Here is part three, swords are drawn, blood is shed, any comments appreciated.
Part - 3
They made silent, slow progress across the snowy valley and towards the wooded hills that bordered their homelands. Bran was happy to lose himself in daydreams and let Bedwyr lead the pony by its reins.
"Bran…it does not quite have the ring of your royal name, I’m sure you’ll get used to it. I daresay it isn’t the worst of the the druid’s banes." Bedwyr, knowing his lord would not comment, plunged on, "I blame my wife, if she weren’t such a terror, I’d have still been in the hall to save you from yourself."
"Save me, pish," Bran said, still half lost in his own thoughts. "If you weren’t a drunken gambler she wouldn’t need to chase you anywhere. Besides, there was a touch of fate about events and what the gods will, the gods get."
"Fate my arse. There was more than a touch of ale about it, more your cousin Angwyr’s lies, as I heard it told this morn."
The pony snorted, shook it's head, snorted again, pulled away from the reins. Bran turned in his saddle.
"Well you always were a—Javelin."
"I’m a Javelin?"
"Pass me a Javelin fool, and quick."
Bedwyr craned his neck, saw horsemen. He dropped his war spear, shed his pack, fumbled with the bundle of light throwing darts. Presently, he handed one to Bran, then hefted one himself, tossing it in his palm to get a feel for the weight.
Three horsemen thundered towards them. Their horses wide eyed and snorting, kicked up snow spray as they came on.
"Angwyr’s men, as ever my cousin has no stomach for dirtying his own hands."
Bran spat on the snow, his mouth twisted in a grimace. He dismounted. His horse snickered, he patted it without thought, then planted himself to take good aim.
"Which of them is the best?" He asked.
"Gareth, the big red haired monster in the middle, even you should be able to hit a target that big." Bedwyr said.
"If he’s the best, I want him for my sword, you take Gwint, I’ll spike his brother Lleyr. I never did like him."
"But we have three javelins," Bedwyr sighted his horseman down the length of his spear, "why must you always do things the hard way?"
"Beddy old friend, with your ancient eyes we might need the third javelin if you—"
With a grunt Bedwyr heaved his javelin, it sped from his cast on its sure and deadly arc and hit his man hard in the chest.
Gwint fell sideways from his saddle, his horse veered away, free of its rider’s will.
"Not bad," Bran said and cast his own javelin, it flew fast and true and lodged in Lleyr’s throat.
The warrior flopped from his saddle, blood gushed from his neck. Rider and javelin tangled under the horse’s legs, then man and beast crashed into the snow. None could tell one's screams from the other, as both kicked and thrashed in the bloody slush.
The last rider, the red haired giant, Gareth, pulled hard on his reins. He forced his horse onto its side, rolled from the saddle and hid himself behind the bulk of his steed.
"You are coward and murderer." Gareth shouted from behind the safety of his horse.
"No man calls me coward. Draw iron and face me."
Bran drew his long sword and strode towards Gareth, the crunch of his feet in the snow adding an eerie tempo to the death throes of Lleyr and his horse.
"What," Gareth shouted, "and have you and your man spike me full of spears, come and get me whoreson."
"There will be no spears, just you and I Gareth."
Bedwyr settled himself to watch and wait, hunkerd down on his haunches, his war spear resting on his shoulder, he shook his head as he watched his lord go.
His horse kicked up, cantered away, and Gareth rose to face Bran. Sword in hand, he threw off his heavy fur cloak. Even without it, he still looked to be a bear of a man.
"Then you are a fool and shall die, your song unsung. I'll eat your heart boy."
"Aye and may the gods piss in your eyes too." Bran said, letting his own cloak slip from his shoulders.
The two warriors rushed forward, blades raised, eyes afire, each with a wicked grin and a love for slaughter singing in his soul.
With a clang of iron they clashed.
Gareth roared and drove at Bran, with huge hacks of his blade, sought to smash Bran down using his raging strength.
Bran stumbled backwards under the onslaught. Calf deep in powdery snow, only a desperate sidestep saved him from being slashed in two. Where Gareth was strong, Bran was fast, skillfull. For each great swing Gareth took, Bran parried, and countered with his own deft flicks and cuts.
Grunts and the clank, clank, scree of iron, scraping iron were the only sounds in the stilness of the valley. Each strike was met, each counter repelled as they traded stroke for stroke. Grins turned to grimaces and the fire in their eyes turned to the dull glaze of fatigue.
