The Emerald Flame (9 page)

She heard whoops and cries and the thunder of hooves as her followers came careering down off the hill, chasing headlong after her as she hurtled toward the forest.

“Branwen, what rash action is this?” gasped Blodwedd, her face netted by Branwen’s whipping hair. “If a servant of Ragnar awaits us in yonder forest, we should approach him with care and caution, not rush at him like leaves in an autumn gale!”

“No!” shouted Branwen against the wind. “No care! No caution! If Skur is here, I will fight him even if Wotan himself, the father of all Saxon war-gods, stands over him!”

“What of our other mission: to find Caradoc?” gasped Blodwedd.

“What of it?” howled Branwen. She glanced briefly back at Blodwedd. “I must do battle with Skur! Don’t you see?” She panted. “I
have
to know!”

“To know what, Branwen?” exclaimed Blodwedd.

“To know if I truly am the Emerald Flame of my people!” Branwen replied. “I have to prove it one way or the other. Kill or be killed! It’s the only way!”

“And if Skur is there and you kill him?” asked Blodwedd. “What then?”

“Then I will become the thing that Gavan feared!” Branwen shouted. “All doubts will be gone, and I will know that I am Branwen of the Old Gods! Branwen of the Shining Ones!”

S
LOWING STALWYN TO
a canter, then to a trot, and finally to a snorting walk, Branwen led the others into the forest of alder trees. The wild abandon of her madness had faded, but her resolve was unyielding; it burned in her mind like a sword forged in white fire—firm and fierce and deadly.

Skur
had
to be real—and she
had
to fight him and defeat him.

The mythical Viking warrior’s death would not only prove to
her
that she truly was a hero capable of saving Brython, but it would also send a warning through Mercia, and through her homeland—a grim portent to the Saxons and a rallying call for her own people.

Attack us at your peril! We are not easy prey! You will never defeat us!

“Tell me more about Ragnar,” Branwen asked Blodwedd. “I’d know what powers he has.”

“I know little of him,” said Blodwedd. “Save that he is one of the fiends who huddle in Wotan’s grim shadow. A god of deep darkness, I believe—and of trickery and malice and cruelty. I know of only one tale in which he features. He was challenged to an eating contest by the great giant Laufey. The winner was to be the one who could first devour one hundred humans. Laufey ate quickly, and soon all of his victims were consumed down to their bones. But Ragnar turned himself into flame and devoured the hundred, flesh, blood, and bone! Wotan declared Ragnar the victor, and Laufey was condemned to be tied to a rock and to have the corrosive venom of a poisonous snake dripped down upon his head for all eternity.”

Branwen pondered this tale as they rode on. How things change! A few short moons ago she would have found this story an amusing and diverting piece of nonsense. A tall tale to be told around the fire on a winter’s night. A tale of things that never really were and never could have been.

But these days she had no such confidence in what was real and what was not—no such certainty that demons and gods did not walk the world under the summer sun. The Old Powers were awakening from their long slumber. For good or for bad, things would never be the same again.

A flurry of wings suddenly filled Branwen’s eyes.
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Grinning, she raised her arm, and Fain came to rest on her wrist. “Where have you been, you truant!” she scolded gently, running a finger lightly over his chest feathers. “Do you not care how I worry over you?”

“Caw! Caw! Caw!”

“He has seen something in the wood,” exclaimed Blodwedd, her words taking Branwen by surprise.

“Enemies?” asked Iwan, riding closer.

Fain gave voice to more harsh cries. Blodwedd listened intently, her head cocked to one side, her brows drawn down.

“Two people,” Blodwedd translated. “A man and a woman. The man is huge—seven feet tall or more—and he carries a great double-headed battle-ax. He rides a mighty horse. His hair is the color of corn, and he is armed and armored with chain mail and with leather. The woman has long fair hair. She is on foot—tied by the wrists and held to the man by a rope knotted about his saddle.”

“The raven,” asked Rhodri. “What of the raven?”

Fain cried again.

“Yes, there is a raven,” Blodwedd said. “It perches upon the man’s shoulder and speaks into his ear.” She looked at Branwen. “Fain says he has never seen such a bird before.”

“Mumir!” breathed Dera. “So—Skur is real, and he is close by with a captive servant to do his bidding.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are we to do, Branwen? You must decide.”

