Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter TWENTY-TWO




Several times in the night, Branwen awoke with a start, her mind choked by dreams that she was back in her prison cell. She would open her eyes, startled to see the firelight and to feel its warmth on her body. Iwan lay close enough for her to touch him, and even in sleep, his hand was on his sword hilt.

Branwen would remain awake for a little, leaning up on one elbow, gazing at Iwan and her other slumbering friends in wonder before lying down again and slipping slowly back into the discomfort of her deceitful nightmares.

They were together again, all save for poor Linette, may her soul rest easy in Annwn. And this time no power in the world would separate them. Not if Branwen of the Old Gods could prevent it.

It was a cloudy morning, and the wind came down chill from the east as Branwen and the Gwyn Braw rode northwards towards Garth Milain. Fain was often on the wing, flying high, then returning to her shoulder without giving voice. Branwen knew that if he cawed, it would mean he had seen something that he recognized.

There were wide leagues of wilderness between them and the southern marches of Cyffin Tir, but on every high point of their journey, Branwen puckered her eyes into the north and hoped to see some familiar landmark to show they were drawing near to her homeland and her dear mother.

The longing to see Alis ap Owain grew in her with every passing moment. For long months she had refused to let these feelings into her mind, knowing that they would torment her, knowing that it was an impossible wish. But now that fate had led her down this path, and she realized she would soon be in her mother’s strong arms, she finally allowed herself to accept the homesickness that she had so long denied.

She hoped that if any of her companions noticed the tears that ran down her cheeks, they would think them drawn out by the chill wind, and not the product of the emotions that churned and swelled in her heart. She was still their leader, and after all that had happened, this was not the time to let them sense weakness in her, not even the weakness of a daughter who longs for the loving embrace of her mother.

The morning was half done and dark clouds were gathering from the east when Rhodri quickened his horse and came riding up alongside Branwen with Blodwedd, as ever, clinging on behind.

They were upon a bare hilltop and Branwen had been deep in daydreams of the coming reunion with her mother. She had been imagining the two of them walking the ramparts of a rebuilt citadel, talking over old times and banishing sadness with hope of better fortunes to come.

She had not seen Garth Milain rebuilt after the fire – but she had heard that Alis ap Owain had seen to it that the fortifications were as formidable as before, and had called on many warriors of the cantref to man the timber palisades. There had not been time to rebuild the Great Hall – that would be a task for a more peaceful time, and Branwen hoped to be there to help her mother, once all her other duties were fulfilled.

Branwen turned to look at Rhodri’s worried face. Behind him, Branwen’s forehead was creased and her eyes were filled with distress.

‘What is it?’ Branwen asked sharply.

‘A great weight lies on my heart,’ said Blodwedd. ‘A fear has been growing in me through the morning. This east wind brings more than rain-clouds, I’ll warrant.’ Her golden eyes burned. ‘I feel a darkness brewing.’

‘Saxons?’ asked Branwen. ‘An ambush, perhaps?’

‘No. Worse.’ Blodwedd winced and flinched, as though some invisible thing had flown into her face. ‘Far worse.’

‘What is this?’ called Dera, riding up to Branwen’s side. ‘What do you sense, Blodwedd?’

‘Ancient evil,’ growled the owl-girl. She turned her head to the east, her fingers tightening on Rhodri’s shoulders. ‘It comes!’ she gasped. ‘With the speed of the forked lightning, it comes!’

Aberfa stared eastwards. ‘I see nothing!’ she cried, drawing her sword. ‘By the saints, what is it you fear, Blodwedd?’

There was a hiss now as swords were drawn. The horses whickered uneasily. Iwan rode to the eastern rim of the hilltop, staring into the sky. ‘I see nothing save the clouds,’ he shouted back. ‘What should we be looking for?’

Blodwedd threw her hands up over her eyes. ‘The roaring darkness!’ she cried. ‘Save me! It comes!’

‘The Three Saints preserve us!’ gasped Banon, her horse rearing under her, its eyes rolling. ‘What is that?’

Branwen saw it now. They all saw it. A fist of absolute darkness high in among the grey swirl of the rolling clouds. A careening heart of pure black, streaking towards them out of the east. The clouds boiled and split open as it came screaming down the skies towards them, limned with lightning, roaring like thunder, black as hatred, swift as malice, red-eyed and dreadful.

