Dark Winds Rising Read online

  But Sab is no Annwyn. Even in my optimism I know this. She is a Pict, the dark side of the same moon from which my ancient foremothers amongst the Old Tribes originated. Yet she may be the last link with that archaic past. My last chance to grasp at some of the wisdom Annwyn tried to impart to me.

  As though by magic, the dark outline of Dun Dyfed appears along the horizon. I blink, drawing in a deep breath as my mind settles on the present once more. The broad-beaked longships of the Picts lie moored in the foaming tide. My pony’s pace slackens.

  More crows circle overhead, continuing to pick at the remnants of the battle along the beach. Yesterday, war and death pervaded the landscape. Today, the windswept moors seem calm and pacific. I can almost hear the chants of the monks who used to make their rounds by the abbey. But that monastery and cloister are gone now, I remind myself. Destroyed by the Picts. However cordial I must behave toward Sab, I can’t forget what she and her people are capable of. I must not forget that they can smile one day and rip out my beating heart the next.

  Bal sits astride his pale stallion, as unsurprised by my presence as he is of the sunrise. I trail him inside the walls of the dun. Much of the garrison lies asleep, male and female warriors entwined together from last evening’s revelries. White bones litter the grounds.

  We stop outside the main entranceway to the great hall. My eyes linger on the shape and arrangement of bones. Some seem too long for sheep, others not large enough for cattle. My eyes narrow on a small pyramid of skulls near the archway. Human skulls.

  My skin turns cold as ice. The barbarians haven’t dined just on animal meat but also on the remnants of people. It suddenly dawns on me that many of the missing bodies on the strand were not carried away by crows or gulls. My gorge rises in my throat. The Picts have eaten their own dead.

  Sab laughs softly to herself, leaning against an archway with her arms folded. She dismisses Bal with a lifted finger. The boyish behemoth retreats to a rocky outcrop, where he keeps watch over us like a silent hawk. Sab smirks at my wan face.

  “You do not approve. We do not believe in wasting good meat. Your people were not so different from us long ago.”

  My stomach churns. She must be lying; my ancestors could never have lived like this. Like savages, like animals. I circle around her and the heap of bones, toward the western wall that overlooks the cliffs. The surf thunders against the cliff face, a light film of spray covering the precipice like dewdrops. Sab sidles up beside me, just the two of us and the roaring ocean for company. I force the confidence back into my voice, an old trick I have learned as a queen these past few years.

  “Even the Saxons do not desecrate their own dead. Nor did Annwyn ever tell me of our people doing such things.”

  “Maybe she hadn’t gotten around to mentioning it. Or perhaps she kept secrets from you.”

  “And what of your secrets, Queen Sab? Is that what you’ve asked me here to discuss?”

  Sab shakes her head with a smile, pacing the rocky walls with me.

  “You distrust me, and you are right to do so. My people must seem like something out of an evil fairy tale to you, no? But would it surprise you to know that you are just as much a legend to me?”

  “Me?”

  “Is it so surprising? My people sail forth, for the first time in generations, into lands ruled by Saxon chieftains and Welsh warlords, but all of them men. Lo and behold, I find a queen amongst them, a woman ruling in the style of the Old Tribes. You, Branwen, have far more in common with us than you do with your Saxon foes or your Welsh neighbors. At heart, you are one of us.”

  My eyebrows rise. Does she merely seek to flatter me or does she truly believe what she says? Artagan is king of our people, but I have always ruled as an equal beside him. Am I really like a queen of the Old Tribes to this woman? Never have I heard such straightforward talk from another queen. She does not tiptoe around the truth as I did when younger or use her sultry wiles as Queen Olwen does. Lost for words, I walk beside her.

  “We share the same enemies,” she continues. “The Saxons and even rival Welsh kingdoms. We have much to gain and to learn from one another. That is why I asked you here.”

  “For an alliance? Our people were killing each other only yesterday.”

  “Hot-blooded men make war. It’s up to coolheaded queens like us to make the peace. I saw the way you handle your husband. The Blacksword is a brave leader, but it was his rash idea to attack us yesterday, and not yours, yes?”

