Destiny's Path (16 page)

B
RANWEN COULD HARDLY
bring herself to watch as the gates of Gwylan Canu swung slowly inward, creaking and cracking on their hinges. For a moment all was still, then Madoc ap Rhain strode out, his soldiers following in somber silence.

Captain Angor stood over the kneeling Iwan, his sword resting on the back of the subdued boy's neck, a threat to ensure his father's continued compliance.

“Neb ap Mostyn!” Angor called to one of his men. “See that these fine men are disarmed. Have them pile their weapons together and stand in ranks.”

The man called Neb ap Mostyn began to organize the men of Gwylan Canu, herding them onto the plateau, while the soldiers of Doeth Palas gathered their swords, spears, axes, and shields and began to pile them in a great heap with much
ringing and clanging.

Branwen guessed that Madoc ap Rhain's force consisted of about two hundred and fifty men—easily enough to do battle with Captain Angor's warriors, if not for that sharp blade held at the nape of Iwan's neck. She stared up at the ramparts. A few women were gathered there, watching in deathly silence as their menfolk gave up their weapons and stood in grim, sullen rows while Angor's soldiers guarded them, swords at the ready.

“You have all that you wished for,” called Madoc ap Rhain. “Give me back my son!”

Angor wrenched Iwan to his feet. “Take your prize, my lord, and be welcome to it.” He shoved Iwan between the shoulders. Iwan stumbled, tripping and falling heavily with a cry, his arms still tied at his back.

Branwen's agony diminished a little—perhaps Iwan would not die here after all! Perhaps there was some hope.

Iwan's father ran to his son and helped him to his feet.

Branwen heard Iwan's voice, shaking with anger and dismay. “You should not have bartered Gwylan Canu for my life!” he cried. “You should have let these dogs do their worst.” He turned, spitting at Angor. “Worse than the Saxons, you are, Angor ap Pellyn! May the curses of all the saints come down on you!”

“Keep the boy quiet, my lord,” Angor said without
emotion. “You have surrendered your citadel to me on his behalf—do not make that a vain sacrifice.”

Madoc ap Rhain put a protective arm around Iwan's shoulders. “Only the weak of heart threaten those who cannot fight back, Angor of Doeth Palas,” he said. “You have had your way. What will now become of my people?”

“That you will learn in good time,” said Angor. He called to his lieutenant. “Neb ap Mostyn—take a detail into the citadel and make sure that no men lurk there. Search for any weapons that may have been kept back from us. Any man of sword-bearing age that you find beyond the wall—kill him!”

“What of the women and children and old folk, Captain?” Neb replied.

A cruel smile slithered over Angor's face. “On the promontory behind the Great Hall you will find the ground is dug with many deep pits,” he said. “In the wars of Madoc ap Rhain's youth, these pits were used to imprison Saxon captives, although I'll guess they are unoccupied now. Have them thrown into the pits. Kill any that resist—be they woman, child, or ancient.”

“Yes, Captain.” Neb ap Mostyn called for ten men to follow him, and they entered the citadel while the women watched from the ramparts with hollow, frightened eyes.

“One more thing,” Angor called after him. “There will be Saxon servants—do them no harm.
They are not for the pits.”

Branwen had become so immersed in the distressing and unfathomable events that were unfolding out on the plateau that she was startled when Rhodri came crawling quietly alongside her.

“Do you hear it?” he whispered urgently.

She ducked her head down below the ridge before replying. “Hear what?” she hissed softly.

“Listen! Marching feet!”

Branwen frowned, straining her ears.

Yes! She could hear it now, echoing faintly among the rocks—the steady tread of many feet.

“Are they the rest of Prince Llew's men?” she wondered aloud. “No—surely not. It's too soon for them to have gotten here.”

“The sound does not come from the south, Branwen,” Rhodri murmured. “Listen more closely. They approach from the east!”

It was hard for Branwen to pinpoint the exact direction of the noise as it bounced from rockface to rockface. But at last, as it grew gradually louder, she knew that she was hearing a force of soldiers coming in along the coastal road—and, as Rhodri had realized, they were coming from the east.

A small figure appeared suddenly among the rocks. It was Blodwedd. She must have circled through the trees and come down into the gulley from their right. She scrambled along the cleft and crawled up toward them.

“Saxons,” she hissed. “I saw them from the hilltop. Many Saxon warriors—led by horsemen. One was a great black-bearded man on a tall black stallion. He has gold on his helmet. Pennants fly at his back—a white dragon on a field of red. Those who follow are savage men. Their eyes brim with the lust of slaughter and conquest!”

