The Emerald Flame Page 8

  Her sword was jarred from her hand as she sprawled on her face. The pain in her belly was numbing and all consuming, making it hard for her even to draw breath. But instinct took over from thought, and her will to survive outweighed her agony. She squirmed onto her back clutching her shield in both hands, holding it over herself as the battle-ax came plunging down. The impact split the shield in two, sending a shock of pain through her arms and shoulders. But she was able to twist to one side so that the head of the ax sank into the ground a hairbreadth from her head.

  Snarling and with muscles bulging, the great warrior struggled to wrench the blade of his ax from the hard earth.

  Discarding the riven shield, Branwen writhed away from the stooping warrior and rolled across the ground to where her sword lay among the ferns. She snatched it up and sprang to her feet—but the agony in her belly betrayed her. She cried out in pain, clutching at her stomach, unable to stand upright.

  Skur wrenched his ax from the ground and turned toward her, his face absolutely expressionless as he hefted the deadly weapon and strode forward.

  “Branwen!” It was Iwan’s voice, a frantic cry. “Branwen, run!”

  Panting hard from the pain, she ventured a quick glance around. She and Skur were within a scorched ring of leaping fire. Where could she run? She was trapped unless she ran headlong into the flames.

  She could vaguely make out the faces of her followers through the fire. Even as she looked, Aberfa hurled a javelin into the wall of flame. It flared white-hot and was consumed in an instant. Banon and Iwan were shooting arrow after futile arrow into the fire—none survived in it.

  Screaming in rage and frustration, Dera was beating at the flames with her sword; but the fire held her back—as it held all of them back.

  Branwen had wanted to fight Skur alone.

  Now she had her wish.

  She stumbled backward, bent over, one arm cradling her stomach, her sword shaking in her fist. Skur moved forward, the ax scything slowly to and fro in front of him, his face disturbingly tranquil, as though he were simply sweeping grass out of his path as he strolled through the forest. He hardly even looked at her.

  He doesn’t fear me at all. This is sport to him. Less than sport. The swatting of a fly.

  The ax cut a lazy arc at head level, and Branwen only just managed to duck down and painfully scurry to the side to avoid it. She had her back to the wall of flame now. She could feel its heat on her shoulders, and her ears were filled with the roar and crackle of burning.

  She edged sideways, putting more space between her and the huge warrior, circling him, getting her breath back, struggling to master the pain.

  She had been a fool to fling herself at him like that. She remembered what Gavan ap Huw had told her as they had sparred in the forest outside Doeth Palas. The old warrior had agreed to teach her the basics of battle. She had not done well.

  Do not let your emotions rule you. The blood may be hot, but the mind must be always cool.

  Her impetuous attack on Skur Bloodax had cost her dearly: she was hurt, and her shield was gone. Now she had to be calm and wise and cunning.

  “Branwen! Hoi!” Aberfa’s voice. A wild cry. Branwen glanced toward the sound, seeing the powerful girl hurl a javelin up and over the wall of flame. It arced and dipped and came down point first in the ground only a few steps away from Branwen. “Use it well!” Aberfa howled through the fire. “All the others are lost!”

  Branwen darted forward, transferring her sword to her left hand. She ripped the javelin from the ground, spinning on one heel and raising her arm high, the javelin poised for the throw.

  Skur lifted his shield to his blank eyes, the blue irises like ice, fathomless and impenetrable. Branwen feinted a throw. The eyes blinked and the shield was pushed forward. She almost forgot the pain in her belly as she danced sideways around the huge warrior, making him turn to keep his shield between him and the threatening javelin, jerking her arm every few moments so he could not be sure whether she was going to throw or not.

  “The eye! Go for the eye!” that was Dera’s voice. Others were shouting their encouragement now as Branwen bounded around the ring of fire; but she blotted out their voices. She had to concentrate—she had to think.

  Use your agility and your speed.

  Gavan had told her that. Against power and weight, use agility and speed.

