Wings Unfurl

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Note: The first chapter in this story is new, but the second and third have been posted before in the Road Goes Ever on thread. I'm putting them here because this character is still developing, whereas the rest of the characters in the old thread seem to have faded away.

Chapter I: Wings Unfurl


A grey-white cloud and mist shrouded the sky and the land alike in an ethereal brightness, where nothing moved but the wind-stirred gorse, and only the twitter of a skylark broke the muffled silence across the hill.

Braint crouched beneath the blackthorn hedge, watching a little fat spider twine her dewy webs between the thorns. The stone felt rough against the bare skin of her feet, yet she enjoyed the feeling; idly stroking a patch of bright green lichen with the backs of her fingers, and feeling the dewy droplets break on her skin. Anyway, it would give her better grip when the moment came to pounce.

She looked impatiently up and down the gully before her, each end vanishing into the mist that had rolled in up the wild foothills, and listened achingly to the soft blusters of the wind. The enemy would be along at any moment; they were sure to take this path… so predictable. Nevertheless, she was becoming anxious. They had been waiting here for half an hour at the least, and her reputation as a leader was at stake. She could hear the others shuffling restlessly behind her and she shot them a demanding glare, holding a hand near to the ground to make them quiet.

There!

It was as well that she had. Twelve blurred figures were moving cautiously along the gully, but they were moving quietly, and had come further than she had expected them to without being seen. She lowered herself a little, so that her head did not make a silhouette against the bright grey clouds behind, and waved a hand behind her to signal that the ambush was coming close, and to be ready. They each moved into their positions with admirable stealth, and she felt a little flutter of pride, feeling that this battle would be decided soon after it began.

They were coming very close now; just a few paces away and down the stony bank. She drew her sword silently and readied herself to leap.

Ten strides, eight, five, two… now!

With a rush of adrenaline and a blood-curdling howl, Braint launched herself from the rock at the leader of the enemy, landing on his back and knocking him into a stagger. But he was strong, and did not fall. With a jerk he threw her off before her sword could find his throat, and she rolled away, ignoring the bump and batter of the rough-clod ground. She leapt up, seeing that her companions were now locked in deadly battle with their prey, giving loud whoops and yells, or screaming as they fell to the ground.

Braint measured her enemy and charged at him, ducking his thrust and ramming her shoulder into his stomach. Again, he was not knocked down, and her shoulder jarred so she whipped around and swung for his throat. His own blade darted up and countered her swing, then jabbed for her heart. But he was too slow; he had not knocked her blade far enough off course, so she led it down with all the speed she could muster, and it connected with his wrist. Her foe screamed in anger and pain and clutched his forearm, his sword clattering to the ground, and then he was hers. She raised her blade and jabbed forward, striking between his ribs; a fine, clean kill, and one she could be proud of.

As he tumbled lifeless to the ground, she looked wildly around for her next victim, but found them all fallen or falling, while the remnant of her own party whooped their victory and saw to their wounds. Only four of her own were dead to twelve of theirs. They had done well. She joined in their wild ululation for a moment, dancing about upon the grassy rocks, then sheathed her sword and paced back to the body of her fallen adversary.

“You’re too slow, Renos. I was bound to beat you, even if it didn’t come down to an ambush,” she said to the prostrate form at her feet, a measured scorn in her voice.

“You gave me a splinter – why do you have to hit so hard?” he responded, digging at his bruised wrist with his fingernails and frowning.

“Because,” she responded haughtily. “Luain says if you don’t try when you’re practising, you’ll be no good when it’s real.”

Braint was trying hard not to smile at her own cleverness, though she did feel a measure of guilt for not smoothing her blade before battle as she should have done. She turned to the rest of the children and began taking score, to know who had killed whom, and how.

“I got Nerra; got her before she even saw me!” declared a stringy-red-haired boy proudly, standing with his foot upon his fallen sister’s stomach, and nearly losing his balance as she pushed it off and swore at him. “And then Elis got me, and Merros, and Owen,” he added with a frown. “But I nearly got him”

“Nearly’s not good enough. The crows grow fat on those who nearly win their battles,” she told him sagely, echoing her uncle, and trying to copy his seasoned warrior’s growl, without much success.

She gave Elis a brief glance and a smile, which he returned warmly, sitting upon a lichen-covered stone and spinning his wooden sword on its point against the ground. He was a handsome boy, two or three summers older than Braint, but he was not yet a warrior. Nevertheless his experience showed, and Braint secretly felt – though she would never admit it – that he may even be a match for her if it came to a fight.

Once she was sure she knew who had fought how, she turned to the other children and called out in commanding tones:

“Cambriani! Line!”

The response was immediate, the group charged into their positions as if born to them. The line was in order of rank, and the two oldest – Renos and Elis - came on the highest end, and the youngest and least experienced on the other. Braint took her place at the head of the line and stood to solemn attention as the green-clad figure who had been watching the battle picked her way down from the rocks.

Braint’s nerves fluttered again. She had never failed to win a battle in play or in practice, but what if someone had fought better than her?

Lanis finished her descent and paced towards them, the green of her tunic setting off her hair, which was so deep a red as to be almost purple, and her pale feet picking their way daintily across the stony ground. She stopped and considered the line for a long moment, before unlooping two holly leaves bound on horse-hair thongs from around her neck.

She approached the line and set the first over the head of Elis, making Braint’s heart flutter again. It was clear he deserved it, but did she this time? But then with a ripple of relief, the little girl stopped in front of her and hooked the second leaf around Braint’s neck, and she felt the comforting *****le of its thorns against her skin that was the feeling of victory, and approval.

She smiled at her sister. It was ever important to win approval fitting to her station. A princess of the Cambriani – so ancient and proud a tribe – had to be fierce and fast, and strong and wise, and always honest and honourable. Braint was ever trying to be all of these things, and felt she succeeded in some at least, though it was hard. But Lanis made it seem so easy. She was eight years old and already had the presence of a Dreamer. What’s more she knew her animal – the hare, messenger of the Gods, whose form is printed upon the face of the moon. The strength this gave her was tangible, and stirred in Braint twin feelings of pride and envy. At the same time she wished her sister to be powerful and great, and also lesser, so that she would feel no shame in being outdone in spirit by one who was three years younger than herself. And so she was both proud and intimidated now, looking into the green eyes that seemed to have no bottom to them.

She bent to kiss Lanis on the cheek and at the same moment she reached out and tickled her sister’s ribs, making her just a girl, giggling and squirming, and breaking the air of solemn wisdom that made Braint feel less.

The group laughed with her, and then Braint turned to them and called out,

“Skirmish! Choose your sides and arm yourselves!”

Twenty-four pairs of feet ran to a weathered standing stone nearby, where a haphazard pile of wooden armaments was stacked. Braint jostled with the other children and come up with her own shield and a light jerkin of leather scales, which she tossed on over her tunic, then hurried back to the battlefield.

The children divided themselves into two parties of twelve, led respectively by Braint and Elis, then within those groups found their shield-mates and quickly resolved who was to take which role. Lanis beat a hasty retreat and climbed to the top of the standing stone to watch.