  I bite my tongue. Sab takes my silence as answer enough.

  “So you cleaned up his mess,” she adds. “Well-intentioned as he was, he might have had much less bloodshed on his hands had you and I met first.”

  I stop, turning quickly on her.

  “But you first attacked this castle, and burnt down both the abbey and the nunnery. Many innocents perished. Those are not the acts of peace.”

  Sab raises her hands in supplication.

  “Too true, but I hope to make you understand. We were driven here ourselves, by the Emptiness. To find a home for our people. No one would give us such a home willingly. You know that as well as I.”

  I shake my head, my temples starting to ache.

  “I still don’t understand. What is this Emptiness of which you speak?”

  Sab smiles placidly, like a sage with a student.

  “It comes strongest when there is cold and darkness, and this year it is very cold and dark in the far North. Many of our people died, the Emptiness made the land barren and cold. No crops grew, no game to be found. So we follow the will of the Emptiness as it pushes us south. But we do not come here because we wish to spill blood. We come only to live, to escape the darkness and nothingness. That is the Emptiness of which I speak.”

  I blink, trying to take in all she says. So her people are refugees themselves, looking for greener pastures, a place to escape the barrenness of their homeland. They do look thin as scarecrows. Little wonder they eat their own dead to survive. Still, I cannot easily forget the destruction of the abbey and the cloister. Maybe these barbarians deserve some pity for their circumstances and backward ways, yet they are still savages at heart. And dangerous ones, at that.

  Nonetheless, arguing with this Pict Queen will not accomplish anything. She sees herself as the steward of her people, much as I do in my own kingdom. We both have our own families and our own kin to look after. Although I do not condone her methods, I cannot fault her motivations. She watches over her people as a mother. Somehow, I must channel her efforts to preserve her people into a peaceful venture, not the bloodshed we saw yesterday.

  “You are right about one thing,” I begin. “The Saxons are both our enemies.”

  “The Saxons,” Sab says, spitting as though the name were a curse. “When they first came, we tried to learn their tongue and make peace. But did you know they use the same word for woman as they do for slave? After that, we knew there would never be peace between our people and theirs.”

  “My people do not trust you, not yet, at least. Helping us fight the Saxons, however, would go a long way toward convincing my people that your intentions are good.”

  Sab strokes her chin.

  “I must think it over and discuss it with my people. We’ve no love for the Saxons, but my people distrust yours as well. Letting us remain here in Dyfed would convince us that your intentions are equally good.”

  I smile politely back. Sab knows the ways of queenship well. Nothing comes free.

  “I too will think it over, and relay what you have said to my husband and my people. Fair enough?”

  Sab nods. It’s not much, but possibly it’s a start toward peace. Letting the Picts remain in perpetuity at Dun Dyfed will not go over well with most Welsh, particularly the people of Dyfed. But another army on our side against the Saxons would be worth its weight in gold, especially if these Picts fight our foes as ferociously as they did our own warriors yesterday. We have a truce with the Saxons that has lasted for the past three years, b
ut no one expects it to last forever. Sooner or later the Saxons will break their word, and an army of Picts might be just the weapon we need to defeat the Saxons once and for all. Like using fire to fight fire. No one ever said a queen’s decisions would be easy.

  “You remind me much of the late Queen Vivian,” Sab murmurs.

  I pause in my tracks, my skin running cold.

  “You knew my mother?”

  “By reputation. Fair of face, dark of hair. She too had dealings with the Picts, long ago.”

  I blink, trying to regain my composure. I rarely discuss my mother with anyone, especially a stranger and potential rival. Still, I sense that Sab knows more than she lets on. What dealings did my mother, of all people, ever have with heathen Picts? She never spoke of such things to me, although I was quite young when Saxon swords took her from me. I eye Sab cautiously, trying to sound more like a diplomat than a spooked child.

  “Then perhaps you and I can bridge the gap between the generations of mothers who came before us.”

  “Perhaps.” She smiles noncommittally.

