Destiny's Path (15 page)

Captain Angor was speaking. “If they will not heed the voice of reason,” he growled, “let us see whether threats will force their hand.”

“They will never surrender Gwylan Canu to you!” It was Iwan's voice, filled with rage. “My father will die first, traitor!”

Angor turned on Iwan with a snarl. “You had better pray your father sees sense, boy,” he said, grasping Iwan's hair in his fist and forcing his head back. “If he does not, the next sight he will witness will be his son's severed head on the end of my spear, dripping blood as I raise it up in front of his gates!”

B
RANWEN'S MIND REELED
. She had risked the dangers of Doeth Palas in order to warn Iwan of the coming Saxon attack. He had trusted her word—he had gone to Prince Llew, and the prince had sent fifty horsemen to Teg Eingel. But this war band intended to invade Gwylan Canu rather than protect it! And Captain Angor was threatening Iwan with death if Madoc ap Rhain refused to unbolt the gates and surrender the citadel to the prince's men.

And all but Iwan were party to the betrayal. That explained the small number of men sent riding east—all had to have been handpicked for the willingness to betray the House of Puw. But it was madness that in such times men of Powys would fight one another!

An insistent tugging at her tunic made Branwen look back. Rhodri had climbed partway up the slope
toward her. His anxious face stared up at her, his eyes questioning. She shook her head and gestured for him to leave her be.

Iwan was speaking again, his voice defiant. “I thank the saints that you have among your men such fools as cannot hold their tongues!” he spat. “If I had not heard them speaking of your intentions to take my mother and father captive, I would not have been able to call out and warn them to bar the gates against you! As it is, you can sit here till you rot, you treacherous dog! Gwylan Canu will never fall to you!”

Branwen winced as Captain Angor swung his arm round and slammed his fist into Iwan's mouth. “Be silent!” he shouted. “Unless you wish to share the fate of those men whose loose lips came close to ruining all!”

At those words, Branwen realized that what she had taken for a bundle of bags and provisions thrown down in the grass was actually two dead bodies. Her stomach churned, and she had to press her lips together against a rising sickness as she saw that their throats had been savagely cut.

Iwan spat blood and glared defiantly at the captain. “Kill me quickly, then, and have an end to it!” he shouted.

Angor grinned crookedly. “Oh, no, my fine young cockerel,” he said, and now his voice was deadly calm. “That would never do. Kill you quickly? That will not serve my purposes at all. When I said that the next
thing your father would see would be your dripping head, I neglected to mention the long and painful road you would travel before it came to that.” Iwan blinked and looked away. Angor thrust his hand under Iwan's chin, wrenching his struggling prisoner's head so their eyes met once again.

“You know me, Iwan ap Madoc, do you not?” he hissed. “You have seen me at my work. Trust me when I tell you that I am an absolute master at the craft of teasing a man's soul from his body. You will beg for death long before I am done with you—unless you beg first for your father to open his gates to us.”

Iwan's face went ashen, but there was still audacity in his eyes as he stared with contempt at the vicious old soldier. Branwen's heart went out to him—so brave and defiant against such terrible odds.

“That will never happen,” Iwan said thickly, his lips bubbling with blood.

“A bold claim,” said Angor. “But make no rash promises, boy—not until you have learned the full extent of your courage.” He patted Iwan's cheek. “It's a rare privilege, Iwan, that I offer you. Few are the men given the opportunity to be taken to the uttermost end of their endurance. It will be an interesting journey.”

He stepped back and spoke to the two men holding Iwan upright. “Come, we have wasted enough time on this. Let us see if Madoc ap Rhain has yet come to greater wisdom.”

He strode toward the gatehouse, the two men following close behind, half dragging Iwan between them. Branwen's soul ached as she saw the way Iwan struggled to keep to his feet. Anger blazed through her, and she closed her fingers around the hilt of her sword. She couldn't leave Iwan to the vile practices of Captain Angor. She would reveal herself and come to his aid—even thought she knew her chances were limited of surviving a reckless assault on so many armed men.