  Branwen paused, breathing hard, faking weariness. Skur sensed his moment. He lunged forward, bringing down his ax like a lightning strike. Branwen stumbled sideways, the ground trembling from the blow. She fell to one knee; but the fall was planned, and her muscles were taut and ready. The arm rose and came down again, the biceps as thick as Branwen’s thigh, the veins standing out like tree roots.

  Branwen sprang up and jabbed the javelin down into Skur’s outstretched arm. It pierced the flesh, sending the blood spraying. She leaned in on the long shaft, forcing the barbed point deeper, through flesh and muscle, until it emerged through his skin again in a gush of blood.

  Roaring with pain, the Viking lashed out at her with his shield. But she was ready for him this time. Releasing the javelin, she snatched hold of the leather shield rim and rode the shield high into the air, her feet kicking, her fingers clinging on. She managed to bring up one foot onto the shield boss, using it to boost herself higher. And now she made her final move.

  Pressing down hard on the shield with her hand and her foot, she released her straining muscles and flung herself into the air. She twisted like a salmon, throwing her sword from her left hand to her right and using all the power of her arm and shoulder to cut downward as she leaped over her enemy.

  The sword jolted in her hand as it hacked through the humped sinews at the base of his neck. Blood splashed high as she lost impetus and fell.

  She landed behind him, coming down hard, bending her legs and turning her body so that she rolled over three times before coming to a halt perilously close to the surging wall of fire.

  “Finish him, Branwen!” Dera’s voice again. “Take my shield! Finish him now!” And so saying, Dera flung her shield high over the fire.

  Branwen scrambled to her feet, a little dizzy and aching from her tumble but eager now to take advantage of first blood. Skur was staggering and roaring, still facing away from her, his wounded arm red to the elbow, blood cascading down his back from the wide gash in his neck.

  Dera’s shield spun against the dappled roof of leaves. Branwen stretched up, reaching for it with her left hand. But a black shape came careening out of nowhere, crashing into the flying shield, sending it whirling into the wall of flames, where it ignited and vanished.

  “Ragghh! Raggghhh!” Mumir’s cries tore the air as the bird banked and turned in a tight circle, his black eyes filled with rage as he flew into Branwen’s face.

  She fell back, her hands up to protect her eyes. She felt the sharp beak stabbing at her, the claws raking her skin. Hiding her face in the crook of her arm, she swung wildly and blindly at the bird with her sword arm. The raven’s claws ripped at her hair, and the beak stabbed painfully at her head; and all the time the thrash of his wings was in her ears, and the raucous shriek of his voice pierced her brain.

  And then there was another voice in her head, as wild and harsh and angry as the raven’s—but this time it was a voice she knew well.

  “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

  Mumir’s attack ceased abruptly, and Branwen was able to take her arm from her face. Fain and the raven were fighting in the air in a flurry of black and gray—beaks pecking, claws scrabbling, their wings no more than a blur as they rose higher into the trees.

  “Fain! Be careful!” Branwen howled as the two birds became caught up in the branches and the desperate fight was lost behind a curtain of trembling leaves.

  But it was a sound from much closer that made Branwen spin around. The sound of breath rattling in a throat.

  Skur was looming over her, his face twisted with pain, his eyes burning. He had snapped off the javelin s
o that only the iron point was left, impaling his arm. He had dropped his shield and he was holding up the huge battle-ax in both hands, the blood of his wound raining down as he balanced himself for the killing blow.

  Branwen threw herself forward as the ax hurtled down. And as she came in under the blow, she gripped her sword in both hands and thrust upward into Skur’s exposed belly.

  Branwen put all her weight behind the thrust. The blade ripped through the red leather of Skur’s tunic, scraping against the iron rings. The sword drove in to the hilt and Branwen went with it, her face crushed against the iron rings, the dark blood gushing out over her, thick and hot in her nostrils.

  Pushed back by the force of her blow, Skur was lifted upright, his hands loosened from the hilt of his battle-ax, his mouth open in a bellow of mortal agony. For a moment he stood on his two feet, balanced, his head thrown back, his face to the sky.

  Then, like a lightning-struck tree, he fell, crashing down onto his back, pulling Branwen helplessly along with him, her fingers still gripping her sword hilt.