“Where are they?” Branwen asked Blodwedd.

“Not far from here,” said Blodwedd. “Fain says that we are fast approaching a deep furrow in the land, like a channel cut by a long-dried river. The valley runs north to south athwart our path. The man and the woman are there.”

“Heading this way?” asked Branwen eagerly.

“No. Their route will take them away from us.”

“We can avoid them,” said Rhodri. “There is no purpose in looking for a fight when we can quietly slip past them and go freely on our way.” He looked anxiously at Branwen. “Don’t we have danger enough ahead of us?” he asked. “Let others worry about Skur Bloodax.”

“Mumir will have already told him of us,” said Iwan. “He must know that we are coming this way. But will the raven know who we are—and what our purpose is in Mercia?”

“We must assume he
does
know,” said Linette. “Why else did he watch us as he did?”

Aberfa shivered. “I can still feel the raven’s wicked eyes upon me!” she said grimly. “And I do not forget my mother’s warning!”

Branwen frowned. All eyes were upon her. “I agree that we are known to Mumir and his master,” she said at last. “But I believe this meeting was destined to come! I have felt certain of it ever since the
raven first appeared.” She straightened her back. “I will fight Skur,” she said. “News of his death will send a chill through the Saxon kingdoms.” She set her jaw. “I will fight him alone! One on one!”

“While I draw breath and blade you will not!” exclaimed Dera. “I shall be at your side. Skur is protected by a god, Branwen!”

Branwen glared at her. “And am I not?”

“The Shining Ones cannot come to you here,” said Blodwedd. “They are tied to their own lands.” She shook her head. “Do not look for their help, Branwen. You are not in Brython now; Govannon of the Wood will not be able to save you when all seems lost as he did at Gwylan Canu.”

Troubled by Blodwedd’s words, Branwen looked at the others. She could see that all of them were determined to stand with her, come what may.

“We fight together,” said Aberfa. “That is the way of it.”

“But what tactics do we use?” asked Banon. “If Skur is protected by a god, how shall we come upon him unseen? We will be blasted by bolts of fire before we can draw our swords.”

“My hope is that Ragnar will have limited power this far from his home,” said Blodwedd. “He is able to enter this land by the leave of the Saxon war-gods, but the heart of his strength lies far away across the cold North Sea. It is the strong arm and sharp iron of Skur that we should fear, not the devilry of Ragnar.”

“Fain will guide us,” said Branwen. “We will set ourselves in Skur’s path and see what comes! Rhodri, this will be sword against ax; and brave as you are, I wouldn’t have you come into harm’s way. When we attack, I want you to try and free the captive woman. Protect her if you can. Will you do that?”

“I will,” said Rhodri. “But one day when we have time to pause in this pell-mell destiny of yours, Branwen, I’d be given some lessons in swordsmanship.”

“That would be
my
pleasure,” said Iwan. “If we survive this morning’s entertainments … and if you have the heart to face me across the length of two swords, Master Runaway.”

“If the one event proves true, the other will certainly come to pass,” said Rhodri. “And in time it may even be that I will be able to teach you to use my right name, Iwan ap Madoc!”

The landscape of the deep forest was as Fain had described. Branwen and her band turned to the right, heading southeast by the sun, intending to come into the valley and to find some auspicious place where they could waylay the Viking warrior.

It was not long before the land began to dip under their horses’ hooves, dropping in folds to a narrow defile thick with ferns that foamed about their horses’ hocks like a green ocean.

“Do we lie in ambush or make a stand in the open?” asked Dera.

“There’s little point in hiding,” Banon said uneasily, pointing ahead. “Look there! In yonder tree. We are observed!” They followed the line of her finger to a tall tree on the slope of the valley leaning inward among many others.

It was a few moments before Branwen’s eyes found the object of Banon’s concern. A large black bird, perching in the underbranches, its head low, its eyes glittering as it stared at them.

“Mumir!” said Dera. She turned to Branwen. “I begin to think you were right, Branwen; I think your destiny has led us here. How else would that creature know where to lurk in wait?”

Even as she spoke, the raven took heavily to the air and silently flew away under the arching branches. Branwen watched until the forest swallowed him.