“Herewulf Ironfist!” said Rhodri. “He's the black-bearded man who leads them—and it is his flag that flies over them.” He looked at Blodwedd. “Did you have time to count their numbers?”

“I would guess they be five hundred men strong,” she said. “Maybe more.”

Branwen remembered the line of Saxon soldiers that she had seen in her vision. All too soon, it seemed, her vivid dream was becoming reality. She closed her eyes, again seeing Iwan's dripping, severed head in her mind.

Here you are at last, Branwen, but too late…. The west is lost. All is done. All…is…done
….

She opened her eyes, and determination filled her. If all were truly lost, then she would go down fighting, not skulking among the rocks. “We must go to Angor's aid,” she said, drawing her sword. “Ironfist must not come upon him in the open.” She narrowed her eyes. No matter what disputes had riven Powys over the years, the great princes of her homeland had always come together to fight their age-old foe. Of course, Captain Angor and Lord Madoc must now
join forces against Ironfist.

“Now this madness will end!” she said. “The men of Powys will unite against the Saxons. Angor cannot leave the men of Gwylan Canu unarmed now. He will need every able-bodied warrior if he is to hold the citadel against Ironfist's attack.”

Blodwedd's small hand gripped the wrist of Branwen's sword arm. “Do not show yourself yet,” she said, looking intently into Branwen's eyes. “One of the horsemen who leads the warriors was no Saxon. He had no beard, and he was dressed in the fashion of the men of Powys. My heart tells me there is more to learn before you act.”

“The man you saw was likely a captive,” said Rhodri, “a man of Brython, forced to lead Ironfist to the citadel.”

“It is of no matter,” Branwen hissed. “I will not stand idly by while Gwylan Canu is taken!” She tried in vain to drag her hand free from the owl-girl's deceptively strong grasp.

“Branwen, heed me,” murmured Blodwedd. “Watch and wait—all has not yet been revealed.”

Branwen grimaced as Blodwedd's fingers tightened about her wrist. She knew Govannon's messenger was duty-bound to keep her from harm at all costs—but surely not if it meant allowing Gwylan Canu to fall to the Saxons? What was the Shining Ones' purpose in bringing her here, if all she did at journey's end was to stand aside while a
Saxon army overran the citadel?

The hurried percussion of hoofbeats sounded—a horse, galloping along the road from the east.

Branwen glared at Blodwedd. She twisted her arm, ripping the owl-girl's fingers away. “I will not reveal myself,” she said. “But I must see what is happening.”

She lifted her head above the rocks' edge once more. Yes! A rider was coming in fast along the road, and if this was the man Blodwedd had seen riding alongside Ironfist, Blodwedd had been right—he was no Saxon but a warrior of Powys. He was a man of Doeth Palas.

Angor raised a hand in greeting. “Adda ap Avagdu!” he called. “You return in good time. Is all well?”

“All is well, Captain,” replied the horseman, bringing his horse up short.

Angor knows him! He must be a scout sent ahead of the warrior troop. But why has he been riding with the Saxons? Has he betrayed his captain?

Hardly had the words of greeting left the horseman's lips than the brazen blare of Saxon war horns sounded, echoing and re-echoing among the precipices.

“Ironfist!” cried Angor, lifting his sword and turning to his men. “General Ironfist is upon us, warriors of Powys!” he called. “How would you greet the great Saxon warlord?”

Captain Angor's men hammered swords on shields as though in defiance of the approaching horde, but Branwen could see consternation among the unarmed men of Gwylan Canu.

Lord Madoc stepped forward, ignoring the swords that pointed toward him. “Angor ap Pellyn!” he shouted. “Give us our weapons, man! You cannot fight Ironfist alone!”

As though spurred on by his lord's words, one of the men of Gwylan Canu broke free of the others and ran toward the mound of spears and swords and shields.

“Bring him down!” snarled Angor.

Neb ap Mostyn hefted a spear in his fist and let it fly.

Branwen stared in utter disbelief as the spear caught the running man in the back. He fell onto his face with a short-cut cry.

A murmur of shock and anger ran through the other men of the citadel. One stepped forward, shouting in protest.

A sword slashed downward and he fell to his knees, his head half severed from his body. He dropped onto his face, and now the other men of Gwylan Canu were hemmed in by a hedge of swords.

Still trying to come to terms with what she had just witnessed, Branwen heard the rumble of marching feet grow louder. She turned her head. Several horsemen had rounded a crag of rock—and at their
head was the man from her vision.

