In a tiny corner of her mind, her mother’s words came back to her.
Keep close to me!
She wished that were possible, but she had lost contact with her mother when the first wave of Saxons had crashed into them. She staggered to her feet, dazed and disoriented. At once a heavy blow came crashing down on her helmet. Half stunned, she fell, just managing to keep hold of her sword and shield as she rolled down a grassy slope.
Her face splashed into cold water. Gasping and coughing, she heaved herself to her knees. She had rolled down to the pool that lay at the bottom of the dale. She gazed dizzily around. Impossibly clear above the clamor of combat, she heard a clop in the water behind her. She stumbled to her feet and turned to find herself staring down into the black pool.
She let out a startled breath. The dark of the night sky cleared from the face of the pool as if a black veil had been drawn aside. She was looking down into a bright summer’s day—and staring up at her was her own reflection.
But not in battle-gear—not with iron helmet and sword and shield. Herself in her marten-skin jerkin and leather leggings. Herself in Rhiannon’s glade two long days ago.
Words came to her almost without thought.
“The falcon is on the roof! Two tongues tell the truth!” she shouted down to her own reflection. “Remember this! A life depends on it! The falcon is on the roof! Two tongues tell the truth!”
And then the surface of the pool broke up as if with a sudden storm of rain, and the image shattered into a thousand fragments.
38
BRANWEN TURNED FROM the pool. The battle still raged on the slopes around Garth Milain. Thick plumes of smoke rose from the fortress, their bloated undersides drenched in an evil red light. Branwen’s ears ached with shouts and the terrified neighing of horses, and with the clash of iron on wood and blade on blade.
A terribly wounded horse lay close to Branwen, struggling to get to its feet, its eyes crazed and rolling, red foam at its lips. Branwen turned away from the awful sight. A Saxon knelt a few paces away, his face in his hands, blood welling thick between his fingers and blood caked in his long, pale hair. Many men lay dead in the long grass, their bodies ravaged by spear and sword and ax.
Farther away, a close-pressed band of Saxons was beating its way up the long, steep ramp to the gate; but Lord Griffith’s horsemen were among them, swords slashing, horses rearing, hooves smashing down on helmet and chest and limb.
The valiant crescent moon banner of Lady Alis fluttered under the ramparts, surrounded on all sides by a press of Saxons.
“Mother!”
Branwen pounded up the slope.
She felt less terrified now, and she began to remember Gavan’s teachings. When a spearman came at her, his arm high, she leaped aside and brought her sword down to hack his weapon in two. She hammered her shield into his body, jarring him backward so his feet slipped on the grass. She never once looked into the wild, bearded face as she drew her sword arm back and then released all the energy in a deadly blow to his neck. There was blood and there was a scream cut short; and then Branwen was springing over the body, baring her teeth, shouting aloud:
“Come, you vermin! Come, you dogs! I am Branwen ap Griffith! Come!”
There was a wild strength flowing through her, and the red mist came down over her eyes again: the battle madness of her people, rich as blood, old as the forests.
“I am the Sword of Destiny,” she howled. “I am the Bright Blade! The Emerald Flame of my people!”
A young man with a frightened face and a wispy shred of beard faced her. She knocked his feeble blow aside, lunging forward with her shield angled toward his neck. Her shield rim caught him under the chin, throwing his head back. His mouth opened in a howl of pain. Pitilessly, she slashed her sword across his throat, and he dropped at her feet.
Another came, huge as a hill, eyes like ice crystals, swinging a battle-ax. She feinted to the left, drawing his blow that way before shifting her weight. She came in close to his side as he stumbled forward. She hacked at his thigh, bringing him to his knees. Then she stood over him, legs wide, as she drove her sword down to split his helmet and his skull.