  Sab leads me around the battlements, where Bal squats and watches us. She nods toward him. He leaps down and fetches his horse. Sab turns to me with a smile.

  “I think we’ve given each other enough to think over for today. I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow. Perhaps we can talk more of the secrets of the Old Tribes.”

  I bow slightly in reply. I’d certainly cross another field of bones to learn more of the mysteries of my ancestors. Time will tell whether Queen Sab can unlock some of that forgotten knowledge for me. In the meantime, my continued visits will ensure the peace between our camps. One day at a time.

  Sab retreats to a stretch of open flagstones in the courtyard where her followers have laid out a slain deer. Her breathing stills as she stands over the creature, meditating as though quite alone. I stay behind a moment to watch.

  The Pict Queen kneels over the lifeless carcass, raising an obsidian dagger in one fist. She plunges the stone blade into the animal’s skin, folding back the hide as she delves deeper into its steaming guts. This creature cannot be more than an hour dead. My stomach turns over as the shamaness digs her arms up to her elbows inside the doe’s corpse, her forearms caked in a deep vermilion hue. She pulls out the long rope of bloody entrails from the dead beast and spreads the crimson innards across the ground, her blank, trancelike gaze roving over the stinking remnants. Her eyes start to flicker until only the whites of her eyeballs show beneath her fluttering eyelids.

  Whatever manner of black magic this is, I’ve no desire to see more. The Queen’s manservant, Bal, motions for me to follow him, probably thinking I’ve dawdled too long. Perhaps I’ve glimpsed something I shouldn’t.

  Bal leaves me with my pony outside the walls of Dun Dyfed, the same massive bone spear in his hand. I have half a mind to ask him about it. An unusual weapon. I reminds me of what I might imagine a giant’s toothpick to look like. But he disappears into the defenses of the dun once more without comment. Such a quiet creature, but I doubt Sab would keep him around if he were not deadly as well with that pale spear.

  Sab’s mention of my mother has put me off balance. But perhaps that is what the Pict Queen intended. Her words seem harmless enough, but something in my gut roils nonetheless. My mother was a peaceful, upright woman. Even my boisterous father, God rest him, could find no flaws with my mother. Yet having truck with Pictish barbarians hardly sounds like the kind of thing a queen of Dyfed would have engaged upon. I’m probably being ridiculous to trifle over such a small detail, but Sab’s words about my mother stick like a thorn in the back of my mind. What sort of dealings did my mother ever have with the Picts? Unfortunately, neither she nor anyone who would know the answer walk among the living now.

  I shake such troublesome thoughts from my head. Time enough to sort out such mysteries another day. Plenty of work remains afoot today as it is.

  At least I did not have to stomach the sight of Ness today. The skulking harlot never appeared, praise the Lord. I gallop at an even pace into the eastern groves as the sun bronzes over in the western sky behind me. My visit has already borne one valuable fruit. No one in either camp has died this day, and if things grow from today’s seed, perhaps I can prevent bloodshed from continuing here in Dyfed. I laugh to myself, alone in the rolling downs. Today was a good day.

  When I arrive on the outskirts of the encampment at Ogham Stone, dusky hues of orange light filter through the standing stones atop the hill. The outer walls of the palisade already stand upright with the green dragon banners of the Free Cantrefs flying over them. At least a few dozen more dwellings and tents have appeared on the lawns. Bowen and Carrick must have found more survivors and brought them to camp.

  Spring blossoms on the trees have faded and the early summer nights have begun to warm. Just in time too. Living in tents out in the open would prove untenable in a colder time of year.

  Dismounting outside the palisade, the scent of pine sap and freshly cut wood permeates the darkening air. My journey back from Dun Dyfed took even longer than I thought. Oddly enough, no one comes out to greet me. Inside the timber walls, a large open fire pit burns with snapping oak logs. I spot Artagan amidst a crowd gathered around the flames. The flickering hearth casts long shadows across his face. By the firelight, he looks like he has suddenly aged a dozen years. My palms begin to sweat. Something has gone amiss.