“We shall wait here,” Branwen said, swinging down from the saddle. “The horses should be taken out of harm’s way, and we will fight on foot.”

She gave a few brief orders, instructing Aberfa and Banon to lead the horses away from the intended field of conflict, then sending Rhodri and Blodwedd up into the trees, ready to leap out and rescue the captive woman once the others had engaged Skur in battle. She stood ready in the middle of the valley, the ferns flowing around her knees, her shield up and her sword gleaming in her hand.

Iwan was at her right side, his sword sheathed, his shield slung over his back, an arrow ready on the
bow. Banon was at his elbow, peering along the valley, nervously plucking the string of her bow. The sound was a bright, hopeful note in the low rustling and creaking of the forest.

Aberfa was on Branwen’s left, a throwing javelin in her fist, two more thrust headfirst into the ground at her feet. Beside her were Dera and Linette, their faces grim behind their shields, their knuckles white around sword hilts.

And so they waited.

A fly buzzed in Branwen’s face. She brushed it aside, annoyed to have her concentration broken by the errant insect. She needed to focus—to channel every fiber of her being into the coming fight.

The air was oppressively hot under the arching branches. Branwen felt sweat trickle down her back, and there was moisture on her top lip and forehead although her mouth was bone-dry. The trees loomed around them like spectators anxious for mayhem. Her eyes ached with staring along the valley. Her heart drummed in her chest.

“Will he never come?” murmured Dera. “He must know we are here! Why does he not show himself?”

“He’ll come,” said Iwan. “He sends fear ahead of him on the air. Hold steady! He’ll come!”

Fear on the air. Yes, Iwan was right about that. The tension among them strained tighter than his bowstring, and with every beat of her heart Branwen felt the anxiety growing in her.

Come! By all the saints, come
now!

A sudden sharp crackling sound came rippling along the valley—like a wind ruffling the ferns.

“What is that?” whispered Dera.

Then they saw it, a narrow red line moving arrow-swift through the vale, blackening and shriveling the ferns, sizzling like …

Iwan shot his bow into the running stream of red flame. The arrow was engulfed.

Branwen only just had time to lift up her shield to her face as the fire hit them. She was aware of heat and flickering light, and of her companions falling back, shouting and stumbling away from her.

But although the flames were all around her, she was not burned by them. They circled her, spreading to push the others back, leaving her standing alone in a blackened ring of scorched ferns. She was blinded by thick smoke. There was hot, searing air in her nose and throat. She stared into the gray murk, her eyes stinging and watering.

Something was coming!

The smoke began to whirl, coiling upward into the high branches—and then Branwen saw her enemy!

Skur stood before her—towering over her like a hill. His face was as pale and lean as bone, his eyes like dead blue pebbles under his knuckled brows, his mouth lost in a great bush of a beard. Thick yellow hair flowed from beneath a conical helmet of riveted iron. His shield was as large as a mill wheel, decorated
with spokes of yellow and black, centered by a great boss of blue iron. He wore a tunic of red leather studded with iron rings. In his massive right hand he gripped the handle of his great double-headed battle-ax, its twin blades as wide as Branwen’s shoulders.

“Greetings, Warrior Child.” His voice was like thunder in her belly. “I am come to destroy you and to open the path to Brython’s beating heart!” His cold blue eyes flashed. “But I am not without mercy, child—surrender to me and I will spare your life. Lay down your arms and kneel and kiss my foot, and you shall not die this day! What say you?”

Branwen let out a scream of pure rage as she flung herself at the giant Viking warrior. No quarter, no mercy—before this day’s sun went down, one of them would be dead.

S
KUR WAS A
huge man, his chest like a barrel, his arms and legs muscled like the boughs of great trees. Branwen’s plan was to surprise him with her speed and agility—to leap high, to lift her sword arm above the rim of his shield, and to thrust her blade into his unprotected neck and down through flesh, bone, and sinew to his heart. A single swift blow to sudden victory.

Such a creature will be slow to react and ponderous in his movements. I shall destroy him before he can even swing his ax!

She heard the others shouting encouragement as she sprang into the air. But Skur was quicker than she expected; he stepped nimbly aside and struck at her with his shield. The iron boss of the shield punched into her stomach, doubling her up and sending her crashing to the ground.