Horsa Herewulf Ironfist—lord of Winwaed, commander of the armies of King Oswald of Northumbria—was a huge, hulking man with a bristling black beard and blue eyes as bright and hard as stones. On his head was a round, crested helmet of iron, inlaid with silverwork and gold. A red cloak hung from his shoulders, covering a leather jerkin and a long coat of fine iron mail. At his hip was a sword, and in one fist he clutched a silver-tipped spear.

He rode forward, and behind him came the bearded Saxon warriors, some in chain mail, others in leather trews and brown woolen cloaks with bare feet and helmets of beaten iron. Clouds of dust rose as they marched, and the sunlight glinted like ice on spear tip and helmet.

Ironfist lifted a hand and the marching men came to a halt. The sudden silence was shocking. The brown dust wafted away on the wind. Branwen's thoughts were thrown back to the horde of Saxon warriors who had come down upon Garth Milain, reckless in their battle-fever, war-skilled and deadly. She tasted iron on her tongue and felt a terrible pressure growing in her head as she stared into those brutal bearded faces. So many men—so much hatred.

Herewulf Ironfist rode on alone, slowly, without drawing his sword.

Angor walked forward to meet him, sword in hand.

Ironfist brought his great black stallion to a halt on the road. It stood, pawing the ground and snorting, its dark eyes rolling.

Angor stood for a moment in front of the horse, then dropped to one knee, his head bowed. He turned his sword in his hands and offered the hilt to the Saxon general.

“Greetings, my lord,” Angor said. “In the name of Prince Llew of Bras Mynydd, I offer you my allegiance and my fealty.” He looked up now. “I give to you a great prize, my lord. The gates of Gwylan Canu are open to you—ride in and take the citadel for your own!”

B
RANWEN BIT DOWN
hard on her lip, tasting blood. Her jaw clenched, and her whole body knotted in horror as she stared at the kneeling captain of Doeth Palas and the Saxon Warlord who loomed over him, haughty and powerful on his huge black stallion.

Herewulf Ironfist leaned out of the saddle and closed his fist around the hilt of Captain Angor's offered sword. He turned, lifting the weapon and brandishing it in the air. A roar came from the Saxons, a bellow of triumph accompanied by the clash of swords on shields and the stamping of feet.

Tears of rage and despair started from Branwen's eyes. This could not be happening. There could not be such treachery in Powys!

And then something came into her mind.
Something that Rhiannon had said to her when they had first met, by the silvery pool in the forest outside Doeth Palas. Something that had not meant anything to her at the time.

If you turn from me, child, the enemy will sweep over you like a black tide. There is a festering canker at the heart of this land
.

A festering canker at the heart of Powys!

Greetings, my lord. In the name of Prince Llew of Bras Mynydd, I offer you my allegiance and my fealty
.

Prince Llew ap Gelert had turned traitor! The richest and most powerful lord in all Powys had gone over to the enemy. How could Powys survive such a betrayal? How could Brython endure such deception and perfidy?

Branwen had set out on this journey with no clear vision of how it might end. Failure and death had been her worst nightmare. In the dark of night she had sometimes seen her own slaughter. In bright sunrise her hopes had risen, and she had imagined herself on a field of battle, bloodied but victorious. But not for one moment had she dreamed of witnessing such a villainous deed as this. To surrender to the age-old enemy—to bend the knee to a Saxon general!

“No,” she murmured, her heart drumming in her chest, the blood pounding in her ears. “No, this shall not be!” She lifted her sword and made to stand up—to reveal herself—to put an end to this insanity!

Through the thunder that filled her mind, she was
vaguely aware of Blodwedd's voice, a frantic whisper.

“Rhodri! Stop her! Hold her back.”

Hands took hold of her, pulling her down from the ridge, dragging her to the bottom of the cleft. A hand came across her mouth as she struggled to get free. Another wrenched her sword from her fingers.

She fought wildly, but Rhodri's body was across hers, his weight holding her down. Blodwedd's hands gripped viselike on either side of her head.

“Branwen, be calm!” She stared up into Blodwedd's huge golden eyes. “This is not the way,” the owl-girl said. “You cannot reveal yourself at this time. Your death will be for nothing if you do! Heed me, Branwen!”

“Branwen, please—listen to her.” Rhodri's frantic, breathless voice. “You'll be killed.”

Branwen panted, staring up into Blodwedd's face. The red rage began to subside. She became still, her taut muscles relaxing. Through the throbbing of blood in her ears, she could hear the Saxons howling and beating their weapons.

“Get off me,” she gasped. “Rhodri, I'm all right—there's no need to hold me down.”

