Dark Winds Rising Read online

  Carrion crows and gulls argue over the carnage of rotting bodies on the beaches far below. Thankfully, we do not camp downwind of the battlefield. The hooves of the lone horse clack louder as the rider halts before us. He carries the long white bone spear of the Pict Queen.

  For a herald, he seems unusually quiet. He stares down at Artagan and me without saying a word. My skin crawls under his flinty gaze. Muscled and tall as a gladiator, the rider has the soft cheeks of a boy. Despite his serpentine woad tattoos and unnaturally white hair, his yellow eyes set him apart. Even for a Pict.

  Our bowmen clench their drawstrings as the silence lengthens. I nock an arrow on my bow, never taking my eyes off the strange horseman. Why has this barbarian come to us? Just to take a closer look? Artagan takes a step forward, nearly nose to nose with the pale steed. He aims his longsword at the Pict.

  “If you’ve come to surrender, you best drop your spear and get on with it.”

  His men guffaw as Artagan smirks my way. I almost shake my head. Ever the carefree hedge knight at heart, he would laugh at his own funeral. Our bowmen relax their grips on their bowstrings, but I still clutch my arrow tight. The Pict looks down at me and my husband without so much as blinking his eyes.

  The barbarian croaks out a single word.

  “Sab.”

  Artagan and I exchange looks. Does this savage not even speak proper Welsh? The Pict growls slightly louder, this time pointing with his ivory spear toward the battlements of Dun Dyfed in the distance.

  “Saab.”

  Wrinkling my brows, I glance toward the dun where the Picts hold the fortress. Sab? Sab what? This broad-shouldered beggar makes no sense. Artagan looks agitated as well, gripping his sword tight. If this savage doesn’t start talking sense quick, someone will put an arrow in him. I wish Artagan would step away from the brute. The Pict thumps his chest.

  “Bal. Baal.”

  He points at Dun Dyfed again.

  “Sab. Sab!”

  My eyes widen. I point at the Pict, then the dun, repeating his mantra. I make sure to lengthen the vowels like he does in his strange manner of speech.

  “Bal. Sab.”

  He nods, ever so slightly. Artagan blinks at me, looking as befuddled as an ox. I take him aside.

  “Bal is his name. Sab is either someone or something he wants to take us to.”

  “Go with him? To Dun Dyfed alone? It’s crawling with Picts.”

  “I think he offers us a truce, a chance to talk.”

  “Or he takes us to our deaths! Branwen, these Picts have no honor.”

  I lower my voice, keeping one eye on my husband and one on the mounted Pict.

  “What choice do we have? We’ve camped on the bluffs since the battle but have only created a stalemate. We don’t have the numbers to attack them again. They seem equally wary of crossing swords with us after the losses they took.”

  Still visible in the growing darkness, well over the half the bodies down by the surf bear the blue markings and pale greased hair of Picts. But our own force numbers barely a hundred men now, most fatigued by travel and battle. Artagan frowns at Bal before glancing back at me.

  “And just whom do you think we will talk to if we go with him? This oaf doesn’t even speak our tongue.”

  “They must have someone who can speak to us. They probably just didn’t want to risk us taking that person captive or worse. It’s what I would do if I were in their position.”

  Artagan sighs, sheathing his longsword in its scabbard slung along his back.

  “If someone told me yesterday I’d be walking into a Pict camp at sunset, I’d have thought them mad.”

  “But you won’t go alone. I’m coming with you.”

  Artagan shakes his head. I put my hand on his arm. Brave as he is in battle, my love has no tact for diplomacy. Alone, he would just as likely come back on his shield, probably after taking half a hundred Picts down with him. He needs me with him.

  I rub his tense shoulders, faking a smile to try to put him at ease. It doesn’t work. I lean close to his ear so that only he can hear me.

  “You’ll need me to negotiate. Don’t you remember the legends of the Picts? They don’t follow kings and warlords like us. They always follow a queen.”

  Artagan raises an eyebrow. Either he doesn’t remember the old stories or he doesn’t believe me. He would rather hack off this Pictish herald’s head than parley with their queen or any other barbarian leader. But he will come, because he trusts me and my judgment. I only hope I have not miscalculated. If I am wrong, our heads will likely adorn spits outside Dun Dyfed by nightfall. No one ever said being a monarch was easy or without risk.