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Braint chose Renos, the boy she had fought earlier, to take her shield-side; a wordless apology for her earlier scorn. Renos was a good fighter, but he let opportunity blind him on occasion and became reckless, so it would do him good to practice defending and setting up kills for his partner.

And so the two lines faced one another, giving wild invented whoops and taunts, since to use the true war-cries would mean an oath to fight to the death; until one side was victorious or every man was slain, and this was only play.

Circling, the lines drew closer and performed several mock-charges, and Braint felt the blood pulse through her veins like fire. The excitement of battle swamped her senses again and she lusted for blood. She gave a wild cry and the lines met with a clash of wood on shield and flesh. A few fell immediately, and a part of Braint watched the battle impartially, noting to herself who held their ground the best, and where the strengths of each child lay. The rest of her teemed with excitement as Renos held out well, engaging their foes so that their attention was distracted from Braint for split-seconds at a time, allowing her to sneak her blade around their guard.

One, then another, and another fell to her blade and the wild thrill of nerves seized her – the euphoria of allowing her body to move almost of its own accord, flowing like water; flawless and powerful, her mind detached, giving directions that were as slight as the nudge of a knee that will make a trained horse spin on the spot. This was how she fought – her strength was not enough to overpower her enemies, but her speed and balance made her deadly.

A girl named Sulla yelled out in mock-agony as Braint hooked her blade behind her knee and brought her to the ground, following up with a quick jab to the chest that left her lying with her tongue out and eyes rolled back – a child’s naiive vision of death.

But then something grabbed at Braint’s heart for attention. A little feeling like the touch of a cold hand on skin, and she whipped around at once, knowing its source.

Lanis was staring at her from atop the standing stone, crouching and waving frantically for her to silence the group.

Ignoring the whack of a wooden sword across her distracted shoulder, Braint made the frantic ‘Tshhh!” noise that was the signal for all to stop without a word, and every eye snapped to her. Her heart beat quickly as she ran over to the foot of the stone, where Lanis was clambering down as quickly as she dared.

“What is it?” she demanded, quietly.

“There’s two men coming! They’re on horses, coming this way!” Lanis’ eyes were wide, seeming to fill most of her face.

“What tribe?”

“No-tribes. Tharbadders? Maybe Numen. I don’t know. They both have swords but not shields. One has a good horse, one doesn’t.”

“Alright. Good girl. Run back to the village and tell Father and Luain. We’re going to catch them!”

Braint could barely believe what she had just said, but Lanis nodded hastily and pelted off without another word, and she felt herself begin to ride the wave of excitement she had recklessly stirred. Braint looked about at the other children, feeling giddy. All of them were flushed and excited, having listened intently to Braint’s words with her sister. She felt her mind stall for a few moments before finding the surety and confidence she needed to project.

“Sulla, Owen, hide the weapons! Everyone, off the path! Draw your knives! Shield-mates keep your shields but sword-mates, hide yours! Tarren, Meros, you two find your slings, you’re going to open the attack – try and hit their sword hands! Then in with spears to knock them off and scare the horses! Knives and shields follow. We’re going to take them alive! Best fighter gets the good horse!”

Her ragged group of warriors-to-be had never looked more excited or more driven. Each one of them moved fluidly up the bank and sunk into the gorse and heather, and expression of utmost focus upon their faces. Braint was encouraged by her choice of companions. She took up the same position she had begun in – under the blackthorn bush. The spider was still there, rapidly tangling a moth in her web.

Braint felt bolstered by the sight, though the thrill in her veins was this time tainted with fear. The stakes were higher now, and she could be killed. She must not fail. She took the wooden-tipped spear that Owen handed to her without a word and gestured with her fingers that Renos, her now shield-mate should be ready to run out before her.

As the sound of hooves drew ever nearer, she gripped the holly leaf about her neck, feeling its welcome sting through a heady shroud of adrenaline and bowel-clenching terror. She poked her head up a little to see the two riders approach. Lanis had been right. They looked like Tharbadders, and were speaking that tongue. As such they were enemies, riding through her land. She was inwardly glad that they were not Numen – they fought fiercely indeed and were not easily slain.

The two horses approached at a brisk trot, and she made a signal behind her back for the two slingers to fit stones to their weapons. Taren and Meros were excellent slingers, and this attack would be much easier if they managed to strike their targets first time. Braint gave the man on the good horse a worried look. His head was a better target, and she knew that she would dearly regret to lose any of her friends to his blade, which looked likely. But they were too close now for her to change her orders. So she gave a shrill whistle, and two slingstones whirred overhead at great speed, whilst the mob of children leapt up with a wild yell and charged down the bank.

One stone shattered on the wrist of the better-mounted man and he screamed in pain, falling from his horse. Braint and Renos charged at the other man’s horse with a yell, and he drew his sword and struck out. He was driven more by surprise and alarm than by intent, so Renos caught the strike with his shield, and Braint jabbed hard at the man’s throat with her wooden spear, making him gasp and choke and slew sideways from his mount, which whinnied and bolted.

The other horse was well trained, and circled its master, trying to kick at the children as he stuggled upright, reaching for his sword with his left hand, his right hanging limp and useless at his side. After a moment’s terrible indecision, Braint turned aside from her victim and charged at the stray horse, knowing that if she could avoid its hooves and get onto its back there was a chance it might accept her. It was a difficult manoeuvre, and as she planted the butt of the spear she felt it slip, making her heart jar, but before she could lose her nerve it caught and she was vaulted up into the air, landing on her belly across the saddle.

Life pulsed through her veins, purer and more real than she had ever felt it, as her heart pounded away like a war-drum and the sharp smells of horse-sweat and leather filled her nose. She almost slid off as the horse jinked sideways, but managed to grasp its rough mane in one hand and a stirrup-strap in the other, pulling with all of her strength to set herself over the saddle. One of her flailing feet found the other stirrup, and within half a heartbeat she was able to swing her left leg over, bruising the inside of her thigh as it met the saddleback, but then sitting fully astride. With an elated rush of disbelief and victory she seized the reins and gripped tight with her knees, at once holding on as the horse wheeled and bucked, and pulling hard to make it calm, trying to soothe it with her voice.

Whether by training or by the confidence it felt from her, the horse began to submit, and stood, tensed but still and indecisive. Braint knew that she could not hesitate, or the horse would begin to buck again; she must act as if the horse were hers and had been for years, so she confidently reined it around to face the battle and flicked it into a charge at the back of its former master. He was sparring ferociously with Elis, whose wooden sword was broken in two, but whose eyes were alight with wildfire and murder, slashing and swinging with his half-sword and his knife bared in his other hand. His opponent fought very well with his wrong-handed longsword, doubly so since his right wrist was undoubtedly broken beneath his bracer. But his distraction was his downfall, and he did not notice the thundering of hooves behind until it was too late.

As Braint’s new steed closed the last few paces, the man began to half-turn, a look of shock upon his face. The horse’s broad chest collided with him and sent him hurtling forward into Elis’s swung elbow. There was a sharp ‘crack’, and Elis leapt back, wincing painfully, but the man collapsed heavily onto the ground. Silence fell, except for a few whimpers and moans, but after what seemed like an age, someone began to cry out in victory.