Slow as the fallen dead, they pushed away from each other exhausted. Clouds of their heaving breath steamed out of them and the heat of sweat clouded up, from bodies that burnt and ached with exertion.
Gareth bellowed his war cry, leaped at Bran with the last of his great strength. His long sword held two handed, came crashing overhead in a wicked arc, aimed to hack Bran in half.
Silent, slow, grim, Bran danced out of the way. Garteh’s sword whizzed past his shoulder. The desperate stroke, the weight of his sword in tired arms, pulled Gareth forward. His sword slashed through the snow and struck the frozen earth.
Bran swung his own sword in a spinning, twisting cut, that sliced into Gareth’s exposed neck.
Blood spurted from the red haired giant, he sighed, loud like a lover, shuddered, the blade stopped at the bone, bit into it. His head lolled sideways, as he crashed to his knees in the already bloody snow.
Bran put his foot on Gareth’s blood soaked shoulder, kicked him away and dispathced his foe with a merciful strike.
Exhausted, Bran fell backwards, his blade fell from his hand. He lay in the cold snow and the warm blood of his enemy.
Bedwyr rushed over, helped him to his feet, fussily looked him over for any wounds. When he was satisfied his master was unharmed, he let Bran stand by himself.
They looked down at Gareth, who returned their gazes, his bloody mouth and dead eyes both wide open.
The lonely call of a raven broke the silence.
Bran took his cold iron blade from the snow, raised it to his lips, kissed it in salute. "A good man, a warrior, I’ll drink his health when I cross the sword and meet him in the otherworld."
"Aye," said Bedwyr, "too good to be Angwyr’s man."
"By all the gods, I hope you’ve packed a drink Beddy. Fetch my horse and throw me on it with something to sup, I fear my legs won’t be solid anytime soon." Bran said and fell back onto the snow.
Sat in silence, they drank peat filterd whiskey from a clay jug. The clouds broke and fresh snow fell at last .
Bedwyr calmed the two surviving ponies, helped the still shaky Bran to his saddle, loaded his pack onto the spare horse and hopped onto his new steed.
"Now as long as this beast doesn’t throw me, we’ll make good time." Bedwyr said, threw his Gae Bolg over his shoulder and kicked his heels to the pony’s flanks. When it moved he looked surprised.
Bran laughed, happy to trot behind his man, happy to leave the dead behind them.
Part - 3
They made silent, slow progress across the snowy valley and towards the wooded hills that bordered their homelands. Bran was happy to lose himself in daydreams and let Bedwyr lead the pony by its reins.
"Bran…it does not quite have the ring of your royal name, I’m sure you’ll get used to it. I daresay it isn’t the worst of the the druid’s banes." Bedwyr, knowing his lord would not comment, plunged on, "I blame my wife, if she weren’t such a terror, I’d have still been in the hall to save you from yourself."
"Save me, pish," Bran said, still half lost in his own thoughts. "If you weren’t a drunken gambler she wouldn’t need to chase you anywhere. Besides, there was a touch of fate about events and what the gods will, the gods get."
"Fate my arse. There was more than a touch of ale about it, more your cousin Angwyr’s lies, as I heard it told this morn."
The pony snorted, shook it's head, snorted again, pulled away from the reins. Bran turned in his saddle.
"Well you always were a—Javelin."
"I’m a Javelin?"
"Pass me a Javelin fool, and quick."
Bedwyr craned his neck, saw horsemen. He dropped his war spear, shed his pack, fumbled with the bundle of light throwing darts. Presently, he handed one to Bran, then hefted one himself, tossing it in his palm to get a feel for the weight.
Three horsemen thundered towards them. Their horses wide eyed and snorting, kicked up snow spray as they came on.
"Angwyr’s men, as ever my cousin has no stomach for dirtying his own hands."
Bran spat on the snow, his mouth twisted in a grimace. He dismounted. His horse snickered, he patted it without thought, then planted himself to take good aim.
"Which of them is the best?" He asked.
"Gareth, the big red haired monster in the middle, even you should be able to hit a target that big." Bedwyr said.
"If he’s the best, I want him for my sword, you take Gwint, I’ll spike his brother Lleyr. I never did like him."
"But we have three javelins," Bedwyr sighted his horseman down the length of his spear, "why must you always do things the hard way?"
"Beddy old friend, with your ancient eyes we might need the third javelin if you—"
With a grunt Bedwyr heaved his javelin, it sped from his cast on its sure and deadly arc and hit his man hard in the chest.
Gwint fell sideways from his saddle, his horse veered away, free of its rider’s will.
