The Emerald Flame (4 page)

Branwen gazed into the old warrior’s time-riven face, and she saw fear in his eyes—fear for her—fear that the Shining Ones would destroy her.

A small voice whispered within her mind.

He’s right. Why not go home? Haven’t you done enough?

But she had heard that voice too often to listen to it now.

B
RANWEN SHRUGGED OFF
the urgent pressure of Gavan’s hands and stood up. She looked at the others—her followers. All eyes were on her. But what were they thinking? Did they hope that she would turn away from the Old Gods? Would they rather she led them off this mountain and down to the burned-out hulk of Garth Milain, there to build new defenses against the Saxons?

“We each have our own path to tread,” Branwen said, her voice thick and slow as she rejected Gavan’s plea. “Go into the east, Gavan ap Huw; seek for your daughter and bring her safe home!” She walked toward the tethered horses. “I have a different way to go.”

“You are a fool, Branwen,” Gavan said, getting to his feet. But there was more sorrow than reproach in his voice. “This destiny will hurl you into your grave!”

She paused. “Maybe so,” she said. “But the destiny is mine alone.” She turned and stared up at the looming mountain. “I do not know what awaits me up there.” She looked at her small band. “You agreed to follow me in the white heat of victory. Perhaps this chill dawn has brought wiser thoughts to you.” She gazed from face to face. “I freely release any of you who would rather go with Gavan.”

“Not dawn nor dusk nor deepest night will weaken my resolve to stay at your side,” said Dera. Her eyes gleamed. “To the death, Branwen!” she cried. “I shall follow you to the death!”

Branwen saw the same determination in the faces of the others.

Iwan spread his hands. “You’re wasting your time if you’re looking to be rid of us, barbarian princess,” he said. “We are hooked to you like burrs of teasel in a woolen cloak.” His eyes flashed. “And they are not easily removed!”

“Then all is said and done,” growled Gavan. “I wish you well, Branwen of the Old Ones. I doubt we shall meet again.” He turned away from her and strode toward the horses. “Come, lads—we’ve a long road ahead of us,” he called back. “Let’s leave these folk to their doom.”

“We have not warned them of the coming of Skur!” piped Dillon, looking at Gavan in consternation. “They should be warned!”

“Who is Skur?” asked Linette, kneeling in front of the small boy, smiling and taking his hands.

“A dreadful man!” said Dillon, looking into her face with wide, anxious eyes. “A great warrior from the Northlands!”

“A phantom to scare children!” said Bryn. “I’ve heard his tale; it’s nothing!”

“That’s not what they were saying in Thain Herewulf’s Great Hall!” Dillon shouted, frowning at Bryn. “They believe he is real! And they say that he is coming. They say that when he arrives, the father of all battles will begin!”

Iwan looked questioningly at Gavan. “He sounds a formidable fellow,” he said. “Skur? I have not heard his name before.”

“Neither have I,” said Gavan. “But if Dillon understood the rumors right, then he is a Viking from across the North Sea.”

“I
have
heard the name,” said Rhodri. “It means
storm
in the Norse language. The Saxons certainly believe in Skur Bloodax, although I was never able to decide whether he was a real man or a legend.”

“What do you know about him?” asked Branwen.

“Very little,” said Rhodri. “No one I ever heard speaking of him had ever seen the man nor known anyone who had, but his deeds were the stuff of fireside sagas. Some tales had him a giant: seven feet tall with shoulders as wide as a bull. But others spoke of him as being slender and lithe as a feather, and able to kill as quick and silent as the wind. And they said he had eyes like flames and that he drank the blood of his victims.”

“That’s right!” cried Dillon. “But some stories said he was invisible and that he suffocated his victims in their sleep by squatting upon their chests and that when they were dead he would rip out their hearts and eat them.”

Rhodri smiled grimly. “I had not heard that tale,” he said. “But the stories of Skur Bloodax are as wild and as varied as imagination allows. Some say he is a bear or a werewolf or even a demigod who can turn himself into smoke. But whatever his true appearance, all agreed that he is a deadly foe and that he is protected by the Norse god Ragnar.”

Dillon’s face was pale. “Ragnar is a terrible god,” he said. “He gave Skur a huge ax—double headed and decorated with an engraving of a raven in flight.”

Rhodri nodded. “Whatever his appearance, he is said always to be accompanied by a raven—a foul and evil bird named Mumir.”