The sound seemed muffled to Braint and her limbs shook and quivered violently. Her face tingled and she felt heat creep up it as her stomach turned over. She let herself down from the horse and approached the fallen figure. The wild whoops and yells began to fall silent as she did not join them. The world seemed to sink and spin around the focus of the man’s body, and she felt horribly afraid of it, though there was no sense behind her fear. She reached a shaking hand out for the man’s shoulder, feeling more nauseous by the moment. The last hand’s breadth was almost impossible to breach, but she had to know. Her hand touched the rough material of his cloak and pushed tentatively.

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She leapt back onto her feet, stifling a yelp as the man let out a long, low groan. She walked in a few short circles, breathing as if she had just run a mile, her arm across her forehead as she shook with relief. She might have thought it fine and honourable to kill an enemy in her own land; certainly all of the songs and tales she had heard made such seem the highest aim of any warrior. Nevertheless, for those moments when she had thought her enemy dead, she had felt immeasurable sickness and guilt, and the relief she now felt was like a salve upon a burn.

Braint halted, realising that she could not indulge herself whilst there was still a danger to her friends.

“Sonos, Merra – bind them tightly, use belts and make sure they have no knives. They can not get away!”

As the two children mercilessly tied the two mens’ arms behind their backs, Braint found herself feeling a grudging respect for the horse-felled man. Whilst his wrist was clearly broken, he did not cry out as Sonos put his full weight into tightening the belt and tying it; he merely grunted and cursed under his breath.

She turned away to see who of her friends was hurt. Nerra’s face was tear-washed and she was choking and sobbing, rubbing at a bruised throat as her brother tenderly dressed and tied a long cut on her forearm, glancing with hatred at the lesser of the captives. Elis was holding his elbow, an ugly grimace upon his face, and Leos looked as though his collar was broken - his face was pale and his breath restrained. Among the others there were a dozen bruises and bleeding lips, but nothing that looked serious.

“Taren, go and catch that other horse, we’ll need it. The rest of you, fix your knives hard onto the spears so you can use them. I don’t want anyone to go close to them! If they don’t move, then use the spears, but don’t kill them or make them so they can’t walk.”

There was a flurry of activity and purpose in the village that night, and the adults could be seen striding back and forth between the round houses with grim expressions upon their faces. Braint sat alone in the smithy, picking at the hem of her tunic in frustration. She had expected her father and Luian to exclaim in pride, but as she and her friends had met the small host of warriors riding hard to meet them from the village, their expressions had shown only alarm and anger. Cardagos, her father, had roundly berated her for leading an attack of children against the two unknown men, and though Luain had said nothing, his expression made clear where his sympathy lay.

Braint kicked her heel mutinously against the log bench and stood up. Her prisoners had been taken away from her and led straight to the Greathouse, and she had not been allowed to follow. There was no justice in that, surely? Hadn’t she always been told to show bravery and daring? Hadn’t she won two enemy prisoners, without losing any? Hadn’t she stolen a man’s horse from under his very nose?

She crossed her arms and pouted at the silent forge, thinking hard.

No, she wouldn’t be shut out. The men were hers, since she had won them. She would hear what they had to say, one way or another.

Unhooking her cloak from a peg, Braint moved outside into the cold night air, feeling the nip of frost at her toes. She skipped quickly across the enclosure, ducking between the stilted granaries and making for the huge, conical silhouette of the Greathouse, looming and impressive against the star-strewn sky.

Nearing it, she leapt lightly up onto the thatch at the low eaves, and crept slowly up until she was a little below the smoke line, where the soot from the fire had made the straw dark. She carefully wormed a hand into the thatch, finding the join between two bundles and easing them gently apart. A glimmer of firelight showed through and a warm rush of air and woodsmoke crossed her face, making her wrinkle her nose. She could not make out the men they had caught, but would see her mother, Gwyddhien, pacing back and forth in her regal robes and glittering golden torc, speaking in the language of the Tharbadders. Her voice was low, and Braint did not know the tongue well, so she put her head close to the tiny hole she had made, straining to hear and understand.

“I hope you’re going to fix that when you’re finished,”

Braint spun around on the thatch, letting out a squeak of surprise and beginning to slide down it. Luain was standing there, larger than life, his shaggy wolfskin cloak draped over his shoulders and his arms crossed, watching her. Putting down her hands to stop her slide, Braint felt her face flush red in embarrassment and indignation.

“I wanted to hear. I didn’t think anyone would see me,” she said to him, trying to find a defiant tone.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone did, but it’s hard not to notice a handful of soot and spiders when it lands on your head,” growled Luain, beginning to grin.

“Oh,” replied Braint, flushing redder by the second.

“Come, do not feel rejected, my girl. Your father was angry earlier because he was afraid for you. Little Lanis came running up to him screaming about Numen riding through our land, telling that you meant to fight them. Of course he was afraid. It was a dangerous thing to do.”

“But they weren’t Numen, they were Tharbadders, and there were only two of them,” replied Braint defensively, still not sure whether she was being further berated.

“Not Numen, eh? Well, you need to choose your enemies more carefully. The man you felled was Dunadan, as they call themselves, or I’m a blind stoat. Just because he was not speaking Elderin, do not think he was not Numen. You were lucky none of you died. They are grim and merciless foes.”

Braint stood for a moment with mouth open, a look of shock and confusion playing across her face.

“But… I wouldn’t have… not if I’d known… how did - how did we win?”

“Twelve to one and a broken wrist, and I hear that one brave soul stole his horse from under him,” Luain’s face showed the merest flicker of a grin. “You should commend that person. You promised the horse to the best fighter, and you must keep your promises. Empty words leave bitter hearts.”

Braint stammered in her eagerness to win back some credit for herself.

“I – I… but that was me! I stole his horse! And I used it to knock him down!”

“As I said, that person needs commending. I’d give the other horse to the slinger, if I were you. Without that shot, I believe you might all be dead.”

Braint beamed, hardly daring to believe the reversal in her fortunes. Praise always felt more real coming from Luain than from anyone else, and she loved him for it.

“Away now. If your prize tells us anything that concerns you, I’ll let you know. Go and look after your friends. They fought bravely for you and some of them are hurt.”

Beaming across her face, she threw her arms around her Uncle’s muscular belly and turned and skipped away, feeling as though her skin were glowing with pride.

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Eight out of eight! Excellent! Once more now, come back around!"

With a brilliant thrumming of bunched nerves, excitement and danger, Braint, daughter of Gwyddhien and Cardagos reined her chestnet mare around and galloped her back towards the makeshift spear stand, now empty but for one long-toothed shaft.

The pounding of hooves and the rush of the wind in her ears kept up a momentum that was echoed by the drumming in her chest. She cantered past the stand and took up the last spear, tossing it up into the air and catching it again arm-raised so that its tip faced the straw bag model of the Great-Urk that was her target.

"Keep her straight, put fear into the enemy with your charge! Let him see that he is already dead!"

