do anything other than gasp and flounder in the forest bracken, menaced on every side by the pounding hooves of the frightened horses, dimly able to hear the shouts of the battle around her. Then she realized she was on top of her attacker, lying across his chest. One good thrust of her sword and it would be over. But she was not given the chance. He heaved up under her, throwing her off in a tangle of arms and legs. Branwen only just had the presence of mind to keep hold of her sword and shield as she came smashing to the ground, tasting earth and blood in her open mouth. The horses backed away, neighing and whinnying.

She turned onto her back, her thoughts scattered. The gloom of the night-shrouded forest swam in front of her eyes and it seemed that the earth beneath her rocked and pitched like a tormented sea. Then a deeper darkness loomed over her—a black pillar
topped by a grimacing metal face.

A sword came scything down. She twisted away and the blade bit deep into the forest floor. She kicked out, catching her attacker’s knee, making him roar with pain and stagger backward. A moment later, Fain was in his face, pecking and clawing, his gray wings whirring.

But the iron mask protected the man from the falcon’s attack, and soon it was Fain who had to withdraw, speeding upward and away from the man’s whirling blade.

Ignoring the pain that jangled in every part of her body, Branwen sprang up, moving in on the man cautiously, balancing on the balls of her feet, her shield up to her eyes, her sword arm bent back, ready to unleash a killing blow.

There was no time to take in the mayhem that was erupting around her in the deep shadows, no time to organize and encourage her embattled followers. But she quickly scanned the scene around her, catching a momentary glimpse of the fighting taking place among the trees.

So far as Branwen could tell, there were four other men involved in the confused skirmish. One was large and broad-shouldered. Banon and Aberfa were on foot, attacking him on horseback while he rained ringing blows down on their shields. Rhodri and Blodwedd were also unhorsed—Rhodri lying on the ground with Blodwedd standing over him
and holding off another mounted swordsman with a length of broken branch. A little farther off, the fighting between Dera and Linette and the third man was partly obscured by trees and branches, and Branwen could not see who was getting the upper hand.

There was something odd about the last horseman—he was small and slight. Even in the gloom that much was obvious. No more than a boy! And he was holding back from the fighting. His helmet had been knocked off and he looked terrified as he tried to control his bucking and rearing steed. And he was unarmed.

Why would a band of warriors bring a weaponless child with them?

Who were these horsemen? Where did they come from? Branwen’s first thought had been that they must be a band of Saxon raiders, but they did not seem to be wearing Saxon war-gear; and behind the iron masks, she saw no trace of the telltale Saxon beards.

But even if they were men of Powys, that was no reason for her to feel at ease. Prince Llew had declared her a traitor and an outlaw when she had freed Rhodri from confinement in the prince’s fortress of Doeth Palas. If these were Prince Llew’s men, they would show no mercy. If not killed, she would be bound hand and foot and dragged back to the prince’s citadel on the coast. A swift trial and a bloody death was all that awaited her in that place.

But the thought that these might be Prince Llew’s warriors made her look more closely at her opponent. He had positioned himself to mirror her pose: balanced well on feet spread to the same width as his shoulders. His knees bent, muscles flexed. His shield up to his hidden eyes, his sword arm bent over his back, ready to unleash murder.

She circled to the left, and he moved his feet easily, turning so that his shield was always between her and him. She feinted a move in on his right, and he danced lithely backward, then shifted his footing and came leaping in from the side.

His sword sliced down at her unprotected right shoulder, and she only just skipped back in time to avoid serious injury. She sprang aside, bringing her sword down and into his neck. His shield caught the blow, and for a moment her sword was snagged where she had split the rim.

He drove in on her, their shields clashing—and now for the first time she saw his eyes through the slits in the metal mask.

She pushed him off, wresting her sword free and dancing backward, gasping for breath.

There was gray hair visible under his helmet, and there was something familiar about the way he moved.