  I nod to Bal. He seems to understand and leads Artagan and me toward the dun. Our bowmen murmur behind us, but Artagan raises his hand and calls to them.

  “Wait and keep watch. If we do not return before sunrise … you damn well better rescue us.”

  He winks at his men, keeping up his devil-may-care attitude. Only when we walk out of sight, alone with our Pict guide, does Artagan level his troubled gaze on me. I take his hand in mine. At least we still have our weapons. Whatever our fate, we will meet it together.

  Bal says nothing, not even sparing a glance back to make sure we accompany him. In the waning blue light after sundown, we thread our way through the switchback trails, past the tall grass in the dunes. Artagan leans down close to my ear, his voice low and rough.

  “Did you have to blow that damned horn, Branwen? You ordered the men to retreat against my wishes!”

  His anger takes me aback, suddenly recalling the end of the battle earlier.

  “I saved your life!” I retort. “I’m sorry I stepped on your toes, but there wasn’t time for niceties.”

  “I nearly had those blue-painted beggars on the run.”

  “You nearly had you and your entire command surrounded. I apologize for usurping your authority on the battlefield, but not for saving your hide, beloved.”

  He gives me a sidelong glance and for a moment I fear he will raise his voice. I love him more than life itself, so can he truly blame me for doing everything in my power to keep him safe and sound? Instead of growing cross, Artagan’s features soften as he threads his arm through mine.

  “You were right, and I probably bit off more than I could chew by attacking the Picts head-on, although it certainly threw the bastards off balance.”

  I squeeze his hand in mine.

  “I nearly lost you in our war with the Saxons. I couldn’t bear anything happening to you now.”

  He flashes his typical cocky smile of pearly teeth.

  “I’ll strike a bargain with you, my headstrong wife. If you’re willing to make it up to me, I think we can put this minor discord behind us.”

  “Make it up to you, how?”

  He reaches around and squeezes my bottom. My eyes go round like hens’ eggs as he grins back at me. Even in the shadow of the Picts, his libido remains healthy as ever. I swat his hand playfully, my spirits rising despite being near the enemy camp. A faint grin spreads across my lips. Even after years of marriage, my beloved man still manages to surprise me.

  If Bal hears us at all, he makes no move to eavesdrop, whether he knows our tongue or not. His silence for some reason unnerves me. These Picts seem as otherworldly as wraiths.

  Thoughts of little Gavin suddenly come to mind, his rosy hair and soft cheeks. I pray to God that I have not just made him an orphan by rushing to meet with these blue-painted warriors. I take a deep breath, pushing such thoughts to the back of my mind. I need my wits sharp if Artagan and I are ever to walk out of Dun Dyfed alive.

  The craggy, black outline of the rocky hill fort looms closer. My birthplace. An ancient fortress built by the Celts, what it lacks in polish it makes up for in impregnability. Backed up against the cliffs on one side, the landward end of the castle faces a narrow isthmus connected to the mainland. The perfect enclave in which to hold off an invading force. My first husband, the Hammer King, be
sieged my father’s realm here until I agreed to marry him. How long ago that all seems.

  I still cannot believe the barbaric Picts, of all people, have conquered the place. Dyfed must have truly grown weak of late, its guards few and sloppy in their work, for this fortress to fall so easily. But the Picts were always renowned for their deceptiveness and stealth in the old tales.

  The first Pict guards sneer and hiss at us when we cross into the fort’s defenses. Men and women with clubs and slings eye us suspiciously. Bal leads us past their bonfires toward the heart of the fortress. My pulse thuds in my ears, but I keep a stoic face. Artagan and I no longer hold hands, keeping our weapons at the ready. A handful of half-naked warriors bare their sharpened fangs at us as Bal escorts us inside the main hall.

  I stifle a rising knot in my throat. Maybe Artagan was right. We should never have come here.