"Not bad," Bran said and cast his own javelin, it flew fast and true and lodged in Lleyr’s throat.
The warrior flopped from his saddle, blood gushed from his neck. Rider and javelin tangled under the horse’s legs, then man and beast crashed into the snow. None could tell one's screams from the other, as both kicked and thrashed in the bloody slush.
The last rider, the red haired giant, Gareth, pulled hard on his reins. He forced his horse onto its side, rolled from the saddle and hid himself behind the bulk of his steed.
"You are coward and murderer." Gareth shouted from behind the safety of his horse.
"No man calls me coward. Draw iron and face me."
Bran drew his long sword and strode towards Gareth, the crunch of his feet in the snow adding an eerie tempo to the death throes of Lleyr and his horse.
"What," Gareth shouted, "and have you and your man spike me full of spears, come and get me whoreson."
"There will be no spears, just you and I Gareth."
Bedwyr settled himself to watch and wait, hunkerd down on his haunches, his war spear resting on his shoulder, he shook his head as he watched his lord go.
His horse kicked up, cantered away, and Gareth rose to face Bran. Sword in hand, he threw off his heavy fur cloak. Even without it, he still looked to be a bear of a man.
"Then you are a fool and shall die, your song unsung. I'll eat your heart boy."
"Aye and may the gods piss in your eyes too." Bran said, letting his own cloak slip from his shoulders.
The two warriors rushed forward, blades raised, eyes afire, each with a wicked grin and a love for slaughter singing in his soul.
With a clang of iron they clashed.
Gareth roared and drove at Bran, with huge hacks of his blade, sought to smash Bran down using his raging strength.
Bran stumbled backwards under the onslaught. Calf deep in powdery snow, only a desperate sidestep saved him from being slashed in two. Where Gareth was strong, Bran was fast, skillfull. For each great swing Gareth took, Bran parried, and countered with his own deft flicks and cuts.
Grunts and the clank, clank, scree of iron, scraping iron were the only sounds in the stilness of the valley. Each strike was met, each counter repelled as they traded stroke for stroke. Grins turned to grimaces and the fire in their eyes turned to the dull glaze of fatigue.
Slow as the fallen dead, they pushed away from each other exhausted. Clouds of their heaving breath steamed out of them and the heat of sweat clouded up, from bodies that burnt and ached with exertion.
Gareth bellowed his war cry, leaped at Bran with the last of his great strength. His long sword held two handed, came crashing overhead in a wicked arc, aimed to hack Bran in half.
Silent, slow, grim, Bran danced out of the way. Garteh’s sword whizzed past his shoulder. The desperate stroke, the weight of his sword in tired arms, pulled Gareth forward. His sword slashed through the snow and struck the frozen earth.
Bran swung his own sword in a spinning, twisting cut, that sliced into Gareth’s exposed neck.
Blood spurted from the red haired giant, he sighed, loud like a lover, shuddered, the blade stopped at the bone, bit into it. His head lolled sideways, as he crashed to his knees in the already bloody snow.
Bran put his foot on Gareth’s blood soaked shoulder, kicked him away and dispathced his foe with a merciful strike.
Exhausted, Bran fell backwards, his blade fell from his hand. He lay in the cold snow and the warm blood of his enemy.
Bedwyr rushed over, helped him to his feet, fussily looked him over for any wounds. When he was satisfied his master was unharmed, he let Bran stand by himself.
They looked down at Gareth, who returned their gazes, his bloody mouth and dead eyes both wide open.
The lonely call of a raven broke the silence.
Bran took his cold iron blade from the snow, raised it to his lips, kissed it in salute. "A good man, a warrior, I’ll drink his health when I cross the sword and meet him in the otherworld."
"Aye," said Bedwyr, "too good to be Angwyr’s man."
"By all the gods, I hope you’ve packed a drink Beddy. Fetch my horse and throw me on it with something to sup, I fear my legs won’t be solid anytime soon." Bran said and fell back onto the snow.
Sat in silence, they drank peat filterd whiskey from a clay jug. The clouds broke and fresh snow fell at last .
Bedwyr calmed the two surviving ponies, helped the still shaky Bran to his saddle, loaded his pack onto the spare horse and hopped onto his new steed.
"Now as long as this beast doesn’t throw me, we’ll make good time." Bedwyr said, threw his Gae Bolg over his shoulder and kicked his heels to the pony’s flanks. When it moved he looked surprised.
Bran laughed, happy to trot behind his man, happy to leave the dead behind them.
