Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3) Page 37

Bran’s patience expired. “What, lad? Speak plain!”

  “She married Aelhaearn in the church Emrys built. We thought you knew and chose not to come.”

  Bran felt a surge of anger grip him, sending a bolt of searing pain through his heart. It can’t be true. My only sister—Priestess of the Great Mother, Firebrand, Warrior—the wife of a vile traitor? Christian traitor, no less! Gods. What’s she done? Of all the betrayals he and his people had suffered at the hands of Aelhaearn, this was by far the hardest for him to swallow. “No,” he replied through clenched teeth. “I didn’t know. Where can I find her?”

  Hafgan pointed down the road. “Keep straight on until the road forks. Then take the right path and go up the hill. Theirs is the last house in the row.”

  Bran turned and strode off, putting a small pinch of herbs in his cheek to aid his heart.

  “Father!” Gareth called after him.

  Bran did not turn around. He held out his hand as a clear signal to Gareth that he did not want to hear whatever he had to say, nor did he wish to be followed. He soon found the house, but it was empty. A woman eyed him from the front of the house next door. He forced himself to smile. “My lady, I’m sorry to bother you—do you know where I can find Lord Aelhaearn?”

  She looked at him sideways, squinting. “Dux Aelhaearn, you mean?”

  “Yes.” He could not bring himself to repeat the title. “Do you know where he is?”

  “In the hall with Commander Uthyr, I imagine. That’s where he always is.”

  “Thank you.” Bran strode off into the heart of the city, forcing his way through the crowds to Uthyr’s hall. He pitied the short folk being jostled about, unable to see where they were going. He felt grateful for his stature. As tall and imposing as he was, however, it still took him the better part of an hour to make his way to the hall. The moment he entered, he heard a familiar voice cry, “Bran of the Oaks!”

  Uthyr was beaming at him from across the room.

  “Pendragon.” Bran walked over to him. “My men and I have arrived. I’m sorry for the delay.”

  Uthyr ignored his apology and clapped him on the back. “Come over here and tell me what you think of my plans for the north.” He led Bran to a large table, unrolled a map, smoothed it out and proceeded to place several figures on it. “The rest of you, as well. Come and look.” Uthyr finished placing the figures and raised his hands, presenting his work. “These are the men we have. Consider a hundred men for every figure on the map.”

  Bran hunched over the mock battle scene with a critical eye. The other chieftains present crowded around to study it as well. Bran felt a wave of dread as he noticed a familiar silhouette standing across from the table from him. A prickling heat begin to creep up his spine, spreading to his neck and ears. He took a deep breath and glanced up. Aelhaearn. His hands itched to wrap themselves around his rival’s neck and strangle the life out of him, but this was neither the time nor place for it. To make matters worse, Camulos stood beside him. Gods help me. He imagined taking them both by the hair and smashing their heads together into a bloody pulp.

  Uthyr startled him from his dark reverie by stabbing mercilessly at Octa’s territories with his index finger. “That’s good land my brother gave the wretch! As if sparing his shit-soiled miserable Saxon life against his better judgement weren’t enough!” He spat on the floor in disgust. “Snake!”

  A man, whom Bran recognized as Dyfnwal of Bryneich, scowled and spit in kind. “The bastards have been poison since they arrived. We’ll be glad to rid ourselves of them.” The man beside him, Gwrast of Rheged, gave a firm nod of agreement. “Bloody right.”

  Gwrast of Rheged and Dyfnwal of Bryneich were the chieftains whose territories bordered the land Emrys had given Octa. They, naturally, had the most information to offer about the surrounding terrain, behavior and daily habits of the enemy they were about to face, and Uthyr grilled them relentlessly for details.

  “It’s a shame Ceredig couldn’t make the journey down,” Uthyr mused. “His counsel would have been of great value, as well, but someone needs to keep an eye on the enemy for us.”

  The hours wore on. They discussed every aspect of Uthyr’s battle plan until, at last, the hall fell silent. Uthyr looked around the room. Though he had bags beneath his eyes, they sparked with satisfaction. “I think we’ve got our plan, then. Makes use of the terrain, suits the number of men we’ve got …” He tilted his head to the side, staring down at the map, giving it one final assessment. “Yes. Good. We march in three days. Get some sleep.”