“I cannot believe this man exists,” said Iwan. “And what if he does? Why should we fear him? Even the greatest warrior can be brought down by a well-aimed arrow.”

“I know of the cursed spirit that is named Ragnar,” said Blodwedd, and Branwen was surprised to hear horror in her voice. “My lord Govannon has spoken of him; he is a vile and poisonous hellion, much beloved in the barbarous and brutal Northlands. If this man Skur is under Ragnar’s protection, he must indeed be a formidable champion.” She looked at Iwan. “And what use are arrows when Mumir the
raven can pluck them from the very air before they come nigh their target?”

Iwan’s eyes narrowed uneasily.

“All this talk is without purpose,” said Branwen. “He may be real, or he may not. He may be coming, or he may not! And if he is protected by some grim half god of the Northmen, so what is that to us? We have our own protectors! I don’t fear him or Ragnar!”

Gavan frowned at her. “I wish you
did
fear such devils,” he said. “But I will waste no more time.” He turned away. “You have chosen, and I am done with you. Come, lads.”

Dillon pulled away from Linette and joined the other three boys as they ran toward their horses. They were quickly mounted and ready to leave, and Branwen could see from their faces that they were glad to be getting away from these lunatic followers of the Old Gods.

Gavan avoided her eyes as he rode past her into the dawn. A chill came into Branwen’s heart as he led the boys away through the trees. The old warrior had offered her one last chance of saving herself, and she had rejected it. What a poor, blind fool he must think her!

“The mountain wears a less gloomy face in the light of a new day,” said Rhodri. “I think the old man is wrong, Branwen. I don’t think the Shining Ones have anything to gain by your death—quite the reverse, in my opinion.”

“In
your
opinion, indeed?” Iwan said with the
flicker of a smile on his lips. “And what weight do we give to that, Master Runaway? Was there much time for deep musings on the nature of the Old Gods while you were scraping out the cook pots of your Saxon overlords?”

Blodwedd glared at him, but Branwen was glad that Rhodri didn’t allow himself to be provoked by Iwan’s casual taunting. “My name is Rhodri, not
Runaway”
was all he said. “It’s of little consequence I know, but you might try to remember it if you are able.”

Iwan laughed, and turned to kick earth over the dwindling fire.

Branwen stared up at the bleak humps and crags that lifted above the ragged line of the forest. The rising sun had burnished the lifeless rocks so that the mountain glowed like beaten bronze.

Rhodri was right—it did look less threatening now; but Branwen could not clear her mind of the memory of the dancer she had seen dressed as Merion: the crooked old hag with the wispy hair and the ugly face.

Rhiannon had been beautiful and strange and full of riddles; Govannon, ancient and mighty and dreadful.

But what was Merion of the Stones, what did she want of Branwen, and what power did she hold?

Only a hard morning’s ride would answer those questions.

B
ANON STOOD ON
a lofty and narrow peak of bare rock, staring up at the jagged and furrowed face of the mountain. Branwen’s band had come above the last few straggling trees, and for some time they had been moving slowly and tortuously through a tumbled landscape of barren boulders and loose scree and impossible crags.

“Take care up there!” Branwen called up to her. “What do you see?”

“Rock!” Banon called down to where the rest of the band was gathered. “Rock and sky, but little else; and nothing to guide us farther!”

They had followed what pathways there were on the mountain, sometimes retracing their steps when some impossible bluff reared in front of them. Sometimes dismounting as they traversed slopes of
loose shale. Always seeking a way to the upper reaches, but so often thwarted that Branwen began to suspect that the mountain disapproved of their presence and was actively trying to discourage them and to drive them down again.

As the morning bled away, they found themselves moving through a narrow defile, a crack in the rind of the old mountain that led them steadily upward but that was so deep, they lost all sense of where they were. Branwen sent Fain to scout for them, but he was gone so long that she grew impatient.

She called for a halt, intending to climb to the highest point and see what progress they were making; but flame-haired Banon beat her to it, leaping from the saddle and quickly climbing the rock face with her long, gangly arms and legs.

“If there is danger of falling to the death, better me than you!” she called back in response to Branwen’s cries of protest.

Banon made the ascent without mishap and stood high above the others, her long red hair blowing in the wind, shielding her freckled face from the glare of sunlight with one long hand as she scoured the mountainside.

“Do you see a cave?” Blodwedd called up to her.