  The old hall looks nothing like it did when my father ruled here. The mead benches and wall hangings are gone, replaced with smoky peat fires pitched right on the cobblestone floor. Hunks of meat roast on spits in the murky dimness. In a few short nights, the Picts have befouled this ancient stronghold of the Old Tribes. It looks more like a cave now than a proper feasting hall.

  Bal rides his horse right into the central gallery, dismounting as though in a stable instead of a throne room. He lets his mount wander at will, grazing amongst scraps on the ground. I wrinkle my nose at the stench of defecation from side corridors. A horse has more breeding than these people. At least animals know not to shite where they eat.

  The she-warrior I saw during the battle sits cross-legged on my father’s old throne. Her hair stands in a topknot, her eyes shut as though in a meditative trance. Her eyelids flicker but do not open. Bal halts and gestures toward her.

  “Sab.”

  He takes his place beside her, flexing his fingertips along the tall bone-white spear. The rest of the Picts in the room no longer pay us any heed, gorging themselves on meat and drinking the last stores of ale from the castle’s vaults. The Pictish Queen opens her eyes, staring straight at us. Her eyes do not look the same, one a grayish-hazel and the other an icy blue. Other than her lips and eyelids, not a muscle on her body moves.

  “I am Sab, Mother of my People. In the olden days, your kind would’ve called me Queen of the Picts.”

  Artagan’s gaze narrows on her swirling blue facial brands.

  “You speak our language? How?”

  Sab closes her eyes a moment before glancing my way.

  “You’re not the first children of the Old Tribes to be my … guests.”

  Something about the way she says “guests” makes my stomach turn over. I step forward, my hands clasped to my longbow to keep from trembling. I summon all the queenly confidence I can into my voice.

  “We came with the understanding of a truce. To talk.”

  “So you did.” She smiles. “The first to do so, I might add. Must have been your idea, no? All the Welsh men I’ve sent emissaries to try to cut off my messengers’ heads instead.”

  She glances at Artagan as though guessing his previous intentions. In truth, Artagan probably would’ve sent Bal back in pieces had I not been there to counsel him otherwise. But Sab’s perceptive stare does little to calm my nerves. I clear my throat, trying to get to the point of our meeting.

  “Queen Sab, why have you come here? Why have you invaded Wales and slain so many?”

  Sab shuts her eyes again, clicking her tongue.

  “The Emptiness has pushed us here.”

  “The Emptiness?”

  Her multicolored eyes flash open again, reflecting my silhouette and Artagan’s in each pupil.

  “The Emptiness has come again. It makes our lands in the North barren, cold as death, an endless expanse that leaves behind only … emptiness.”

  My eyes narrow suspiciously. She seems serious. Emptiness? Even when we find a Pict who knows our tongue, she still speaks in riddles. Whatever this Emptiness may be, a storm or a monster, this phenomenon seems to have rendered the Pict homelands in the frigid North uninhabitable, for the time being, at least. And now they have come south to covet our green lands and make them their own.

  Artagan shuffles his feet, furrowing his brows. He looks agitated, uncomfortable with the Pict Queen’s ambiguity. She replies to our questions but does not truly answer them. She talks, but we do not understand. Artagan jabs a finger at her.

  “Is this what we came to talk about? Your Emptiness? I’d sooner cross swords with you again than listen to this inane babble.”

  Sab flashes a wicked smile. Out from behind her throne a young woman emerges, clad in barely enough animal skin to make two napkins. Her bare skin has fewer tattoos than either Sab or Bal. She slinks around the Queen’s throne, her voluptuous curves and generous bust flecked with sweat from the peat fires. She rubs her naked legs together, adjusting her topknot of dark locks. Her eyes focus on Artagan. Her irises have the same odd multicolors as the Queen’s.

  “I like this one, Mother. He’s a fighter. Can I keep him?”

  The youth reaches out as though to touch Artagan’s lips. He steps back, unsure at first what the young woman intends, but I read her thoughts all too clear. My flesh buzzes hot. I step between them, fletching an arrow to my bowstring without raising my weapon. I clench my bow until my knuckles turn white, the flames in a nearby grate rising and crackling to match my fury. Sab’s eyes narrow a moment, noticing how the blaze responds to me. The young temptress beside her merely steps back a pace, eyeing me sulkily as the hearth fire subsides.