  Artagan looks up at me as I enter the circle of his knights, Bowen and Carrick among them. He still says nothing, not even a friendly greeting. My eyes dart around, fearing something terrible has befallen us. Yet Rowena stands across the way with all the children around her skirts, including Gavin. I glance back at Artagan and see Ahern beside him, his single eyelid sagging heavy as he grimaces into the flames. I can no longer contain my astonishment at their strange behavior.

  “What’s the matter with everyone? It’s quiet as a crypt in camp.”

  Artagan picks at the dirt with his sword, not meeting my gaze. Ahern looks away, and even Rowena won’t reply. She shushes the children as they play about the tents. Una’s voice rises outside the keep walls, leading a small service of women singing hymnals in the evening light. Their voices sound strangely mournful, their somber tune without any musical accompaniment. I put my hands on my hips, raising my voice.

  “Isn’t anyone going to answer me?”

  Artagan raises his eyes, pursing his lips as though tasting something bitter in his mouth.

  “A messenger arrived this afternoon, on horseback. He came from South Wales.”

  “Aye, and what of it? Has King Griffith changed his mind about aiding Dyfed in its time of need?”

  “Not quite. He had some other news for us.”

  Artagan sighs and clenches his jaw, his voice a mix of anger and grief.

  “Saxons crossed his borders this morning and attacked several villages. They’re moving inland toward Caerleon. Our truce with the Saxons is over.”

  8

  Except for the chirp of crickets and the crackling hearth logs, the entire encampment runs silent. I steady myself by placing my foot on one of the warm hearthstones surrounding the bonfire. My eyes cloud over as I gaze deep into the ruby flames. God help us. The Saxons have returned.

  I still can’t quite believe it. Three years ago we fought a costly war against the Saxon hordes, both sides losing heavily. My mother, father, first husband, and countless others all met their deaths at the hands of Saxon savages. And now those same barbarians hunger for Welsh blood once more. I shut my eyes, clenching my fists. This cannot be happening all over again.

  Artagan paces the fire, dismissing everyone but Ahern and myself. Rowena makes a move to take the children with her, but I stay her hand. These grave matters concern even my three-year-old son. He might as well stay and learn that there are real monsters that go bump in the night, and that they wear Saxon helms and bloody beards.

  Little Gavin looks up at me, the firelight flickering in
the sheen of his azure eyes. He only understands that his mother and father look frightened. Gavin juts out a pouty lip, so I lift him into my arms, holding him close. His tiny heart races against my chest.

  “Emryus and Keenan have sent word from Aranrhod,” Artagan begins. “They’ve rallied a few hundred more bowmen to the castle, but I’ve told them to stay put. I wanted them here to help us keep the Picts at bay, but with Saxons on the loose, there’s no telling where we’ll need our warriors in a few days’ time. I’m afraid we may not even be able to linger here long if we are needed in the East Marches.”

  I incline my head, a low heat rising through my veins.

  “But we cannot abandon Dyfed in its hour of need! If we leave now, our truce with the Picts will end, and they will ravage these lands in our absence.”

  “What choice do we have?” Artagan replies. “If we do not gather our forces to defend the Free Cantrefs, we may lose our own kingdom while dawdling here in Dyfed.”

  He frowns, turning away from me as he continues to pace. Does he consider trying to save my birthplace and its people mere dawdling? I open my mouth to speak, but Ahern puts a hand on my forearm. He motions over his shoulder at several onlookers at the edge of the firelight, Dyfed knights including Bowen and Carrick among them.

  I nod back at Ahern, taking in his silent meaning. I am raising my voice too loud. What we discuss in our inner circle should not circulate openly, even amongst our allies. There is too much at risk, and too many loose tongues in a camp full of this many refugees. What I wouldn’t give to have some castle walls around us now, not just tent canvas and a few timber spikes.

  Ahern turns to me, trying to refocus the three of us on the task at hand.

  “How many Picts did you observe in Dun Dyfed?”

  “Hard to say,” I reply. “They’re scattered all over and some deep within the castle. At least a few hundred warriors.”