“I see many cracks and crevices,” Banon replied. “How am I to tell one from the other?”

“What does Merion’s cave look like?” Rhodri asked Blodwedd.

“I do not know,” said Blodwedd.

Branwen frowned at her. “Your lord Govannon sent you as our guide, Blodwedd,” she said impatiently. “Guide us!”

“I am not a child of the stones,” Blodwedd retorted. “Merion does not speak to me. I am sorry.”

Iwan clicked his tongue. “Well now, here’s a fine thing,” he said under his breath. “A curious destiny it is that plays hide-and-seek with its minions.” He glanced at Branwen. “Perhaps you should have asked for more specific directions when the Green Man sent you up the mountain.”

Branwen combed her fingers fretfully through her hair. “Why is she hidden from me?” she wondered aloud. “How am I to do what the Shining Ones ask if they will not reveal themselves?”

“Can you see where this vale leads?” Dera called up to Banon. “Is there a clear way ahead?”

“Wait,” Banon called back, “I cannot see from here. I will …” Her voice rose to an alarmed cry, and suddenly she disappeared from view.

“Banon!” Aberfa howled, scrambling down from her horse and clawing her way up the rock. “Banon!”

“She’s fallen! She’s fallen!” called Dera.

Branwen leaped for the rock, instinct driving her faster than thought, panic lending her the speed to go scurrying up the rock face. She should never have allowed Banon to go up there in her place. She was their leader—it was her job to keep them safe!

She quickly overtook the heavier-set Aberfa, finding toeholds to support her weight while she groped with her fingers for higher purchase. She could hear voices from below as she climbed. Others were following.

She had a horrible vision of reaching the top and staring down to see Banon’s mangled body lying at the foot of a deep precipice.

My fault! All my fault!

It was a few frantic moments before Branwen pulled herself onto the narrow summit of the rock. “Banon?”

“Branwen?” It was Banon’s voice, from blessedly close by.

With a gasp of relief, Branwen moved across the narrow, uneven crest of the rock. She saw white fingers gripping the stone. She knelt and snatched at Banon’s wrists. “I’ve got you!”

Leaning forward, Branwen blanched at the fall that swam beneath her. The mountain dropped away as though cut through with an ax. Had Banon not somehow managed to cling to the rock, she would certainly have plunged to her death.

“I have you!” Branwen cried again, straightening her back, tensing her muscles, opening her shoulders to pull with all her might.

For a few moments Banon’s weight was too much for her; but Branwen bit down hard in concentration, her mouth filling with a sour, rusty taste, her muscles
straining as she knelt on the ledge and hauled.

Banon’s face appeared over the rim, alarmed and relieved. Aberfa’s thick-muscled arms reached down past Branwen’s shoulders. The large hands gripped Banon’s arms and pulled, and a few moments later, Banon was sprawling on the rock, her chest heaving, her fingers digging into Branwen’s arms like iron nails.

“I told you to take care!” said Branwen.

“I took
great
care,” gasped Banon, relaxing her hold and getting shakily to her knees. “The rock shook and threw me off! I heard the mountain laugh as I fell!” She looked round eyed at Branwen and Aberfa, her voice trembling. “It tried to kill me, I swear!”

“That cannot be,” said Aberfa, lifting Banon bodily to her feet. “We would have felt it. There was no movement. No laughter. You lost your footing is all.”

“I did not!” Banon insisted. “We should go back. This mountain wants none of us! It will kill us if we seek to go higher.”

Branwen looked into her face. “You heard laughter, you say?”

Banon nodded. “Like … the laughter of an old woman … but cruel and hard and without joy.” She looked into Branwen’s face, her eyes confused. “You heard
nothing?”

“I heard it” came a sepulchral voice behind them. “I heard the laughter of the stones.”

Branwen stood up. “Blodwedd?”

She cautiously circled the owl-girl. Blodwedd’s face was drained of color, her eyes huge, her lips parted to show her sharp white teeth. Branwen looked into Blodwedd’s face, but the owl-girl’s glazed eyes were fixed on a single point among the high rocks.

“She relishes the taste of fresh-killed falcon,” Blodwedd intoned in a flat, expressionless voice. “But she would rather dine on human flesh. Her laughter freezes the marrow in my bones. She calls for you to go to her, Warrior Child—alone and weaponless.” Blodwedd’s arm shot out, her finger pointing. “She is there! She waits for you, and she hungers….”