She fought until there were no Saxons within reach. She had battled her way close to the ramp that led up to the gateway. Her arms felt heavy; her shield was battered and rent, her sword steeped to the hilt in blood. She stared out over the battlefield, sickened by the horror of it. An arrow glanced off her helmet, jerking her head to the side and making her ears ring. She was aware of a spear coming toward her. Another enemy coming to test the mettle of the daughter of Alis ap Owain!
She moved sideways. Her feet slithered on something lumpy and wet. A severed leg. She fell, her elbow striking a stone so that her sword was jarred from her hand. A bearded man loomed over her, his blue eyes glittering. He raised his sword. Branwen hoisted her shield against the blow. The sword came down hard on it, and the shield cracked into two pieces, numbing her arm to the shoulder.
The sword rose again, the man taking the hilt in both hands, the point aimed at her throat. She stared up at the falling blade, her hand groping desperately for her own sword.
A bulky shape came crashing down onto the Saxon warrior, sending him tumbling. Branwen lifted herself and saw that her rescuer was sitting astride the Saxon’s chest—and that the Saxon was not moving.
Rhodri got quickly to his feet and reached down a hand to help Branwen up. “I may not have any skill with a sword,” he panted. “But I know how to drop on someone from a height!” He gestured up at the high path. “I saw you from the ramparts…. You were fighting like a demon, Branwen! But I thought you might need help so I came to the gates, and I was right.” He glanced at the fallen Saxon. “I think he’s dead.”
“So will you be if you don’t get back to the citadel,” Branwen gasped.
“That’s no refuge now. The place is in flames.”
A fist tightened around Branwen’s heart. Her home was burning! “Stay with me,” she said. “How goes the battle? Could you tell from the citadel?”
“Captain Owen is holding fast, but your mother is surrounded.”
“Then I must go to her!” Branwen cried. “Rhodri, find a sword. Come with me.”
Rhodri wrested the sword out of the dead Saxon’s fingers and followed close behind Branwen as she scrambled along the steep slope. She had not gone far before she heard a terrible sound above the uproar: the scream of a dying horse.
She turned her head; the sound had come from above, from high on the earthen ramp. She saw Dirwyn, her father’s stallion, rearing on the very edge of the path with a spear jutting from his chest. She saw the horse fall sideways and her father hurled from the saddle, his sword beaten out of his hand as the enemy swarmed around him.
“Father! No!”
Two choices will you be given—two lives to save; but by your choice will one life be lost.
Two lives to save! Her mother or her father!
A vivid image swam in front of her face. Two fierce, deadly eyes. One blue, the other brown. Eyes with her death in them. Eyes made lifeless by her mother’s thrusting sword.
Her heart breaking, and her eyes blinded by tears, Branwen turned away from her father. “Come,” she said to Rhodri. “It’s done. I’ve chosen!”
She fought her way through a world of loathing and horror, and even the tears that poured down her cheeks were unable to wash away the red fog that darkened her sight.
But at last she was at her mother’s side, and Rhodri was with her.
Lady Alis’s face was smeared with blood and grime, her cloak torn, her chain mail jerkin ripped and slashed. “Branwen, my child; against all hope, you are alive!”
“Yes, Mother.” Branwen wept. “I had to choose you!”
Lady Alis stared at her. “What do you mean, Branwen?”
“Father has fallen. I think he may be dead!”
“No!” Horror filled her mother’s eyes.
But the press of the enem
y didn’t allow for any more words.
A massive, broad-shouldered Saxon warrior was leading a group of men up the slope toward them, his long hair flying, his red cloak snapping in the wind, his bare arms ridged with muscle as he swung a double-headed battle-ax around his head.
Warriors came in from both sides, forming a barrier between Branwen and her mother and the onrushing Saxons. But the enemy crashed into their line, howling like wolves and sending men tumbling into the blood-slick grass. The Saxon leader’s ax swung down, and a warrior fell in front of Branwen.
The Saxon roared, his mouth open like the maw of a bear, his red spittle flecking Branwen’s face. “Hetende Wotan!” he bellowed as the ax swung again and a warrior’s head rolled at Branwen’s feet. “Gehata! Bana Hel!”