She started along the cleft, knowing she must keep hidden for as long as possible. But her rage betrayed her as she made her first move hastily along the gully, and her foot came down on a loose stone. It spun away, cracking against others and sending a small flurry of rocks tumbling noisily down to the bottom of the cleft.

Branwen ducked, her heart hammering. Angor spun around, his eyes searching along the ridge. “What was that?” he shouted.

Fool! Clumsy fool!

“Loose rocks, Captain,” a voice called. “Nothing more.”

“Be certain!” shouted Angor. “Go up there and check. Madoc may have men on the ridges, waiting to fall on us unawares!”

Branwen grimaced at her blundering stupidity. Now men would come up here and scour the hillside. If they were discovered, all would be lost.

Something touched her leg. She looked down. Blodwedd was just below her on the slope. “Do not fear,” whispered the owl-girl. “I know I said I would never leave your side—but now I must. I will give them something to chase!”

Branwen nodded, and the owl-girl slid away down the slope. She paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on Rhodri's face. Then she went running along the cleft, her long, thick hair flying.

Branwen watched as Blodwedd scrambled lithely up the far slope. She came into clear view, leaping and bounding among the rocks, moving more swiftly than any human as she skimmed the loose scree, turning this way and that along the face of the precipice, kicking up clouds of gray dust that billowed in her wake.

Even as she watched, Branwen could not quite believe her eyes. Clad in her simple gown of dappled brown, and only dimly visible through the dust, Blodwedd's shape suddenly seemed quite different. Was she still a slender young woman—or had she now taken on some animal form?

Stone and rock rained down. Branwen heard the men shouting out.

“There! There it is! On the hill!”

“What is it?”

“A hare, I think!”

“No, it's too large. A fox, maybe?”

“A young deer? No—see how it throws up the dust
as it runs! A wolf of the mountains? What is it?”

“Whatever it is, it moves with rare speed! See? It's in among the trees already.”

“Captain Angor—did you see? It was only an animal.”

“Yes, I saw it,” came Angor's voice. “A wild dog, I thought.”

The voices dropped to murmurs. No men came up the hill toward them. Blodwedd's diversion had worked—for the moment, Branwen and Rhodri were safe.

Paying close attention to her footing, Branwen moved across the face of the cleft. Rhodri kept pace with her at the bottom.

A strident voice called out.

“Madoc ap Rhain! The time for deliberation is done! What is your answer? Will you open your gates and surrender to me, or will you look on as I torture your son to death?”

A woman's voice responded. “For pity's sake, Captain Angor—do not harm my son!”

“Get you from the walls, woman,” shouted Angor. “It were best you did not see what is to come if your husband does not relent!”

Branwen lifted her head over the ridge again. She was almost opposite the gatehouse of Gwylan Canu. Angor stood under the great wooden gates, staring up at the high ramparts. Many armed men lined the walls, but no weapons were drawn and there was a
deathly silence from the battlements.

Above the gates stood a portly, elderly man with long gray hair and a gray mustache—a warrior past his prime. Branwen vaguely recognized the man from her childhood; he had visited Garth Milain once, this merry-faced old lord. She remembered that he had roared with laughter that day, till his round belly shook. But there was no laughter in him now—his face was pale and drawn, as though he were looking into the very pits of Annwn.

A woman was at his side, clad in green and with plaited flaxen hair. She seemed young, many years the old man's junior—and by the look of her, a woman of old Viking stock. Even from a distance, Branwen could see that she was weeping.

“Angor, I implore you,” Madoc called down, his emotions made plain by the quavering of his voice, “look not through your master's greedy eyes. He can take as many lands as he wishes, but he creates enemies of his countrymen. You must see this. What of the old alliances? What of our long fight against the Saxon hordes?”

“What of them?” Angor shouted. “This is not about territory. Too many years lie on your gray head, Madoc ap Rhain! You are aged and fainthearted and weak. You cannot defend this cantref. Step aside now! Prince Llew commands this for the good of Powys—and any who stand in opposition to that greater good will suffer the consequences! Open your gates and all
will be well. You have my word on that!”

