The Emerald Flame Read Online Free Page A

feet.
    Branwen got up. “You will ride to your certain death if you head westward, Gavan ap Huw,” she said urgently. “The prince cannot be taken by one man alone.”
    “Riders have been sent to Pengwern,” Iwan reminded him. “King Cynon will raise an army against Bras Mynydd.”
    “Do not go back, lord,” said Andras. “They are right—you will be killed before you can come nigh the prince.”
    “And what of your daughter if you die such a useless death?” added Padrig. “Would you have her spend the rest of her life in captivity?” He looked appealingly at the old warrior. “Remember your mission in the east, my lord. Remember Alwyn.”
    Branwen looked sharply at Gavan.
    Alwyn! Gavan had spoken to her once of his stolen daughter.
    Brython had been at open war and Gavan in service to the king when his wife had been killed and his young daughter carried away into captivity. By the time Gavan could be released from the king’s side, the girl’s trail had long gone cold. For a year and a day the doughty warrior had moved in stealth through the dangerous Saxon lands to the east, but of his daughter there was no hint or rumor. It was as though the wild Saxon kingdoms had swallowed her up.
    At last he had admitted defeat, and he had turned back to his homeland and taken service with Prince Llew ap Gelert, tasked with training the young for the war that had no end.
    That was the tale that Gavan had told her—but now it seemed that unexpected news of his daughter had come out of the east.
    “What did the boy tell you?” Branwen asked, sitting again. “Is Alwyn alive, then?”
    As he was reminded of his daughter, Gavan’s face became even more careworn. “Aye, it seems she is, if the boy Dillon is not mistaken.” He also sat down, looking toward the small lad. “Tell your tale again, boy. Stand, and speak it with a brave heart; you’ve nothing to fear here.”
    Trembling and with an anxious gaze, the boy got unsteadily to his feet. All eyes were upon him; but as he spoke, he looked only at Gavan, as though gaining courage from the old man’s face.
    “I don’t remember when I was captured,” he began, his voice shaking a little. “I lived on a farm in the northeastern marshes of Teg Eingel.” Branwen knew where he meant: Teg Eingel was the cantref directly to the north of her own homeland. “The Saxons came. They looted and burned our home …” Dillon paused, swallowing.
    “An all too familiar tale,” muttered Linette.
    “I was carried away as a prisoner,” Dillon continued. “I think everyone else was killed. Leastways, I
    never saw any of my family again. I was taken to a great town on a wide river.”
    “Name the town, boy,” Gavan said gently.
    “It was called Chester,” said Dillon. “And the river was the Dee.”
    These were names Branwen knew. The old town of Chester was in Saxon Mercia, no more than a day’s ride from the eastern border of Cyffin Tir.
    “I was taught enough Saxon words to be able to serve my masters,” Dillon said. “Many moons passed in servitude—two or three summers, I think—and by then I had given up hope of ever being rescued. Then word came that an encampment of soldiers had been set up outside the town and that servants were needed there. I was sent to serve the soldiers.”
    “I know the camp well,” said Rhodri. “I was also brought there as a servant, and would be there still had I not done as Dillon here did and escaped when opportunity presented itself.”
    Dillon looked at Rhodri in amazement, although there was no sign that he recognized him from the camp. “Every day more men poured into the camp,” the boy continued. “Brought together by a great warrior of the Saxon kingdoms, a man named Horsa Herewulf Ironfist, Thain of Winwaed.”
    “My old master!” murmured Rhodri.
    “Yes, we know him,” said Iwan. “Branwen saw him plunge to his death, thank the Three Saints!”
    A bleak smile touched Dillon’s lips. “I’m glad heis