On any other day she might have resented Luain for his constant advice, but the spirit of the day was almost as high in him as it was in her, and she paid him no heed. The moment of the charge was hers, and his calls turned themselves in her ears into the terrified screams of the Great-Urk of the Mountains and the hated Torbruggi cowards as they turned and fled before the storming hooves.

Fifty paces, thirty, twenty five... now!

She cast the spear. A pang of terrified regret hit as her knuckle was clipped by the butt of the spear leaving her hand.

No no no! Let it hit! Let it hit!

The spear waggled in its flight and veered right, but not by much. With a heady rush of exhilaration, she heard the hushing thud and crack as it passed cleanly through the target's thick neck, severing the wooden pole that represented its spine. The spray of corn-grey dust became in her battle-lusting eyes a spurt of black-red blood as the head flopped sideways, held on by a few thumbs of rough reed sacking. The thick iron helmet dropped with a thudding smack onto the wet grass below and rolled to a halt.

Whooping her victory at the top of her lungs, Braint leapt from the saddle in a manoeuver she would never normally dare to try - the warrior's dismount at the gallop, perfectly executed. The Gods were with her today, and she could do no wrong.

She came to a running stop in front of Luain, whose eyes glowed with pride. A lesser man might have wept at the moment, but the scarred old warrior, decked out in his full compliment of ragged kill-feathers and with his golden wolf-headed torc about his neck stood to attention with an expression of fierce-faced joy and pride which was almost too much for Braint.

With all the strength and depth he could muster, he called into the air,

"Gods! Ancestors! Here is Braint nic Gwyddhien, Eagle-Dreamer and Warrior to the Cambriani!"

His voice boomed and echoed around the god-filled valley she had chosen as the place both to seek her Dreaming and to take the spear tests that were the final part of her initiation. The meltwater-swollen waterfall behind roared its approval and the great standing stones thrown down into the valley echoed the old Warrior's voice and sent it back to them a hundredfold, filling Braint's mind with his words.

He banged his fist to his chest and then threw out his palm to face her in the salute of one warrior to another upon victory in battle.

Braint fought with all the strength she had to control the exhilaration welling inside of her, and to stop it from bursting out as tears. She returned the salute with good grace and only a slight blur in her vision. The two warriors stood for a moment, statues of dignity, reveling in their shared pride, and then there was the joyful rumble of laughter as Luain stepped forwards out of his salute and flung his arms wide. Braint choked a laugh and tears began to roll down her face. She leapt forward into his embrace, pressing her ear to his chest to hear the cavernous booming of mirth, and breathing in the smells of horse and wolf and man that always hung so strongly and reassuringly around him.

"Perfectly executed, Brother-Daughter!" the giant exclaimed, slapping her on the back. "Your eyes are the great eagle's of your Dreaming, and the dragon's fire burns in your heart. Your enemies will fall before you like corn to the hook! Come now! Let me look at you..."

With this he took her firmly by the shoulders and stood her an arm's length away, looking fondly upon her tear-streaked, beaming face.

"Oh, now that won't do! This warrior has no battle-braid in her hair!" he called out theatrically to the empty valley. He took from his pouch a two-tone grey dove's feather and showed her how to braid it onto her hair.

"There, in the mark of many more and of greater value to come, my warrior," he said to her, clapping her on the shoulder.

Choking back an ecstatic giggle, she shot a covetous glance at his many kill-feathers, all genuine and bound about by gold or silver wire, a mark of the many battles he had fought and the turns of the wire numbering the dead. Amongst them were three of the ragged black crow's feathers with the quills dyed in a dark grey-green that were most highly prized of all, as they showed that he had fought the Great-Urk of the southernmost tip of the Cloudspine, those who came without warning but with a massive stance, a regimental discipline and a sheer monstrous energy that could not be stopped except at bitter price.

"Now then! Let us bundle up your spears and go to fetch your serpent-sword. I am sure that is what you have been truly waiting for!"

Laughing and joking they set about tying up the bundle of spears and strapped them to the saddle of Luain's tall dun stallion. All were already grouped as they had been plucked from the chestplate of the target except for the last, which had buried itself in the tussocky long grass and frosted wildflowers behind.

They mounted and turned their horses to face home, away from the mountains, delighting in the fine weather the Gods had chosen to send for the first true day of spring. The clear, bright blue sky and golden sun warmed the soul and the skin against the last remnants of crisp and frost that still hid in the shadows, and the trees were laden with swelling buds that would soon become flags of the perfect emerald-green that only spring leaves could achieve. The Dreamers' grove of tall, twisted holly trees still bled with the last berries of winter. A brown hare bolted for their cover, heavily pregnant and wet from the melted frost.

It was a long ride and they spent much of it singing in tandem the stories of their people; of Ordovec and his rejection of the Darkfather, of Freca's murder by the Forgoil King Helm, and Wulf's victory that came so close before being snatched away along with the horse-plains; and of Maroc, whose Dreaming was so strong that she rocked the very peaks of the Cloudspine, collapsing the caves of the Urk who had beset them and leading her people to victory.

A cloud that Braint had not even seen pulled across the sun, taking with it the warmth of the day and a measure of her good humour. She stopped singing and furrowed her brows at Luain, seeing that he had also become more alert.

"What think you, Uncle? A sign?"

The bear-like man flicked the battle-braids from his face and looked around, frowning.

"Perhaps," he rumbled. "The gods speak more clearly to you than they do to me, my girl. Do you feel warning?"

Braint nodded mutely. The tingling up and down her spine was not born of the shadow alone, and she tried to see which of her senses was telling her to beware. She could not smell anything out of the ordinary, just the flowering gorse and the musk of a passing fox. Meltwater rushed distantly in a stream, cut by the flopping splash of an eel, and a few crows clattered overhead.

"There! Smoke!" she hissed, a cold hook tugging at her innards. "There is smoke over the village!"

The old warrior growled as he looked out towards the billowing column of black smoke that had just begun to rise a few hills away, exactly where their path was leading.

"Quickly! To the gallop! I smell treachery...."

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He kicked the dun stallion into a gallop and Braint reined her mare after it, all the joy of the day draining from her to be replaced by a sullen dread. Her mind raced almost as fast as the branches could whip past her head.

Betrayal... but who? Berkos of the Torbruggi? No, of course not. He was an open enemy, and a coward, and did not command enough spears or respect to attack the Cambrani in full daylight. Then who? Who among our friends would wish us dead without calling war upon us first?

The question swirled around and around in Braint's mind as she galloped, noting the froth forming around the horses' mouths and the rasping of their breath, and each time it found no answer. The two neighbouring tribes were oath-sworn to her mother, and would risk the gods' wrath for such a crime. Also, each was too small to attack alone.

We shall see. If they have hurt Lanis, I will skin them all alive.

Braint could feel her steed's energy sapping away and failing as they began the last rise, over which lay the village. There came clear the sounds of screaming and shouted orders, the clash of steel on steel and proudly-sung battle-songs.

Oh Gods, they're losing. They are singing their death-songs.

The hard-run mare finally stumbled as a rock gave way beneath her hoof and weakly kicked, trying to stand. Braint rolled off and began to call to Luain, whose stallion was breathing like a saw and had bloodied foam at his lips.