An old man, then—but a serpent-quick old man who gave her not one moment to regroup as he came for her, blow after blow beating on her shield. She
fell back, stumbling, her heels catching on roots and creeping undergrowth.

At last her opponent spoke. “Surrender to me, Branwen ap Griffith!” he demanded, his voice deep and graveled. “I would not have you die here by my hand!”

“Gavan!” The suspicion had already dawned, but the sound of the old warrior’s voice confirmed it.

It was Gavan ap Huw, a battle-hardened old warrior of Powys—and the man who had taught her the basics of sword fighting in the innocent times before she had earned Prince Llew’s enmity.

“I will not be taken back to Doeth Palas!” shouted Branwen. “I am not the traitor here! Look to your own lord if you seek treachery against the land of Brython!” Her voice rose to a howl. “Look to Prince Llew!”

Gavan stood before her, sword arm raised but no longer attacking.

“What do you mean by that, Branwen?” he growled.

Branwen’s whole body was trembling from the power of his blows. A few more moments and her shield would have been riven in two and she would have been defenseless before him.

“Call off your men!” she gasped. “Let us talk! I have things to tell you, Gavan—things that will change all!”

G
AVAN’S VOICE WAS
like the bellowing of a bull in the night. “Boys of Doeth Palas!” he roared. “Hold back! Hold back, I say!” He pulled off his helmet, revealing his weather-beaten face. A long white scar ran down the left side of his jaw, a trophy won at the battle of Meigen, where he had been standard-bearer to the king. “Bryn! Padrig! Andras! Lower your weapons!”

Branwen knew those names. They were lads of the prince’s court in Doeth Palas—boys she had seen often in her brief stay in that place. So, that accounted for three of Gavan’s followers. But who was the fourth: the small, frightened boy riding a horse too tall for him?

To learn that, the fighting must first of all be halted.

Branwen ran forward, her sword and shield down. “Dera—Aberfa! All of you!” she called. “Stop!

No more!”

The clash of sword on sword and of iron on wooden shield ceased. Branwen’s people backed off from the horsemen. Blodwedd’s eyes burned with a deadly fire as she threw down the branch she had been wielding. She stooped and helped Rhodri to his feet. He had a raw graze across his forehead and seemed woozy but otherwise unhurt as he leaned on the owl-girl’s shoulder.

“Is anyone injured?” Branwen called. “Where is Iwan?”

“I am here, barbarian princess” came an unsteady voice. Iwan lifted himself on one elbow from a bed of ferns. “My head is buzzing like a nest of wasps; but it is still attached to my shoulders, so I should not complain.” He groaned as he tried to rise. “At least I shall not if someone lends a hand.”

Linette ran forward and Iwan was soon on his feet, his arm across her slender shoulders.

“Women, for the most part,” rumbled Gavan’s voice as he stared around at Branwen’s followers. He frowned. “Dera ap Dagonet—you at least I know. I saw you last at your father’s side in Doeth Palas. I believe you to be loyal and true, child; what is your part in this venture?”

Dera stepped forward, her head held high. “I follow Branwen ap Griffith,” she declared, looking keenly
into Gavan’s eyes. “And if you are still in service to the traitorous prince of Bras Mynydd, then I tell you to your face that you do wrong, Gavan ap Huw!”

“Is it so?” said Gavan. “That’s twice I’ve heard Prince Llew named traitor. I’d know the meaning behind your words, Dera ap Dagonet.”

“Prince Llew has betrayed us to the Saxons,” said Branwen. “He works now for the downfall of Powys.”

Gavan looked sharply at her, then his eyes moved beyond her and narrowed in revulsion and distrust as he gazed at Blodwedd. “I cannot take the word of one who has allied herself with demons,” he muttered. He stared again at Branwen. “You are no longer your mother’s daughter, of that I am most certain. The Old Gods have tainted and ruined you, girl.”