Rhodri knelt up. “It's a good thing they're making such a racket down there,” he breathed “else they'd surely have heard us!”

Blodwedd's eyes glowed. “You must not throw your life away in futile despair, Branwen,” she murmured. “Your life is not your own to do with as you
please! Has everything I've told you meant nothing? You are the Warrior-Child! Latest in a great line. Brython needs you to live!”

A frozen anger began to take the place of Branwen's fiery rage. “Did you know of this all along?” she asked Blodwedd. “Did you know
this
was waiting at the end of our road?”

Blodwedd shook her head. “I did not.”

“And your master? Did he know?”

Blodwedd's head lowered. “That, I cannot say.”

Branwen frowned at her for a moment then turned to Rhodri. “Give me back my sword!”

He looked uneasily at her. “You can't fight them all.”

“I don't mean to,” she replied, sitting up and holding her hand out. “The sword, Rhodri!”

Reluctantly, he handed it to her. She stood up, sliding the sword into her belt and taking a long, slow breath.

“If we are to turn back this day's evil tide, we will need to know what plans have been laid,” she said, and the calmness of her voice surprised her. Her anger was like a stone now, sitting cold and heavy in her chest.

She climbed the slope again. The din of the Saxon warriors had subsided.

Ironfist began to speak, using the language of Brython, albeit with a strong Saxon accent. “I am grateful to you, Captain Angor,” the General said.
“You came in good time to save me the hardship of bitter blows and loss in the taking of Gwylan Canu. I had not looked to you for this—the messenger from Prince Llew did not speak of him sending men to aid me in this endeavor.”

“We looked to find you already embattled,” said Angor. “A messenger was sent to Doeth Palas, telling of your coming.” He frowned. “And yet…how could that be? How could they have known so soon that a Saxon force was marching on Teg Eingel?” He turned. “Is Dagonet ap Wadu among those captured?” he called to his men.

“Dagonet is not here,” said Lord Madoc. “He is with the king in Pengwern. Thus is one brave warrior of Powys saved from your treachery!”

Angor's eyes turned to Iwan. “How did you know, boy?” he shouted. “If it was not Dagonet who told you—who was it?”

Iwan gave a bruised smile. “A power greater than you know,” he said. “A power that will see you trodden into the dust ere all is done, traitor!”

“What does he mean?” snarled Ironfist. “What power is this of which he speaks?”

Iwan lifted his head suddenly and stood proud and straight once more. “Do you not know?” he shouted, his voice ringing in the hills. “Do you not hear them? They are awake, they are stirring, they are coming—and they will be the death of you all!”

Angor strode forward and struck Iwan, knocking
him to the ground. But still there was defiance in Iwan's eyes as he looked up at the treacherous captain.

“Do you feel fear, yet, Angor ap Pellyn?” he cried. “The Shining Ones have awoken! Harken! They are close! They will…”

A second brutal blow sent him crashing onto his face before he could say any more. His father knelt at Iwan's side, his face livid with anger and his arms protectively around his son's shoulders.

“What does the boy mean?” demanded Ironfist.

“His wits have turned, my lord,” said Angor. “He speaks madness. It is of no consequence.”

“Then let us go about our business, Captain Angor,” said Ironfist. He turned in the saddle, gesturing to his men. Two burly warriors strode forward, carrying between them a heavy, iron-bound wooden chest. At the general's command, they threw it down and opened its heavy lid. Branwen saw the sparkle and glint of coins heaped within—a mountain of coins, more coins than she had ever seen in her life. A king's ransom, she guessed.

“Are your men loyal to you, Captain Angor?” Ironfist asked.

“They are, my lord,” Angor replied. “They are hand-picked, and each has pledged to die in my service if need be.”

“And what of the others of the court of Prince Llew?” asked Ironfist. “How many know of the treaty that has been agreed between our realms?”

“These men under my command have long known the truth, my lord,” said Angor. “And so, too, do some intimates of the prince—but they are all closemouthed men and trustworthy to our cause. No hint of what is to come has yet been spoken abroad in the citadel, and outside its walls the folk of Bras Mynydd know nothing. The prince deemed it better that way, lest some fools choose defiance.”

“Wise thinking,” said Ironfist. “Until all is in readiness, I would not have word of our plans come to the ears of the other lords of Powys, nor to those of the king, weak and cowardly though he may be, lurking within the walls of the citadel at Pengwern. I'd not have word sent to the southern kingdoms either. We want no armies arrayed against us before we are secure in Powys.”