“Rhodri, get behind me!” Branwen shouted. She spread her legs, angling her shield and bringing her arm back sharply, her eyes on the bloody head of the ax as it swished through the air. In the corner of her eye, she saw her mother standing at her side, mirroring her own stance as the roaring Saxon giant bore down on them.
“Strike together!” her mother shouted. “The throat! Strike as one!”
The man towered over them, aiming his ax high to sever their heads from their shoulders.
“Now!” Branwen cried.
Mother and daughter moved as one, ducking to avoid the swinging ax and then thrusting upward together until their swords met in the man’s throat. He stood staring with bulging eyes for a moment, the battle-ax slipping from his fingers; then a fountain of blood gushed from his mouth, and he crashed down like a felled tree.
The death of their leader seemed to take the heart out of the others; and Lady Alis’s warriors surged in, fighting hard to beat them back down the slope. Branwen and her mother leaped down after them, fighting side by side as the Saxon onslaught crumbled away.
And as they pushed the Saxons back, Branwen saw other warriors of Garth Milain flooding in from the side, Captain Owen at their head and the banner of the crossed swords of Cyffin Tir floating above them. At last, Branwen had a moment to think of Rhodri. She glanced back fearfully. But he was unhurt. He was standing under the ramparts of Garth Milain, gripping the banner of the yellow crescent moon in both hands, shouting for joy as he waved it wildly.
All around the garth, the Saxons were falling back. Branwen heard a battle-horn blowing from the gate. She turned and saw Prince Griffith’s horsemen driving their enemy away just as Captain Owen’s men came up hard behind them, cutting them down like corn before the scythe.
Branwen darted away from her mother’s side and forced her way up the steep path to where her father lay. He was on his back, his arms at his sides, his torn and tattered cloak spread over his body, blood soaked but mercifully hiding his wounds. His chest rose with short, shallow breaths. Branwen fell to her knees, tears pouring down her cheeks as she looked into his pale face. He was not dead—but he was dying, the light coming and going from his eyes like a candle guttering out.
“I had to choose, Papa,” she said, smoothing matted hair off his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Geraint…I’m so sorry….
First her brother and now her father—was she doomed to stand by and watch all her kinfolk be slaughtered by Saxon invaders?
“Branwen?” Her father’s voice was no more than a whisper.
“Yes. I’m here.”
“How is my Lady Alis?”
“Alive. Safe.”
There was a weak smile. “Then you chose well.” He coughed. There was blood on his lips. “How goes the battle?”
“Good, Papa,” Branwen murmured, the words like splinters in her throat. “Garth Milain is saved.”
The smile widened for a moment; then the light went out of his eyes, and she knew that he was dead. She leaned close over him, her tears splashing on his face, her hand on his chest.
“Good-bye, Papa,” she whispered.
The fighting was all but over. The Saxons knew the battle was lost; Branwen could see them breaking ranks and fleeing into the east. She watched the horsemen of Garth Milain pursuing them, cutting many down before they could reach the sanctuary of the hills.
She stumbled wearily down the long pathway, searching for her mother. There were no Saxon prisoners. There were only the dead and the fled. She found Lady Alis standing among the bodies of the fallen, the battle-light gone from her eyes, tears flooding down her cheeks. Branwen took her mother’s hand and led her back up to where Prince Griffith lay. They knelt together at his side and wept; and above them, unquenchable flames went roaring up into the night from the fortress of Garth Milain, blotting out the stars with their smoke.
In fire did you leave your home, in fire shall you return.
Rhiannon’s prophecy had been fulfilled…or almost.
Branwen knew that one more decision lay ahead.
When the battle is done, for good or ill, you must make your choice: to follow your destiny, or to turn forever from it. But choose wisely, for your decision will seal the fate of thousands.
Branwen wiped the tears from her eyes and stared out toward the mountains.