  I expected to parry words, maybe even a little violence, but not a scantily clad vixen. The young Pict hisses at me like a cat. Sab nods toward the girl.

  “My daughter, Ness, only means to compliment you, Queen Branwen. She’s very picky about whom she considers a worthy mate.”

  I clench my jaw. A worthy mate? If this Pict harlot wants something to prick her so bad, I’ve got a dozen arrows in my quiver willing to oblige her. Artagan is my husband. He gives me a quick nod, putting a hand on my arm. My husband wants no part of Ness’s advances, and I know it. He’s a worthy man, which makes my ire for Ness rise all the more. I struggle to keep my tone calm.

  “He’s spoken for. And how do you know my name?”

  “Oh, the famous Mab Ceridwen and her Blacksword are spoken of with awe amongst the Welsh and Saxons everywhere, even reaching our ears in the far North,” Sab replies. “When I saw the two of you on the battlefield today, I doubted you could be anyone else.”

  Ness circles us, her bare feet treading far too close to Artagan for my comfort. She sniffs him like a bitch-dog in heat. Ness gradually returns to her mother and leans against the throne. Bal stands silent as a boulder, neither looking our way nor ignoring us. I get the feeling he could snap us in two if Sab asked him. Despite his fearsomeness, he has the beardless face of a teen. With a behemoth of a warrior on one side and her sultry she-devil on the other, Queen Sab sits calm as a coiled viper in my father’s old seat.

  I take a deep breath, trying to clear my thoughts. Sab did not call us here just to have her daughter ogle my husband. Or to speak about some mysterious Emptiness. The Queen seems too smug, too calm. Already she inhabits this castle as though her people had dwelt in it a thousand years. She won’t reveal anything of use to us so long as she feels in control. I clear my throat.

  “Despite incursions by the Romans and Irish, we Welsh are mostly descendants of the Old Tribes. The Picts and the Old Tribes were deadly enemies in the ancient days. Before we drove you away.”

  Her smile fades, her stiff cheeks looking unamused for the first time since we arrived.

  “Yes, your forebearers pushed us into the far North, but neither you nor the Romans nor the Saxons could defeat us completely. You seem to know an awful lot about the old tales.”

  “I was schooled in my youth at the monastery your brigands burnt down yesterday. And for a short time was tutored by one of the last of the Old Religion, the Lady Annwy
n.”

  Sab’s eyebrows perk up at mention of Annwyn’s name. So she has heard of Artagan’s illustrious mother. Although a pagan, Annwyn knew much of the Old Wisdom, most of which is now lost. We had so little time together before she died. If only I could have learned more from her. Sab leans forward in her chair, eyeing me with a keen stare.

  “You learned from Lady Annwyn, did you? Her name too was known far and wide for her knowledge with the Old Ways. How would you like to learn more of the Old Wisdom she knew?”

  “She was a wise woman and mother to my husband, but alas she has long since died, and much of her wisdom, I’m afraid, died with her.”

  Sab gives me a wry smile.

  “Not entirely lost. Although rivals, the wisdom of the Picts mirrored that of the Old Tribes. Together we knew the secrets of healing, of divination, and of many mysteries forgotten by the world of your monks and priests. I could teach you such things.”

  Ness frowns, leaning down close to the Queen.

  “Mother, don’t waste your time on this plain-looking Welsh woman. She is not worthy.”

  Sab shushes her without a glance, steepling her hands. Ness sulks behind her, casting long glances at Artagan. The Queen speaks cordially but firmly.

  “Let us be blunt. Your forces cannot dislodge us from here. It would cost a thousand lives to breach this castle, with cliffs on one side and a narrow approach on the other. But you and your brave Blacksword have surprised us with the ferocity of your green-clad warriors, and I doubt we could venture far from Dun Dyfed now without finding your arrows in our backs every step of the way.”

  “In other words, we are at an impasse,” I reply. “Neither one able to defeat the other.”

  “For now. I suggest a continued truce. My people will keep to the shores around the dun while yours remain inland and out of bow shot.”

  Artagan steps forward to interrupt, his fists clenched.