  Bran was likely the only one in the hall who had no desire to sleep. He leapt at his chance to confront Aelhaearn. He followed him out into the night and grabbed him by the tunic, yanking him around to face him. “You married my sister without consulting me?”

  Aelhaearn raised his brows, taken aback by the abrupt attack. He chuckled before answering in a calm voice, “She needs no protector. She’s not a little girl. She’s a woman, quite capable of making her own choices. And why would I ask you? You would’ve refused, no matter what she said.”

  Aelhaearn’s calm manner stoked Bran’s anger further. “I want to speak with her.”

  Aelhaearn shrugged. “Fine.” He strode off in silence, leading the way through winding streets until they returned to the modest yet well-cared for home Bran had visited earlier that day. Aelhaearn opened the door and called out, “Someone’s here to see you, wife.”

  Bran cringed at hearing him call his sister “wife.” He walked in, eyes darting in all directions, anxious to see her face. She appeared a moment later. “Bran!” She smiled and ran to him. “I’m so glad to see you.” After a long embrace, she stepped back to regard the situation. “The two of you are in the same room together. This is good.”

  “Is it?” Bran scowled. He dove right in. “You got married, Seren? Without consulting me?”

  Seren took a deep breath and smiled weakly. “Bran, you know you’d never have allowed it.”

  “You’re damn right, I wouldn’t have allowed it! But couldn’t you have at least sent word that you’d done it?”

  Seren’s mouth fell open. “But, I did send word! The messenger returned saying you weren’t at Mynyth Aur, so he delivered the…” She trailed off.

  “Delivered the message to whom?”

  Seren sat down and put her head in her hands.

  “To whom?” Bran demanded again.

  She let out a sigh. “To Lucia. I’m sorry, Bran.”

  Bran felt the rage he had been suppressing come to a boiling point again. Every beat of his heart felt like he was being stabbed from the inside out. He managed to nod through the pain. “I need to leave.”

  “No, don’t, Bran…please. Sit. Let me talk to you. Give me a chance to explain…”

  Aelhaearn was wise enough to see the folly of this and put a hand on Seren’s shoulder, shaking his head. Bran stormed out of the house just in time. He had nearly punched Aelhaearn in the face.

  ***

  Bran found a dark, private place where none would see him and allowed himself to gasp. He reached into his herb pouch with a shaky hand and pinched out a generous wad. He concentrated on his breath, slowing it down. He felt the herbs begin to work and felt a wave of relief. Thank you, thank you. Once the pain had abated to a tolerable level, he returned to the barracks. Gareth was the first to notice his arrival. “You’re back.” He sighed with relief. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  Bran would normally have laughed, but his sense of humor had fled him hours ago and had not returned. “No. But the night is young.”

  “Father, please.”

  Bran ignored the comment and addressed the men who were now gathering around him with expectant faces. “Drink up, lads. Sleep well. We march in three days.”

  Whoops went through the camp. Gareth smiled and gripped his father’s shoulder. He was nearly as tall as Bran. “What’s wrong, Father?”

  Bran wished he could share his men’s enthusiasm, but since arriving
in Viroconium, there had been an increasing number of things causing him concern. He had taken good stock of the troops in the village on his way back. Many were young and inexperienced, some were wounded, and all looked tired.

  “Winter is coming. It’ll be a hard week’s march north, and that’s if nothing goes wrong. I fear we’ll have ragged troops without much fight left in them by the time we get there. This is the third time we’ve marched into battle in only a few years. The journey itself may take everything some of these men have to offer.”

  Gareth shrugged. “That may be their destiny.”

  Bran shook his head. “It seems for every enemy we root out another springs up in his place.” He looked Gareth in the eye. “Such is life for men in positions of power. Remember that, when the day comes. You must always be looking over your shoulder and learn how to read men’s hearts, for better or worse.” He let out a sigh. “It also helps if you’re a bit corrupt.”

  “Corrupt?” Gareth raised his brows. “Why?”