  She stood up, her hands slippery with his blood, the rusty iron smell of it filling her head. He was not dead. His chest rose and fell convulsively, the breath grinding and gurgling in his throat.

  “Branwen!” She heard her name being shouted from all sides. “Branwen!” She stared dazedly around herself, hardly aware of what was happening. Then she saw that the wall of fire was gone and that her friends were running forward.

  “Caw! Caaaw!” Fain came wheeling down from the canopy of branches, his feathers bloodied, his beak and claws dripping gore, but his voice triumphant. Of Mumir the raven there was no sign. Vanquished or fled, the evil old bird was no longer a threat.

  Skur Bloodax gave a final great cry. Blood gouted thick and black from his mouth. His chest sank a final time. His eyes emptied of life.

  The battle was over.

  Ragnar’s fire was quenched. His servant was dead.

  Branwen arched her back, her arms spreading wide, her face to the sky, her mouth opening in a feral howl of victory.

  She heard the voices of her followers as they gathered around her.

  “Bran-wen! Bran-wen!”

  The world was bathed all in red, as though a layer of thick gore clung to every surface, every shape and form. And it was inside her, too—the black blood boiling in her brain, the battle-lust running like madness through her veins.

  “I am Branwen!” she shouted to the sky. “I am the Emerald Flame of my people! The Bright Blade! The Sword of Destiny!” Her voice rose to a scream. “Look on me and tremble, gods of the Saxons! You cannot stand against me! I am Branwen—Branwen of the Shining Ones!”

  11

  “BRANWEN? ARE YOU all right?”

  Branwen hardly heard the voice as she stood exultant on the field of victory. Skur was dead, and she was sheathed from head to foot in his blood. It drummed in her brain and filled her eyes and glutted her to the very marrow of her bones. All the world was steeped in blood. There was nothing else—nothing but hot, smoking blood and the joy of the spilling of it: the glee in carnage, the overpowering glory of meting out death.

  “Branwen?”

  Another voice. Familiar. Concerned.

  A face swam into view through the veil of running blood.

  “Get back!” Branwen howled, swinging her sword. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!”

  The figures surrounding her bounded back from her blade. Voices cried out in alarm and fear. “Branwen—have you lost your wits?” “Branwen—it is us!” “Your friends!”

  She snarled, seeing only more victims through the red haze. She delighted in the weight of the sword in her hands. She wanted nothing more than to sink the sharp blade into more flesh.

  “She is mad!”

  “It’s the battle-frenzy—I have seen it before.” One form stepped toward her. “Branwen?” She knew that voice. A calm voice. A voice calling her back from the Underworld. “Branwen—it’s done. It’s all over.”

  Her body was bursting with power and blood-lust. She was no longer human. She was a god now! A god of bloodletting and warfare. Freed from the shackles of humanity. Free to unleash slaughter through the world.

  “Gently, now, Branwen. Gently now.”

  She blinked and stared at the figure through the red haze. Understanding dawned in the blood-soaked shambles of her mind.

  “Rhodri?”

  “Yes! It is I! Be calm, Branwen. It’s over. The Viking is dead. All’s well.”

  A hand closed around the wrist of her sword arm.

  The pounding of blood in her head faded away. The crimson curtain fell from her eyes. She stared into Rhodri’s worried face. She looked down at her sword arm. The blade was dripping blood, and there was blood caked over her hand and arm.

  “Rhodri!” She dropped her sword and threw herself impulsively into his arms. He was a rock in the flood of her madness; he was an anchor in the swell; he was the only thing preventing her from being swept away on a brainsick tide of destruction.

  “What happened to me?” She gasped, her face pressed into his chest.

  His arms held her. “It was battle-fever,” he said. “No more than that.”

  She looked up into his kind and compassionate face. “No. Something took hold of me, Rhodri,” she breathed. “In my head—deep inside my head. Something that wanted to become me … or … or wanted me to become it! Something old and dreadful—something that enjoyed killing.”

  He dipped his head, his lips close to her ear. “Hush now!” he murmured. “You will scare the others with such talk. You are Branwen, still—be her!”