The battle was over.
It was time for her to choose.
39
GARTH MILAIN WAS on fire. The smoldering gates hung open, allowing the village folk to escape down the pathway. Branwen saw the horror in their faces as they looked out on the dreadful scene. The hill of the garth and the land around it were blackened with bodies, dead and the dying. Men were crying out, some in agony, some with weakened voices close to death. A stench of burning and of warm, spilled blood filled the air. Now began the terrible work of tending to the injured and of clearing the dead, both Saxon and people of Cyffin Tir.
Branwen swallowed her grief and went to help, her mother at her side. It was ghastly work, moving among the corpses, searching by flaring torchlight in the dark night, hoping against hope to find a soul whose life could be saved. All about them there was the rattle and clash of weapons being picked up and thrown together. There was weeping when a woman found her dead husband. There were cries of joy when a warrior was found alive and whole by his fearful family.
The salt taste of blood was thick in Branwen’s mouth, the stink of death in her nostrils. She was exhausted, but she refused to rest. There was too much to do. She knelt and closed the lifeless eyes of a young warrior named Emlyn ap Lowri, a gate guard, a friendly, smiling young man she had known all her life. As she gazed down into his dead face, a small, barely heard sound came to her ears. She stood up, pulling back her hair from her blood-spattered face as she stared into the west.
Caw!
A small, dark fleck came winging out of the night. Branwen watched it without surprise, too weary and heart-worn to do more than follow its long, slow flight. As the bird came closer, she saw that Fain had something in its beak—something white that flickered and flashed.
Her mother peered into the sky as the bird approached. “It’s carrying something. What is it?”
Branwen reached for her mother’s hand. “It’s my destiny, Mama,” she murmured.
She could feel her mother’s troubled eyes on her. “I don’t understand,” said Lady Alis.
“Neither do I,” Branwen whispered. “I hoped I would have more time.” Anguish cracked her voice. “I hoped I would be able to explain everything to you.”
Her mother took her shoulders, turning Branwen to look at her. “Explain what, Branwen? What is happening?”
“There’s too much to tell. Too much…”
Fain arrived in a flurry of wings. The bird hovered above Branwen for a few moments, then opened its beak and let the bright thing drop.
She caught it in her open palm. It burned her skin. A radiant teardrop of frozen white water.
I will weep for you. A single teardrop of ice to light your way.
Fain flew in a long curve and came to rest close by on the helmet of a fallen warrior. Branwen didn’t look at the falcon, but she knew the bird??
?s sharp eyes were on her.
“What does this mean?” gasped Lady Alis. “Branwen, whence comes this?”
“From Rhiannon of the Spring,” Branwen said.
“No!” Branwen had never heard such fear in her mother’s voice.
The teardrop of ice suddenly melted in Branwen’s palm, the cold water seeping to the edge of her hand and dripping to the ground. As the droplets struck the earth, a shimmering lacework of white began to grow at Branwen’s feet, spinning out like a spider’s web of fine, silken threads. The glimmering pattern flowed away in a river of light, crossing hollows and ridges and racing up the hillside. Then, with a final leap of silver, it disappeared into the forest, leaving a shining path that glittered and glimmered like strewn stars.
The battlefield had become eerily still. All around her, Branwen could hear people crying out in alarm and fear. Her mother grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away from the dancing ribbon of light.
“This is ancient mischief,” hissed Lady Alis. “Get away from it, Branwen!”
“I’m so sorry,” Branwen said with a sudden, strange calmness. “I have to go now.”
“Branwen, no!”
She turned to her mother and took her hand. “You can’t stop this from happening, Mama,” she said. “Please, I must do this.” She turned to one of the warriors who stood close by. “Bring me a horse!”
No one moved.
Lady Alis threw her arms around her. “This is the Old Magic, Branwen. It is wild and pitiless. Do not follow this path, Branwen. It will devour you!”