"Luain... we must go in on foot, they are - " she stopped dead as a monstrous snarl came from over the rise, and was answered by an equally horrible roar.

"Urk! Urk! They have Urk!"

Her panicked voice rose high like a girl's, not with the steady calm of a warrior.

Her heart was hammering at her chest and there was a whining in her ears. Luain growled and leapt down from his horse. He cut the thongs holding the bundled spears and let them tumble to the ground. Taking the bundle, and tossing one to her, he gestured forwards. She ran weak-legged to the top of the slope and for a moment stood awestruck at what she saw. The hillfort was burning in several places, and a large part of the wooden pallisade had been torn down. The Cambrani warriors had held their ground though, and a line of them filled the gap, keeping their shields linked and fighting bravely against....

....two hundred Great Urk were swinging their great toothed swords with the strength of maddened bulls, and dashing at the warriors' faces with their iron shields. Behind them, jeering, was a man in a white cloak, not of any apparent tribe, surrounded by five of his guard.

With an enraged snarl Luain tossed his spear with all of his enormous strength. The man's jeering stopped short as the spear caught him fully in the back and buried itself up to a quarter of its length in his flesh. The guards spun around with cries of alarm and anger, and began to dash towards Luain and Braint, swords and shields raised. Luain took up another spear and hurled it, and then another and another, whilst Braint stood mutely by, holding her spear upright, dumbfounded and held by bowel-clenching fear.

The first spear missed, but the second and third were blocked by the mens' shields, forcing them to drop them and run forward bearing only their swords.

"Braint! On your guard!"

With a roared curse Luain drew his sword in one hand and hefted his smith's hammer in the other. He hurled himself at the attackers. One fell instantly, cowed into dropping his guard by the giant's anger, and another was too slow with his shield, catching the hammer fully in the throat. He collapsed, gurgling, to the muddied earth.

With a jerk, Braint realised that she was standing idle when she should be fighting to the death alongside her uncle. She regretted the lack of sword and shield, with which she was best trained, but instead leapt forward, eyes wide with fear, swinging the spear at the nearest warrior's throat, and kicking sparks off the rim of his shield as he blocked the swipe. She leapt aside from the counter-thrust that came from under his shield, and brought the butt of her spear around, whirling towards his face, and feeling the slight sickening knock as it caught and broke the bridge of his nose, sending him staggering back into Luain's sword thrust.

Another of the guards lay dead at his feet, and the fifth was running for the cover of the Urk line. He tumbled and fell as another of Luain's spears caught him squarely in the small of his back, and lay moaning and writhing upon the bloodied grass.

"We can't get through here... too many!" Luain roared, looking about wildly for another entrance. "There! The Gods' gate!"

A hundred paces around the great palisade wall, there was a small, wooden gate that every man and woman of the tribe had used just once, as he or she returned from her Dreaming in the wilds, in the dazed and gods-filled state that marked their movement into adulthood. It was sacrilege to enter it at any other time, for whatever purpose, but it was the only way into the fortress.

Four Great-Urk relentlessly hacked, cut and splintered the beautifully woven signs of the Dreaming that were painted upon the sturdy oaken gate, grunting their effort and curses to the few warriors who were on the other side, barricading it against them.

Braint ran after Luain towards them, her legs shaking as if she were in a fever, and the cold sweat on her palms causing her to drop her spear twice and stumble on the uneven ground.

The rushing whine increased in her ears as she crouched behind a small birch tree with Luain, twenty paces behind the raging Urk, and his low rumble of instructions sounded muffled to her, and her mind raced to emptiness, taking clumsy moments to understand his words.

"Their armour's weak at the back of the legs and under their ribs, but the warriors above the gate would as well save their arrows from that angle." Surely enough, the two bowmen in the nest above the gate shot straight down onto the Great-Urk and found no gaps in their thick platen armour.

"I'm going to cast my last spear to get their attention and humble one of the damned things maybe, but you must get inside. You can't fight them with just a spear in your hands, and an eagle can fly over a gate where a wolf can't. Those bowmen will get a prettier target with the cursed blackskins coming for me. Now, away! Behind the yew, there!"

Unthinkingly, Braint lurched upwards and ran shakily towards a stunted yew-tree ten paces to Luain's right. Five paces from it, the meaning of his words struck her.

He's going to die so I can get over the wall. Oh Gods....

She turned and stumbled, looking imploringly at him where he crouched, his battered old handsome face set in an expression of determination and barely-surpressed rage.

"Luai..."

Her dejected choke of protest was cut short by a glare from the warrior, and he gestured harshly to the yew tree again, his fingers making a sacred sign that assured her instant obedience. Trying desperately not to burst into panicked tears, Braint turned and ran the last few paces to the yew tree and hid herself as best she could.

Luain burst from behind a tree with the roar of a dragon, casting his spear with all of his strength. It found its mark where the plates met on the back of one of the Great-Urk, which made a gurgling roar of rage, arching over backwards and dropping its weapons to clutch at the spear protruding from its back, and presenting its throat for the bowmen above. It fell, two shafts projecting from its throat, landing so that the spear pushed its way almost through the chestplate. The three others looked around, dumbfounded for a moment, and then charged, roaring, towards Luain, who held his sword and hammer ready. Almost not daring to look, Braint felt a tingle of panic at her back and broke from cover and rushed towards the wall. An arrow caught one of the Great-Urk where the tendons stood out in the back of its knee and it fell with a grunt, catching another in its exposed hamstring.

The wall did not seem to be coming any closer, and rocks jumped and rolled from the mud beneath her feet as Braint ran up the short hill. There was a horrible sensation of the skin on her back tightening in expectation of the hooked blade that would surely sever her spine at any moment, and time slowed, so the wall seemed a year's run away.

With a final rush she planted the butt of her spear into the ground and leapt with all of her might at the wall, using the spear to vault upwards as she would onto the back of a horse. With a crash that knocked all of the air from her lungs, she hit the wall, managing to grasp between the splintery wooden spikes that served as battlements with her left hand and swung painfully from side to side. She fought for a breath. It did not come, and the screaming and roars of battle became muffled in her ears.Her vision turned red, tinged at the blurred edges with black.

She felt her legs collapse beneath her and cold angular rock pushing painfully at her ribs and realised that she must have fallen, and would now certainly die. She pulled with all her might for a breath of air, and after what seemed an eternity, one came racking into her lungs. The terrible sounds of the world returned.

Fueled by this insignificant victory, she fought desperately to stand, and to her infinite surprise, found that she could. She tottered for a moment, light-headed, and then stooped to pick up her spear. Turning, she jogged back a few paces and pinched her eyes tight, too late. She had already seen the two strewn bodies of Urk at Luain's feet, and heard the monstrous snarl of rage as the last of the three, who wielded a great two-handed sword and no shield, lifted his blade and swung so fiercely that it could not be blocked by the tired warrior.

[the-small-print]

Her ears conveyed to her the ringing 'tang' of a sword being knocked aside, and the sickening slapping crunch as the sword found its way from collar-bone to hip and out the other side.