“Old I may be, Angor of Doeth Palas, but fainthearted I never was!” shouted Madoc. “You shall not usurp me nor enter my citadel, though you come at my walls with ten times your present number. Do your worst! If my son dies, I will unleash such vengeance upon you that the very stones of Gwylan Canu will sicken at it!”

“We shall see,” called Angor, drawing his sword. “I have many skills, Madoc. Your son shall not die—not for a very long time.” He turned. “Bare his chest!” he ordered the two men holding Iwan fast. Iwan struggled as the men tore his tunic open.

Branwen's fist tightened on her sword hilt.

A long, keening wail sounded from the gatehouse. Iwan's mother was leaning out over the old stones, her hand reaching uselessly toward her son.

“Let me tell you what wonders await the boy,” Angor called out callously, turning and pressing the point of his sword to Iwan's abdomen just above his belt. Iwan winced as the point cut his skin and a thin thread of blood trickled down. “A small cut made here will give access to his innards. I have a tool—a clever little hooked implement—forged for this very purpose.” He drew a thin loop of iron from his belt and held it up for the watchers from the battlements to see. “It goes into the belly, do you see? Great care and skill are required to turn it just so—allowing it to hook around the boy's guts. And then, very slowly,
very carefully, I will draw it out again—and the guts will come unraveling with it.”

Angor stared up at Iwan's mother. “I will draw out your son's guts, woman. You will be surprised how much of a man's innards can be pulled out without causing him to die on the spot.” His voice rose to a fearsome roar. “No, my lady, even then your son will live for half a day—and in that time, he will learn how to scream. Trust me on this—he will learn how to scream his lungs out!”

Branwen felt sickened by Angor's threats, and she could see the horror that swept over the faces of Iwan's parents. Iwan himself was white-faced, staring blankly ahead of him as though in utter disbelief.

“Lie him down,” snarled Angor. “Let the carnival begin!”

“Enough!” shouted Madoc ap Rhain, his whole body shaking as he glared down at the barbarous captain. “Release my son.” His head bowed in defeat. “Name your terms.”

“Father, no!” screamed Iwan.

“The terms are simple,” Angor called. “You will open your gates and your menfolk will come forth, bearing with them all arms and armor. They will lay their weapons at my feet, my lord, and you will cede to me the lordship of Gwylan Canu.”

There was a dreadful silence from the gatehouse; Madoc ap Rhain's gray head was bowed low. His wife turned, resting her hand on his arm.

Branwen bit her lip, torn by her own impossible choice. She realized that even if she were to leap up, sword swinging, and run as fast as her strong legs allowed, she could never cover the ground between her and Iwan before Angor's men caught her and cut her down. She would die in vain. Her death would make no difference. No—as deeply as it went against the grain of her nature, she lay hidden and did nothing save tighten her grip on her sword hilt till her knuckles were white and bloodless.

“So be it,” called Madoc.

“No!” Iwan howled, struggling in the grip of the two men. He fought so fiercely against them that he broke free on one side. With wild eyes, he threw himself at Captain Angor—and Branwen understood that he meant to impale himself on the Captain's sword, to die rather than allow his father to surrender the citadel.

Angor pulled the blade back as Iwan lunged at him. Iwan pivoted in the grip of the other soldier and fell heavily to his knees. Angor stepped back, laughing.

“Self-murder, is it, Iwan?” he mocked. “The ultimate sacrifice to save the honor of the House of Puw! No, lad—I'll be the one who decides how and when you die.”

“Father—no!” Iwan shouted. “I'm not afraid! I'd rather die.”

But he was too late. Madoc ap Rhain had disappeared from the gatehouse, and Branwen could hear
the rasp and grate of timber bars being drawn back from the gates.

She was wracked with guilt and despair.

It was her warning that had brought Iwan to this place—and although her intention had been the opposite, her actions had brought this calamity upon the citadel of Gwylan Canu.

What can I do? How can I stop this?

All the while, the vision of Iwan's severed, dripping head darkened her mind. She had seen his death in Blodwedd's foretelling—was she now to see it in reality?