“That may well be the case,” Iwan said wryly, limping forward with his arm still across Linette’s shoulders. “But I am no follower of the Old Gods, Gavan ap Huw!” His eyebrow rose quizzically. “Will you take my word for it that the prince has betrayed us?”

“This is all lies!” shouted Bryn, the big bullying boy from Doeth Palas. He had challenged Branwen to a fight with quarterstaffs and had hated it when she had proved less of an easy conquest than he had assumed. As he called out, he pulled off his helmet, revealing his pale, freckled face and mop of unruly red hair. “The prince is no traitor, nor ever would be!” He glared at Gavan. “Why are we wasting our
breath on these liars?”

Aberfa sprang at him, her face savage. Before he could defend himself, she pulled him from the saddle and threw him to the ground, where he lay, sprawled. Others on both sides started forward, hands moving to sword hilts, faces uneasy.

Bryn stared up at Aberfa in shock and alarm as she planted her foot on his chest and aimed the point of her sword at his throat.

“Liars, is it?” she shouted. “You’d not call us so if you’d seen the Captain of Doeth Palas bend his knee to Herewulf Ironfist! You’d not say so if you’d seen the Saxon dogs carousing in the Great Hall of Gwylan Canu!”

Banon moved forward and caught her arm. “Peace, Aberfa!” she said. “Let it not be we who break this truce.”

Aberfa glowered at her. Then she nodded and lifted her foot from Bryn’s chest. But she kept the sword point at his throat.

“Aberfa—do not harm him!” called Branwen. “If faith in the faithless is worthy of death, then which of us shall escape the slaughterhouse?” She turned to Gavan, her heart aching that this man whom she so admired could place no trust in her. “Whose tale will you believe, Gavan ap Huw?” she asked. “If not mine, then whose?”

“I may believe Iwan, the son of Madoc ap Rhain, lord of Gwylan Canu,” said Gavan. “But I will need
more proofs than hearsay ere I give credence to his words.”

“Then let’s put up our weapons and perhaps build a fire to warm us on this bleak mountainside,” said Iwan. “We have food enough to share, if you have ears for our sorry tale.”

Gavan nodded. “So shall it be.” He sheathed his sword. “Bryn, you fool!” he called gruffly. “Get to your feet, boy. Would you shame us all, lying on your back in the dirt with a maiden’s sword in your face?”

It was a strange, tense gathering under the spreading oak branches in the dying reaches of the night. A fire had been built, and its flames threw a ghoulish light over the trees as well as ruddied the faces and clothes of the two uneasy bands. They sat and watched each other warily across the fire while Iwan spoke of the events that had unfolded at Gwylan Canu over the past day and night.

Food and drink had been shared out between the two groups, and Rhodri had made up some herbal salves for the minor injuries inflicted in the skirmish. Fortunately no one had been seriously hurt, and the worst abrasion was to Iwan’s head, although he made light of it. The horses were close by, tethered loosely and able to graze. Fain watched Gavan suspiciously from a low branch above Branwen’s head as though ready at the first hint of aggression from the
grizzled old warrior to launch himself down with a stabbing beak and rending claws.

Branwen looked at the newcomers. With their grim, iron-faced helmets removed, they were suddenly just a bunch of lads from Prince Llew’s citadel: sullen-faced Bryn with his huge muscles and his swaggering ways; skinny Andras with his gangly limbs and his startled-chicken face; and Padrig ap Gethin, a boy with jet-black hair and a thin mustache hidden by a great, craggy nose. Not exactly a cadre of weathered warriors for such a man as Gavan ap Huw to ride with.

And there was still the puzzle of the fourth lad. Branwen guessed he was no more than seven or eight years old, his hair tawny, his face showing an expression she recognized: the downcast eyes and flinching demeanor of someone used to dodging blows. A servant, she guessed, but not a Saxon captive by his looks. A boy of Brython, then—one recently rescued from some Saxon household.