Unable to contain an eruptive sob and a feverish wave of nausea, Braint turned and charged at the wall, screaming her tear- streaked plea to the Gods, throwing her full strength at the spear. She felt the swooping rush as she sailed through the air towards the wall. She hit higher up this time and felt a hand grasp her elbow and roughly yank her upwards. A cry of alarm did not quite block out the methodical grunt and thrumming swish of the Great-Urk Captain as he swung his grisly sword from behind her blind back. There was a splintering thud as its hooked tip buried itself in the palisade, and her foot was twisted aside as the halted blade ground grittily against the bone of her heel, mixing her blood with Luain's.

In a moment of exquisite pain and grief, she felt a rush of panicked energy unfurl inside her. With a roar of effort, the two warriors atop the wall pulled her up and over the built wooden spikes, which rasped roughly across her belly before she flopped to the platform deck, breathless and stricken numb with grief and terror. She felt for the briefest moment the tingle of relief at her rescue, and a heartbeat later felt it swamped with a pouring rage which could not be quenched.

She leapt to her feet, drawing in a deep, pained breath, and grabbed the tip of a pike that was rested against the guard-nest inside. Tossing it up, hand over hand, she turned with a terrible scream of rage that shook her very bones and raked at her throat. She rammed the pike down with all the strength the Gods would lend her, and its tip speared viciously through the up-looking eyehole in the Urk Captain's helm. With a blood-rage the like of which she had never felt, she felt the scraping pike pass through the back of the helmet, and heard the crack as the weight of the loose shaft twisted the dead Captain's head back so far that its neck broke.

The two warriors stared at her, open-mouthed with amazement, but she had no time for them. Four able-bodied swordsmen had been barricading the gate below and were needed elsewhere.

She leapt down from the wall and landed in a tumbling roll that found her on her feet again, not noticing the hundred pounding pains or the gritty sting of mud working its way into her heel.

Inside the fortress, she could see where the smoke had come from, as it lay still chokingly thick above the ground. The Greathouse was aflame, as was the Elders' place, and several sections of the wall. Massed warriors moved in blocks, cloaked in the black-rimmed sky blue that marked them as Cambriani, fighting savagely against the metallic storms of energy that were the Great-Urk, and singing aloud their wish for Mandedd to take their souls when they fell.

Anelis, the Elder Dreamer, stood beside the burning greathouse, and such a ferocity was in her eyes that Braint quailed. All the years were stripped form her as her eyes burned with flickering red fire, screaming incantations that caused the very flames of the thatch to leap up and plough into the lines of Urk, wrapping their foes in an incendiary embrace which caused them to drop their weapons and wail, tearing at their skin and letting off a foul black smoke that made their fellows gag and choke.

The rest of the Dreamers stood around the greatest of the roundhouses that was still whole, chanting in unison with a power that made the grass ripple and wave and the air sparkle with brilliance. Flickering blue bolts of light shot from them, furies condensed into blue flame, which massed into the Urk, causing black sprays of blood and demolished muscle where they hit, and making them drop their guard so that the Warriors could plunge their weapons in.

But still the Warriors sang their death-songs, and from where she stood, Braint could not see why. She pelted towards the smithy, thinking to find her father, or failing that, at least a sword. Inside, there was no one, except for a few scattered parts of Efnal, who worked the bellows. He had seemingly been torn apart. Stemming a violent wave of nausea, she forced her warrior's eyes to glance about for a good weapon.

A number of good blades hung from a rack, but each had a bare tang and no handle. The only sword that was whole was the testing blade, notched and partly blunt from where a hundred better blades had struck it and left their mark, but still, it was the right weight, and its metal was as good as any made by their enemies. She grasped it and ran outside, scampering up the conical thatched roof to overlook the battlefield.

What she saw made her sway and nearly fall. The two hundred Urk she had first seen were all slain, and the ten or so warriors who had survived and could still limp were dashing as fast as their tired and battered legs could carry them towards the main fray, which came from the western side of the fort. Four hundred Great-Urk were battling with as many warriors, formed in a great saw-toothed line, shields locked, pushing forwards and stamping on the fallen warriors with their great iron-shod feet.

What made the tribe's fate inevitable was the hundred mounted men, cloaked in white and bearing spears, who were galloping at the warriors from their left flank, tossing their spears and waving their swords with a great roar of impending victory.

Braint looked about wildly, the feeling of a hook at her stomach tugging so tight now that she was surprised her insides did not burst out. Her breathing came shortly, in gasps of panic.

Where are our horses? The only cavalry I see is theirs!

And then she found them, a tumbled mass of bodies, outside the far gap in the palisade, all soaked with blood and with the shafts of spears and lances standing proud from them, the occasional glimpse of their coloured cloaks flapping in the wind or lying blood-weighted over the bodies. The briefest moment of pride welled up through the horror as she realised that the bodies of the Cambriani horsemen were less than half in number than those of the enemy, and that.....

....the faces of all those she knew who would have been in that heroic charge flashed up before her face, smiling and joking, tending to their horses with a loving care that was so rare amongst the tribes.....

The grief bit at her throat, and she half-slid, half-tumbled her way down the roof, her eyes swimming in hot tears. Her limbs were shaking, and the reality of the situation hit her in one black swoop.

The Cambriani are no more.

When she reached the bottom of her slide at the eaves, she stood shakingly, and tried in vain to wipe the tears from her eyes.

She ran forward, towards the house around which the dreamers stood, flinging their final curses before being ridden down by the white-cloaked traitors.

The hundred or so Urk left standing roared their victory, and the shivering desolation of it coursed through Braint on a wave of renewed nausea. The screams she heard now were not warriors', nor hurled challenges and curses, they were the screams of the children and elders as the Urk made a great circle and took their pikes, thrusting them at the screaming crowds as they ran for their lives, and set their ends into the ground, raising their grisly trophies high into the air.

The final blow that stopped Braint dead in her tracks, aghast, came atop one of the pikes. With a crippling shock, Braint spotted the green-clad form so alike to her, except for the hair, which was the colour of dark ox blood. She was dressed to her best - a torc at her neck and a heavy gold bangle around her wrist, hanging limply at her side - in readiness for her sister's homecoming as full Warrior and fourth of the Royal line of the Cambriani.

[the-small-print]

That sight hung in her mind, as Braint sat sobbing under the blackthorn hedge, the walls of Bree looming darkly through the rain off in the distance. She could not remember fleeing like a kicked hound into the wilds, nor what had happened since.

The first day of autumn dropped its heavy, clinging rain through her muddied sky-blue cloak, and all she could remember of the time between then and now was when after two days she had returned to lay as many brave warriors as she could upon the death-platform, so that they might find their way across the river into the care of the Gods and Ancestors, and might never again be disturbed by the grief of the world. Everything of value had gone; all the gold, silver, and most of the swords, including that which was hers: the Ancestor-sword borne by her father and named Mona, that she had last seen being tossed into a sack by a Great-Urk Warlord, his belt pendant with the freshly cut heads of warriors and their families.

....Lanis' face had been beautiful even in death; the birch-bark strip of the Dreamer at her brow, a slight, knowing smile upon her lips and eyes closed as if in sleep.....

