Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,65

the very soul.

‘No, child,’ came a sinister, rasping voice from the raven’s mouth. ‘Not Mumir … although I have taken his form so that we may speak awhile together.’ The eyes flared. ‘I’d have you know your doom, child of the Dying Gods.’

‘… Ragnar …’ Branwen mouthed the cursed name, her heart freezing in her chest. But she would not give the terrible Saxon god the satisfaction of knowing how she dreaded him. ‘I do not fear you,’ she said defiantly. ‘I saw you bested in the mountains. I saw you flee from the Shining Ones.’

The monstrous bird moved towards her, and as it came closer so Branwen saw that its body seemed to boil and billow, to swell and heave as though some inner force were trying to break free – as though the dark spirit of Ragnar could hardly be contained within the feathered form. Where it stepped, the ground burned black.

‘Upon the morrow, will you be utterly destroyed,’ the bird croaked. ‘My faithful servant Herewulf has invented a new manner of execution especially for you. Your body will be mutilated and ruined while the crowds cheer and mock.’ The sinister eyes shone like furnace fires as the black bird rose on ponderous wings, forcing Branwen’s eyes to follow as it drifted across the cell and came to rest on the lintel above the door.

‘But you shall not die, Branwen of the Weak Gods … I will keep you alive, even though your body be ripped into bloody-boned pieces. I shall have them cut off your head, my child, and impale it upon a spike.’ Branwen stared up at the evil raven, sick with horror. ‘Even then you shall not die,’ continued the hideous voice as the raven took to the air again, swooping low so that Branwen was forced to flinch as its wings brushed past her. ‘I will have them slice off your eyelids and bear your living head before them as they ride into the west to the conquest of Brython,’ intoned the creature as Branwen turned again, unable to tear her eyes away from the deadly apparition. ‘And thus shall you see all! And even then, when all of Brython squeals and writhes under the heel of my faithful servants, and when the Shining Ones are thrown down into the deepest pits of Hel, never more to rise, even then I will not let you die, child. A temple will be set up in my honour – a temple upon the hill that is called Garth Milain. And that temple will be named Neahdun Cirice Ragnar – the Hill of Ragnar’s Temple. And your head will be placed in that temple, child – alive yet not alive, trapped for ever in the limbo between life and death.’ The voice rose to a dreadful, harsh crescendo as the monstrous bird loomed above her, fouling the air with the slow flap of its wings. ‘And there you will dwell, child!’ it screamed. ‘For all time!’

As the ghastly scream echoed in Branwen’s skull, so the bird’s body finally split apart from the inner pressure and Ragnar’s boiling darkness gushed through the tiny cell, as heavy and dense as floodwater, driving Branwen to the floor and holding her there as she gasped for breath.

Two great burning red eyes glared down on her as the darkness penetrated her body and writhed in her mind, blotting out all memory of sun and warmth and life and love.

Ragnar was the only thing that existed in the world.

Ragnar was everything Branwen had ever known.

Ragnar was all.

‘So, Branwen, how have you been?’

The well-loved, impossible voice woke Branwen from a sleep as heavy and suffocating as deep water.

She sat up. ‘Geraint?’

‘Who else?’

The world about her was still pitch black, but her dead brother stood in the utter darkness, as bright as a candle flame.

She scrambled to her feet. ‘Geraint!’

She ran forward, then paused, puzzled. She took another step towards him. Without having moved, he was still the same distance away from her. She reached out but could not touch him.

‘Are you a ghost?’ she breathed.

Geraint grinned and rubbed his nose. ‘I have no idea,’ he said cheerfully. He shook his head and rested his two fists on his hips. ‘What kind of a mess have you got yourself into, little sister?’ he asked. ‘Can I not leave you alone for half a day?’

‘Half a day?’ gasped Branwen. ‘You have been dead for half a year or more, Geraint!’ Anger rose in her throat. ‘How