‘Ragnar!’ Branwen howled. ‘It is Ragnar!’

The black mass congealed and reshaped itself and was a raven. Fain flew recklessly at it, but the gallant falcon was beaten aside, tumbling to the ground in a flurry of tangled feathers.

Ragnar descended on them, cloaked in midnight, staining the air to ebony as it spread its wings. The horses reared and screamed and kicked at the darkening sky. Banon and Iwan were thrown to the ground, their horses bolting in terror. Aberfa only just managed to keep in the saddle as she flung a spear at the onrushing demon. The beak gaped. The spear was engulfed. With a cry, Aberfa was flung backward from her mount.

Rhodri slashed at the sky with his sword, shouting defiance. Behind him, Blodwedd screamed and clawed the air. Then their horse tumbled sideways and they were thrown to the ground.

Branwen fought to master Terrwyn, pulling hard on his reins, gripping with her knees, uncomfortably aware of the strength she had lost in captivity. She raised her sword arm, the white blade pointing at the raven’s blazing eyes.

‘Seek to harm me and the wrath of the Shining Ones will smite you, monster of the benighted east!’ she howled, hardly knowing where the words were coming from. ‘By the power of the forest, I defy you!’ Green lightning flowed down her sword and burst out towards the plummeting god. ‘By the power of sweet water I defy you!’ Silver sparked and flared at the point of her sword, flashing in the demon’s fiery eyes. ‘By the power of ancient stone I defy you!’

All around Terrwyn’s stamping hooves, pebbles and stones were pulled upward out of the very ground. They gathered, swirling around her sword, whirling faster and faster and then flinging themselves upwards into the face of the great raven.

Squawking and screeching, the black bird was thrown back by the force of the green and white shafts of light and the volley of flying stones.

The world convulsed, emerald and diamond-white lightning stabbing through the enveloping blackness, while dreadful, inhuman voices shouted and wailed and screamed in Branwen’s ears.

But in all the turmoil and chaos, Branwen stayed in the saddle, keeping her sword raised while the Old Gods warred above her head.

The hill heaved under her. There was a blinding burst of white laced through with hissing green shafts.

A stillness came down over the hilltop. Branwen reeled and gasped, her ears ringing, lights exploding behind her eyes. Her companions were scattered, the hill was burned black and smouldering.

But a slithering darkness was fleeing into the east, skimming the treetops, leaving a wake of black smoke.

Branwen blinked, keeping Terrwyn steady as she struggled to clear her sight. Close by, Dera and Aberfa were clambering to their feet, looking dazed.

‘Ragnar is defeated!’ Branwen cried. ‘See how he runs from us!’

Banon tottered upright. ‘Are we all unhurt?’ she gasped.

‘Only my pride,’ gasped Iwan, scrambling up, staggering a little before he caught his balance.

‘I am well enough,’ said Rhodri, sitting up and rubbing his head. ‘Bruised but with no bones broken.’ He reached an arm towards Blodwedd, who was sitting on the burned earth with her head hanging between her knees. ‘How have you fared, Blodwedd?’ he asked. ‘Are you all of one piece?’

Blodwedd shivered under the touch of his hand.

Branwen frowned down at her, worried to see her friend’s limbs shaking so badly. ‘Blodwedd? Are you hurt?’

A low, guttural laugh came from the owl-girl.

‘Oh, no, Warrior Child,’ she growled. ‘I am not hurt.’

Branwen slipped down out of the saddle and walked forward, puzzled.

She paused, her heart beating loud as Blodwedd’s head rose slowly. For a moment, the thick tawny hair veiled her face, then the curls fell back and Branwen’s heart stopped in her chest.

Three raw and bleeding cuts etched parallel grooves across Blodwedd’s face, ripping her flesh open from the right temple to the left jaw line, masking her lower face in a curtain of red, like some terrible blood-sacrament from before the dawn of time.

‘Oh, dear gods, no!’ Branwen murmured, feeling her legs almost give way as she stared into Blodwedd’s disfigured face and saw two lightless and lifeless eyes staring back at her.

Two great circular staring eyes that had grown as black as the pits of Hel.

Eyes like two black moons.