  “How well can a completely noble man anticipate what a traitor or usurper will do?” He put an arm around Gareth’s shoulders. “Don’t make the mistake of assuming others think like you or cherish the same things—for every one who does, there’s one who doesn’t. The trick is to expect the worst from people, yet remain kind and generous.” Bran thought back on his encounter with Aelhaearn. “It’s not easy.”

  ***

  The sun rose and set twice more, and Uthyr led the march north. The troops were in good spirits the first few days, but once they moved north of Hadrian’s wall, things became progressively more difficult. The roads, when there were roads to speak of, were rough and muddy. The skies remained relentlessly grey and cold. Day after day, rain fell in torrents, soaking them with a chill that could not be thrown off. This was nothing, however, compared to the constant threat of attack by bands of Picts, who roamed the lands they traveled through. In but a few days and nights, they had lost what Gareth supposed to be a few hundred men in these attacks. Gareth shuddered as they piled up the bodies. Gods. To come all this way only to die before the great battle itself. Great Mother, at least, let me make it there to fight.

  For eight more days they marched, until news came from the front that they had arrived on the outskirts of Octa’s territories. They set up camp, and Gareth sat down next to the fire to eat his small supper. He looked at the tired faces of his brothers-in-arms and wished Taliesin were there to sing his ballads. It was impossible to resist feeling inspired after a night of Taliesin’s songs, no matter how miserable you were.

  “Can anyone play?” Gareth asked his fireside companions.

  They shook their heads.

  Gareth gave a nod of acceptance. “Well, then we’ll need something to pass the time.” He pulled out a goatskin and passed it to Hafgan. “I’ve been saving it.”

  “Mead?” Hafgan took a swig and his eyes lit up. “Gods bless you!” He passed it to the man on his left. Around it went, bringing smiles to their faces, until it returned to Gareth. He held it up. “May we fight with honor and live to tell about it.” He drank and sighed with satisfaction, staring up at the stars. “Preferably, to beautiful women.”

  ***

  Finally, the day they had sacrificed so much for arrived. Just before dawn, Uthyr rode through the camp, rousing the men himself. “Up, men! To arms! Kiss your swords and pray to your gods, for today we rid our lands of the snake who has seen the last of our trust and generosity!”

  Though Emrys had never failed to inspire brotherhood and trust among his followers, Uthyr had a way of summoning the ferocious beast that lay within the heart of every man. His speech had the effect of a torch thrown upon a parched field of dry grass, igniting his men. It was upon this roiling sea of violent passion that they marched into battle, hungry for Saxon blood.

  Once the battle began, it became clear to Bran the march north had done them no favors. Though strong in spirit, an alarming number of men fell in the first hour of the fight.

  Bran stayed close to his kinsmen, extending his awareness all around them. He felt the progression of the battle and the resolve of the enemy and weighed it against the exhaustion of his brothers. He fought the best he could, but he, too, was tired, in spite of the herbs he had eaten before the battle. It was only a matter of time before a Saxon got the better of him, sending him reeling backward. He lost his footing and felt his head crack against a rock or shield. In that moment, the scene before him changed. The sky became dark as hundreds of crows appeared overhead and began circling the battlefield. He blinked, and everything around him became frozen in time, except for the birds overhead. He watched them descend, tightening their circle as if it were a noose. Crows? Valkyries? The scene addled his mind. Mother, are you up there? Help me. I must fight! He thought of Gareth and Hafgan and summoned all the will he had. I must fight!

  Things around him lurched back into motion and his mind cleared. He rolled away just in time to avoid an axe through his head.

  Uthyr watched his army struggle on like a lame horse, until, seeing no other alternative, he gave the order to retreat.

  Through the fog that clouded his mind, Bran recalled what Uthyr had told them before the battle: If we must retreat, lead your men to Mount Damen.

  Mount Damen was a high mountain with many caverns and hazel trees. It was the only place for miles around they would find cover. “To the mountain!” Bran yelled to the men under his command. He could feel blood running down his neck from the gash in his head. He felt dizzy, but kept his eyes to the ground and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  The Oaks moved off the battlefield and the Saxons realized their victory. Cries of triumph rose up eerily after them as they scrambled up the slope, taunting them.

  Once they reached a defensible position, Bran found a lookout point where he could survey the battlefield. Again, his eyes played tricks on him. A familiar cold feeling engulfed him.