So that's the scale of their ambition
, Branwen thought bitterly, her fists balling and her nails digging into her flesh.
To use Prince Llew's cantref as a base from which to strike King Cynon, and then to eat up the rest of Brython piece by piece!

Captain Angor spread his arms. “We are yours to command, my lord.”

“And the men of Gwylan Canu—how go their hearts in this matter?”

Lord Madoc got to his feet and stepped forward. “Know me, accursed Saxon dog,” he spat, his fist hammering his chest. “I am Madoc ap Rhain, lord of Gwylan Canu. I know not what lies you have used
to sway Llew ap Gelert to your cause, but hear me now: The men of Gwylan Canu are loyal and true to their king. They will not do your bidding, Herewulf Ironfist—they would die a thousand times first.”

Ironfist smiled coldly. “A thousand deaths will not be necessary, my lord,” he mocked. “One death for each man will suffice.” He lifted his voice to address the gathered warriors of the citadel. “Listen well, men of Powys. Against the forces that gather in Mercia and Northumbria there can be no victory for you. Brython will fall to us—our destiny wills it so! Only a fool goes willingly into a battle that cannot be won. See wisdom, as has the lord of Bras Mynydd. To all who swear allegiance to King Oswald, I will give great riches.” He gestured toward the teeming chest. “Find wisdom within yourselves, men of Teg Eingel.” His voice rose to a guttural snarl. “For those who defy me, death will be their only release. Choose swiftly! Come!”

Madoc ap Rhain stared into Ironfist's face, his arms spread wide. “Kill us now, Saxon filth—none will take your tainted gold!”

A bleak pride welled up in Branwen as she saw that not one of the men of Gwylan Canu stepped forward. She could see fear and despair in the eyes of many, and anger and hatred in others. But it spoke well of Lord Madoc's leadership that every man chose loyalty to him and the Brython homeland over the offer of the Saxon general.

There was a long, dreadful stillness, broken only by the constant beating of waves on the rocks and the lonely cries of gulls.

“So be it,” Ironfist said at last. “Let Lord Madoc and his kin be taken captive and held in the citadel. Their lives may prove useful if it comes to bargaining. The others will be taken east—to captivity or death.”

“What would you have me do, my lord?” asked Angor.

“Return with your warriors to Doeth Palas,” said Ironfist. “Make it known in the citadel that you have scored a great victory against the Saxons, that Gwylan Canu is secure and Ironfist is sent packing with his tail between his legs. Let no man speak of the things that have passed here, on pain of certain death.” He leaned forward in the saddle, a savage smile stretching his lips. “In the privacy of his court, tell the prince that I am well pleased with him. He has shown foresight and wisdom. King Oswald will be generous when the time comes. If all goes well, Llew ap Gelert will one day sit upon the throne of Powys. Tell him that.”

“I shall, my lord.”

Ironfist sat upright again. “Tell your men to take from the chest what coins they can carry before they depart.” He handed Angor's sword back to him, then turned his black stallion and rode back to his men, shouting commands in his own harsh, guttural language. Captain Angor stood, sheathing his sword,
staring after the Saxon general.

Branwen tried to imagine what thoughts must be going through his mind. Was it truly the hopelessness of warfare against the Saxons that had made the captain and his prince agree to betray their homeland? Was this treachery fueled by despair? Or had something else spurred Prince Llew to join hands with Ironfist? Even greater wealth, perhaps? This promise of the crown of Powys?

Whatever it was, it left a taste like gall in Branwen's mouth; it soured her stomach and burned her heart. Somehow she would find a way to fight this!

Things began to move quickly. A detachment of Saxon warriors led the men of Gwylan Canu away down the road into the east. At their captain's word, the men of Doeth Palas ran forward, scrabbling for gold and silver in the chest like pigs at a trough. Then Angor bade them mount, and with a final hand raised in farewell to Herewulf Ironfist, he led his army at a trot, back to spread lies in Doeth Palas.

Finally, Madoc ap Rhain and Iwan were taken into the citadel by several Saxon soldiers. The foreign warriors gathered the weapons left by Lord Madoc's men, and then Ironfist and his men poured into Gwylan Canu. The stone-walled bastion of Teg Eingel had been taken without a fight, falling to bloodless treachery.

Branwen saw the gates pulled closed. There was the thud of the great doors as they slammed, the
crash and boom as the bars were dropped in place. Saxon warriors appeared on the gatehouse. A banner was quickly unfurled—the white dragon on a field of blood.

And then there was a terrible stillness. Branwen tasted salt tears on her tongue as she made her way down from the ridge.