Braint had wept herself hoarse as she had tidied her sister's hair and drawn in her own warm blood the mark of her Dreaming inside Lanis' forearm, to guide her on her journey to the other side. She had found her father, and her mother, and all three of her brothers and laid their hewn bodies beside Lanis, close in death.

....and Luain. Never had she had such a task before, but she did the best to make him whole, binding his cloak tight about him, and had lain him by her father; his brother, with his sword and hammer upon his chest, and the head of his killer placed as an offering at his feet, the cut-off pikehead still projecting from the back of its helmet and holding the head within.....

It was the best she could do, and now she must simply ask the Gods to keep their bodies for one year, until their journey was complete and she could burn their bones, and speak their names without fear that they would hear her and turn back out of pity, losing their way. Until then....

Until then.

[the-small-print]

Braint shouldered open the heavy door to the Pony, her hands laden with the hares she had caught, and two plump pheasants hanging over her shoulder, their necks dangling against the stained sky-blue of her sodden cloak.

She was met by a variety of sullen stares and the guttering light of a dozen oil lamps. Bertram Appledore sat huddled in a corner with his brother and three friends, each of whom wore the special look of resentment that they kept just for her. Braint smiled a humourless smile under her dripping hood and kicked the door shut behind her, wiping her feet on the muddy rushes and straightening up.

Bertram had not been able to walk easily since last week - a fact he owed to an ill-judged attempt to woo Braint, given courage by no less than seven flagons of ale. This had not made Braint overly popular within Bree; Bertram and his brother Rowlie were well known and liked through the town, and she was a grim-faced outsider with little humour and strange mystical marks upon her arms and legs. In fact, the only face inside the Pony who seemed pleased to see her was that of Barliman Butterbur, the balding innkeeper, who bustled over and admired Braint's catch happily.

"Well, you've done me a favour and no mistake Miss Braint! We're fresh out of hares, and those pheasants'll go down a treat once they've been hung for a week or two. I'll just get Ramsi to make you up something now...."

He took the game from her and bustled off towards the kitchen, breathing heavily through his mouth and looking furrow-browed at a small slate in his hand, scratching tally marks upon it.

Braint quietly moved to an unobtrusive corner with a brightly burning reed lamp and huddled close to it, allowing the warm fug of the room into her bones. The burning rushes....

The fire-sprites hugging close to the Urk, making their skins crack and pour smoke... the Great-house burning, the air shimmering with blue. Braint nic Gwyddhien, leading a charge of five hundred horse against the attackers, cutting them down like corn to the hook. Standing victorious, Warrior-queen.....

"Here you go miss. I'm afraid you'll have to move to the ground floor for tonight, we're all full up upstairs."

There was a warm thud as a bowl of steaming soup and a flagon of ale were set upon the table before her, with a small loaf of crusted bread.

Eagle-dreamer, Warrior-queen....

Braint nodded her thanks to Barliman.

Her neck still stung where she had ripped off the plaited golden torc, and her hair was matted and tangled, bearing no braids.

The red-faced portly innkeeper gave her an encouraging grin before turning away and calling out for his assistant in a loud voice. He was a good man.

Braint tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the soup, letting the smell of it fill her nose and steal her attention. Chewing slowly, she savoured the mouthful, swallowed and took a swig of ale. Concentrating on the flavours and guessing the ingredients helped. It meant her mind was occupied and not free to wander.

".... all orcs and goblins, said he!" Braint looked up sharply. The speaker was Rowlie Appledore, brother to the unfortunate Bertram.

"On my honour, last week it was, took that ole Missus who lives out past Bromley's place. House cleaned out and burned to the ground, an' her an' her son visitin' her, all taken away and eaten up!"

The Great-house burning, the air shimmering with blue. The screams of the children and elders ringing in her ears. Lanis upon a pike, raised high in the air, still mouthing her shock as her lifeblood drained away.....

There was a growing whistle in Braint's ears.

"Well I never!" interjected Bram Oakley in an angry grumble. "I 'ad the young man muckin' out the pigs fer me last week! Baril were 'is name. Cheery young chap and a good worker to boot. What's the world comin' to, I ask you...."

Coward. Runaway.

Braint turned quickly in her seat and cleared her throat, causing him to jump and spill his drink. He gave her an unhappy grumble and looked away. The others glanced at her with mixed looks of suspicion and derision, muttering into their drinks.

Braint's pulse was racing, and her expression fierce.

"Where? Where are these goblin? These orcs?"

Braint felt her tongue stumble on the harsh-sounding language. She had been being tutored in it until her bleeding came, but the time after that had been filled with numerous ceremonies and rites, and so she had had little chance to practice.

"What business is it of yours, eh Miss?" asked Bram, giving her a suspicious leer.

"You want them dead? Tell me where they are."

Rowlie laughed.

"You mean ter say that you're going to go and kill 'em all, Miss? Just you by yourself? You'se mad I say. No girl's a match for a band o' goblins, true as it rains in spring!"

Braint's mouth twisted as she bit back an angry retort.

"I did not ask for your opinion, sir. I asked where they are," said Braint, narrowing her eyes at him.

...not a coward, not a coward...

Bertram gave a measured sneer and leaned back in his seat airily, adopting a businesslike, mocking tone.

"Well now, gents, it seems what we have here is a genuine firebrand. I say we should tell the young lady where these disreputable characters might be found, so that she can save us from them!" He gave a pompous smile, which Braint returned mockingly. "And I think a wager is in order!"

"Hrrr, aye! A wager!" growled Bram appreciatively. Braint gave him a venomous look.

"Well, my dear, how sounds this: if'n you return to this place bearing the head of the chief of this meddlesome band" - he gave a disbelieving wink - "then I shall give you twenty silver pennies and a round of ale, eh? And if you, say, return battered and bruised, or without the prize, then you shall give me - ah - the... pleasure of your company, for one night. Eh? What say you?"

The flare of anger that might have left Bertram headless was stayed by a gruff look from Barliman as he shook his head disapprovingly at the man.

"Now now, Mr. Appledore, let's not be making no silly wagers that'll get the young lass killed! I thought better o' you..."

"Sixty pennies," Braint cut in.

Fool. 'The pleasure of your company'. I could agree to that and spend a night throwing rocks at you.

Barliman gave an unhappy groan and bustled over to Braint, meaning to discourage her, but before he reached her, Braint had grabbed Bertram's hand and shook it hard.

And so she found herself, two nights later, creeping through the dripping forest, her bare feet padding silently across the wet leaves and mosses. Her skin tingled under the woad-lines she had painted upon herself, the writhing form of the dragon grappling its talons with the sky-blue eagle. The gods were watching her, but whether there was approval in their gaze, she could not tell.

Her palms tingled. There was light over the next rise. Gripping the tangled roots with her toes, she climbed the slope silently. She could feel the cold wind raising goose-pimples upon the skin of her bare legs, and sending the loose leather of her tunic flapping. This day she was acting out the plans of the gods, for good or ill. No armour would stop the killing blow if she was meant to die, and her minimal dress showed faith and acceptance of their will.