  Arawn.

  In that moment, he saw Arawn’s red-eyed white hounds roaming the field, sniffing out the dead who belonged to their master. Over and over, they bayed as they found their quarry, waiting for their master to come and claim what was his.

  For the first time in his life, Bran found the idea of following Arawn to the Summerlands appealing. He thought of the beauty and peace of Vanaheim and expected the Summerlands must be much like it. Then, at last, the pain would stop. He allowed himself a moment to imagine what the relief would be like. But I can’t leave Lucia. I can’t leave the twins.

  Bran then realized Arawn was not the only hooded figure upon the field. Who is the other? Unlike Arawn, whose cape billowed behind him like smoke, the other figure was difficult to spot at first. He walked slowly through the field, a long walking stick in his hand. Only when two ravens flew down from the sky and perched on his shoulders did Bran recognize him. Woden. He knew it was only a matter of time before the two gods would cross paths. When they neared one another, he held his breath in rapt anticipation, but, to his shock, neither seemed aware of the other at all. Each god existed in his own world, dealing with his dead in his own way. Woden pointed out his chosen, whom the Valkyries came down and bore skyward, and Arawn summoned his dead to march behind him.

  When the dead had been reaped, Woden’s ravens grew to the size of houses and bore him into the clouds as well. Arawn remained upon the earth, his long serpent of souls trailing behind him across the battlefield. He pointed his palm toward the mountain, opened a doorway, and led them through.

  “Chieftains!” Uthyr called out, destroying Bran’s vision. “We must convene!”

  Weary and wet with blood and sweat, Bran and his fellow commanders met with Uthyr. “I need to know what weaknesses you observed from where your men fought. Anything about the land, the men, their methods…we must find an advantage.”

  All were quick to give their opinion except Gorlois, who seldom spoke at all. Yet, it was from him that Bran wished to hear, above all others. Though his age h
ad drained some of his prowess on the battlefield, he had fought in more battles than anyone among them. Uthyr seemed to be of the same mind, for he prompted Gorlois for his counsel. “My friend, Gorlois—what say you?”

  Gorlois had been surveying their surroundings since they had arrived on the mountain. “Night will soon fall. If this were my decision, I would attack tonight. We can afford no delusions. We don’t know the curves of this land. She’s a woman we’ve not bedded. These men are well-fed, well-rested, and eager for revenge. I believe tonight’s our only opportunity to get the best of our enemies. If we stay here, they’ll come and slaughter us at dawn.”

  No one spoke. He’s right, Bran thought. We’re no match for them, now. Today made that clear. Tomorrow we’ll be weaker. I, more than most.

  Everyone waited on Uthyr, who had closed his eyes as if he were praying. When he opened them, he said, “We attack tonight.”

  That night, if Bran had to choose any single night, proved Uthyr’s sorcerous ability to inspire men beyond their fears.

  “She’s there, men! Can’t you smell her on the wind?” He raised his arms and filled his chest with breath, then let out a battle cry. “Victory! She’s here, in the land and sky, watching you from the trees, waiting for you, like a bride in love! She wants you to take her! Save her from these Saxon dogs! Show them no mercy! Leave their bowels in the dirt and seize back what they’ve stolen from us!”

  Though exhausted, hungry, wounded and battle-weary, the words the Pendragon spoke to his men upon Mount Damen infused them with an unnatural strength and courage. In this bewitched state, they descended the mountain and engaged their enemies.

  ***

  “Gareth!” Bran cried, watching his son fall to the ground. In the darkness and heat of battle, Bran had struggled to keep his son within his sights, but had failed. Now, a Saxon stood over him, his foot pinning Gareth’s shield arm to the ground, and his axe poised overhead for a death blow. A bolt of terror surged through Bran, white flashes of pain crippling his eyesight. He tried to cleave his way with shield and spear through all who stood between them, but the strength he once had was no longer there. His heart gave out with the exertion, and dizziness overcame him, causing him to stumble clumsily to the ground. No, no, no. He crawled desperately toward his son, but before he could reach him, a burst of flame exploded all around him. When it cleared, he beheld two things. A dead Saxon, and Aelhaearn pulling Gareth to his feet.