  She looked into his eyes, fighting hard to gather together the scattered fragments of herself.

  “Are you hurt, Branwen?” It was Iwan’s voice.

  She took a deep breath and pulled away from Rhodri. “I am not,” she said. “A light-headedness took me, that was all.” She turned and looked down at the gory corpse of Skur Bloodax, lying on its back in the ring of burned ferns. “So falls their great champion,” she said. “I would have the Saxons know of this victory.”

  “Aye, they should!” said Dera. “His severed head on a pole would do the trick!” She paced along his body, her sword ready.

  “No, I’d take a less grisly trophy,” said Branwen, looking away—heartsick now at the sight of so much spilled blood.

  “His ax!” said Banon, running forward, gripping the great double-headed battle-ax with both hands and yanking its blade from the ground. “We should take his ax!” She hefted it in her hands. “By the saints! It’s a heavy beast of a weapon! I can hardly lift it!”

  “Arms like knotted twine you have!” said Aberfa with a slow smile, taking the huge battle-ax out of Banon’s hands and swinging it around her head. “A worthy weapon for a champion,” she said, bringing it to rest on her shoulder.

  “And it has the mark we were told of,” said Linette. “The raven in flight cut into the head. No Saxon seeing it will doubt that the Viking warrior is slain!”

  Branwen looked at the engraving etched deep into the gray iron of the twin blades. It was Mumir to the very life: the wings spread wide, the eyes blazing, the claws extended, and the beak wide as though screaming defiance. A fine artist had done this work; and even though Skur was dead and the raven gone, the cruel image sent a shiver down Branwen’s spine.

  But it also brought something else to the forefront of her mind.

  “Where is the woman he traveled with?” she asked, turning and staring along the valley. “And where is his horse?”

  “We must find them,” said Rhodri. “The woman may need our aid—and we shall at least have the pleasure of telling her that her master is dead.”

  “Rhodri, Blodwedd—come with me,” said Branwen. “The rest of you, go fetch our horses. Strip this Viking of anything we may be able to make use of. The rest we will leave as carrion for the forest beasts to devour. Aberfa—keep charge of the ax for now, if you will.” She looked up through the
branches. The sun was halfway down the western sky. The day was wearing away. With Skur dead, she now had time to give thought to their other mission. “We have already been detained too long by this; I’d still have us in Chester ere nightfall, but we will need to travel more swiftly now, I think.”

  Blodwedd ran ahead of Branwen and Rhodri, racing lightly through the sea of ferns, her head turning from side to side, searching for some sign of the woman and the Viking’s horse.

  “Thank you,” Branwen said quietly to Rhodri as they followed the owl-girl.

  “For what?” Rhodri asked.

  “For being yourself,” Branwen replied. “For trusting that I was still your friend under all this gore.”

  “We have come through a lot, we two,” Rhodri said. “Did you think I would lose faith in you?”

  “Rhodri?” her voice was solemn now. “I truly felt that some power was trying to take my mind from me,” she said. “What if Gavan was right—what if the Shining Ones are turning me into something … something other than human?”

  “That will never happen,” said Rhodri. “I will not allow it!”

  “Really?” She was almost amused by this. “How would you prevent it?”

  “Did I not tell you, Branwen?” he said, his eyes gleaming as he looked into her face. “I have gifts passed down the generations from my remote ancestors. The gift of healing for one, as you already know. And others I have not yet tested, I am sure.” He arched an eyebrow. “I have Druid blood in me, Branwen.”

  She looked dubiously at him. “Rhodri … that cannot be true …!” So far as she knew, the Romans had eradicated the Druids five hundred or more years ago.

  “It is true, or so my mother believed,” he said. “I told you my father’s kin farmed land by the sea in the west of Gwynedd, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, in Cefn Boudan—I remember. So?”

  He smiled. “Cefn Boudan is but a short way by boat from the island of Ynis Môn—where the Druid priesthood made its last stand against the Roman legions in the ancient times. My kin fled the island and renounced the old ways. But blood is blood, and I surely have powers enough in me to prevent you from turning to evil!”