An ugly chattering and rasping laughter rode on the wind, and as Braint grew nearer to the flicker of firelight, she could see the huddled, swarthy figures of a dozen goblins biting strips of meat from chunks of stewed bone.

A sentry fiddled with the strap of his crossbow, thinking himself concealed in a tangle of holly. He was not looking in Braint's direction, and she pressed a thumb to her forehead in thanks for it. She changed her course and drew her skinning knife from her belt.

Twenty paces... ten... five...

Braint's heart beat so hard in her chest that she was amazed the sentry had not not heard its clatter. Two paces behind, she stopped, adjusting her grip on her knife and feeling cold sweat roll down her back. Her eyes were wide and her tongue moistened her lips nervously.

Coward! Coward! Coward!

Achingly long seconds passed, and she did not move. The sentry sneezed and wiped his nose on his arm, leering into the darkness.

Her arms were paralysed by fear, and there was no way out. No way back now. A shivering terror and heart-rending sorrow welled up inside her, so that she was almost ready to drop to her knees and beg the goblin's forgiveness for her intent. An unbearable longing swept through her chest for strong, warm arms to close on her and lead her away; loving hands to give her spiced warm milk; a cheerful, rumbling voice to sing her to sleep by the last embers of the fire and keep her in peace. A tear rolled down her face, stingingly cold in the night air, and a tiny, shaking gasp escaped her. The goblin stiffened....

Never again. All dead.

... and the gods intervened. As the goblin began to turn, a decisive rush of rage took her and her arm darted out like a striking snake, the knife's blade pushing its way fully through the sentry's neck, and trapping the wind in its gullet, so that it could not make its death-cry. Warm, black blood welled up out of the wound and soaked her hand as she twisted the blade and followed the goblin to the ground, ensuring that it did not clatter.

[the-small-print]

She straddled its chest on the ground and pushed her blade slowly into its heart, allowing no darting scrape that might be heard at the camp. The goblin's beady black eyes fixed on her own, wide with panic and hatred as it clutched at its throat, mouthing wordlessly as a bubbling flow of black blood flooded its mouth and spilled over onto its face. She stared into those eyes as the squirming ceased, cursing it with all her soul and reveling in the creature's bowel-voiding terror and shock.

All dead....

The forest seemed to turn blistering red and she stood, breathing levelly, and looked up at the fire. starting at a silent stride, she moved towards it, breathing harshly, light-headed with wrath and grief, but as she grew closer caution left her, and she drew her father's notched testing-blade with both hands and let out a wordless roar, her war-cry not finding the names that it so longed to give voice to, but nevertheless seeming to shake the trees to their roots and make the goblins cringe and cower, and sending one of them diving headlong into the fire in shock.

Nothing could stop her. The gritty long blades of the goblins shook in their hands as they madly swung at her, and the pommel of her sword crashed down onto the skull of one, sending it tumbling blank-eyed to the ground with a muffled 'crock'. Her blade whipped around and hissed through the air, barely slowing as it met the stomach of another, unseaming him and spraying his lifeblood over his bewildered and enraged fellows.

Another fell, and another. The slippery woad on her leg turned aside a long knife and her flapping cloak few in the eyes of its wielder, allowing Braint to bring about her blade and behead him.

She was vaguely aware of one of them roaring orders, its voice becoming more and more shrill as its audience was made into a bloody tangle, writhing in the mud of the campsite, and when none remained but it alone, she saw it turn tail and run towards the distant rocks, madly throwing its knife at her face.

Dragon-fire burned at her chest as she gave chase, ducking the blade and charging down the goblin with the speed of a wild horse. The goblin's many bangles and heavy helm were making him trip and stumble in the knotted mud and leaves, and a fearful glance over his shoulder caused him to run directly into a blackthorn bush, whose sharp embrace made him squeal and jump back into his pursuer.

Braint rammed him into a tree and knocked him to the ground, where he squirmed, hissing and squealing as she brought the dragon-headed pommel of her sword down into nose, and then again, and again, and again until the squirming gave way to twitching, and black blood stung in her eyes.

She stood, and brought her sword down once, decisively, removing his head. She stooped to pick it up, but as her heartbeat began to slow and she saw what she was reaching for, the battle-rage left her, and an uncontainable wave of nausea took her, followed by a choking sob and an unquenchable feeling of loneliness.

_________________________________

The door to the pony barged open once more, causing everyone within to jump and turn their heads. One or two reached for their weapons as the bedraggled figure pushed her way inside, soaked in black blood and reeking, her war paint smudged and blended until her skin looked blue-black and scratched, and her hair hanging in a dripping mess about her head.

The Pony's patrons gasped as one, and Bertram Appledore virtually cowered in his corner, his friends and brother visibly edging away from him as it became clear what they were looking at.

Braint walked over to his table and Bram Oakley fell from his stool in an effort to remove himself from the nightmare apparition. She dropped the mangled, pulverised, sodden thing onto the table by its hair and said, in a voice so much stronger than the one they had come to know as to be almost unrecognisable:

"There. Sixty pennies. Spare the drink, I don't think I could stand the company."

Bertram's mouth flapped, and a brief hint of argument crossed his face. Braint was impressed. She did not think he would have the nerve to argue.

"I... I - I mean to say, how do I know this is..?"

"Because I do not lie," She said flatly, her hand moving almost imperceptibly towards the hilt of her sword.

Bertram hastily looked down and gathered his purse, emptying its contents and looking imploringly at his friends to make up the remainder. They grudgingly did so, and Braint took ten coins directly to the bar and put them down in front of Barliman.

"For the upset, and the mess. Thank you, Barliman, for all of your kindness. I shall take my leave of you now. Keep well."

Not waiting for a response from the stunned barman, she strode briefly outside and disappeared into the rain, where old Vallan the beggar would awake the next day to find himself, unexplainably, forty coins richer.

[the-small-print]

There you are... that's the story so far. As ever, all feedback and comments are welcome; positive and negative.

Hope you enjoyed!

[the-small-print]

I really would appreciate some feedback, you know... get a kind of sinking feeling if no one replies. :(

[SNarfel]

Very well written and giving considerable insight to the character. I know a lot of it was cut and pasted but the lengthy nature of the post somewhat discouraged me to read it :).

[highlander211]

Very nice piece of work - now when are you going to do Vesp? ;)

[the-small-print]

Very well written and giving considerable insight to the character. I know a lot of it was cut and pasted but the lengthy nature of the post somewhat discouraged me to read it :).

Yes, I thought that might be a problem, maybe I should have done it serially - just seemed a bit cheesy when I'd already posted two of the three stories :)

Nevertheless, thanks for your feedback, and anyone, feel free to read it one story at a time!

and as for Vesp - erm... two steps ahead of you there. Have a look at posts older than a month old ;)

[Nolëtáro]

I was deeply surprised when I was checking the forum archives and stumbled upon this. The amount of character development present awes me, and the entire story kept me riveted to the screen. A most excellent literary effort. I can barely wait to see more from you, small-print :D

[SpymasterGend]

Finally had the chance to read it all the way through. Thumbs up...or to the forehead...or...burnt on bacon...or what have you. Nice work.