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  In a short while the hail and wind abated, and the thunder echoed away. He heard then a grinding noise—like that of a millstone as it crushes the hard seeds of grain. He looked and saw a crevice open in the ground and a yellow vapour issuing from the gap like a foul breath. In the midst of the yellow fumes there appeared a woman—so old and withered that she looked as if she might be made of sticks wrapped in a dried leather sack.

  Her hair—what little remained—was a tangled, ratty mass of leaves and twigs, moss and feathers, and bird droppings; her mouth was a slack gash in the lower part of her face, through which Bran could see but a single rotten tooth; her clothing was a filthy rag so threadbare it resembled cobwebs, and so small her withered dugs showed above one end and her spindly thighs below the other. Her face was more skull than visage, her eyes sunken deep in their sockets, where they gleamed like two shiny stones.

  Bran took but a single brief look before turning away, swallowing his disgust as she advanced toward him.

  “You there!” she called, her voice cracking like a dry husk. “Do you know what you have done? Do you have any idea?”

  Half-shielding his eyes with his hand, Bran offered a sickly smile and answered, “I have done that which was required of me, nothing more.”

  “Oh, have you now?” queried the hag. “By heaven’s lights, you will soon wish you had not done that.”

  “Woman,” said Bran, “I am wishing that already!”

  “Tell me your name and what it is that you want,” said the woman, “and I will see if there is any help for you.”

  “I am Bran Bendigedig, and I have come to break the vile enchantment that ravages Albion.”

  “I did not ask why you have come,” the old crone laughed. “I asked what it is that you want.”

  “I was born with an unquiet heart that has never been satisfied—not that it is any of your affair,” Bran told her.

  “Silence!” screeched the woman in a voice so loud that Bran clapped his hands over his ears lest he lose his hearing. “Respect is a valuable treasure that costs nothing. If you would keep your tongue, see that it learns some courtesy.”

  “Forgive me,” Bran spluttered. “It was not my wish to offend you. If I spoke harshly just then, it was merely from impatience. You see, I have met a noble lady who is all my heart’s desire, and I have set myself to win her if I can. To do that, I have vowed to rid Albion of the plague that even now wreaks such havoc on this fairest of islands.”

  The wretched hag put her face close to Bran’s—so close that Bran could smell the stink she gave off and had to pinch his nostrils shut. She squinted her eyes with the intensity of her scrutiny. “Is that what you are about?” she asked at last.

  “I am,” replied Bran. “If you can help me, I will be in your debt. If not, only tell me someone who can, and I will trouble you no more.”

  “You ask my help,” said the ancient woman, “and though you may not know it, you could not have asked a better creature under heaven, for help you shall receive—though it comes at a cost.”

  “It is ever the way of things,” sighed Bran. “What is the price?”

  “I will tell you how to break the wicked enchantment that binds Albion—and I hope you succeed, for unless you do, Albion is lost and will soon be a wasteland.”

  “And the price?” asked Bran, feeling the restlessness beginning to mount like a sneeze inside him.

  “The price is this: that on the day Albion is released, you will take the place of the man the giants have killed.”

  “That is no burden to me,” remarked Bran with relief. “I thought it would be more.”

  “There are some who think the cost too great.” She shrugged her skinny shoulders, and Bran could almost hear them creak. “Nevertheless, that is the price. Do you agree?”

  “I do,” said Bran the Blesséd. “In truth, I would pay whatever you asked to break the curse and win my heart’s desire.”

  “Done! Done!” crowed the old woman in triumph.

  “Then listen well, and do exactly as I say.”

  Laying her bony fingers on Bran’s strong arm, the hag led him from the mound and into the ruined forest. They passed through death and devastation that would have made the very stones weep, and walked on until they came to a high hill that was topped by a magnificent white fortress. At the base of the hill flowed a river; once sparkling and clear, it now ran ruddy brown with the blood of the slaughtered.

  Pointing to the fortress, the hag said, “Up there you will find the tribe of giants who have enthralled this fair island and whose presence is a very plague. Kill them all and the spell will be broken, and your triumph will be assured.”

  “If that is all,” replied Bran grandly, “why did you not tell me sooner? It is as good as done.” He made to start off at once.

  The ancient crone prevented him, saying, “Wait!

  There is more. You should know also that the giants have slain the Lord of the Forest and taken possession of his cauldron, called the Cauldron of Rebirth on account of its miraculous virtue: that whatever living creature, man or animal it matters not, though he were dead and dismembered, mutilated, torn into a thousand pieces, and those pieces eaten, if any part of the corpse is put into the cauldron when it is on the boil, life will return, and the creature will emerge hale and whole once more.”

  Amazed, Bran exclaimed, “Truly, that is a wonder!

  Rest assured that I will stop at nothing to reclaim this remarkable vessel.”

  “Do so,” promised the hag, “and your deepest desire will be granted.”

  Off he went, crossing the river of blood and ascending the high hill. As Bran drew closer, he saw that the white fortress was not, as he had assumed, built of choice marble, but of the skulls and bones of murdered beasts and humans, used like so much rubble to erect the high white walls, turrets, and towers. A sickening smell rose from the bones, which, though it made him gag, also raised Bran’s fury against the giants.

  Boldly he approached the gate, and boldly entered.

  There was neither guard nor porter to prevent him, so he strode across the courtyard and entered the hall.

  However much the courtyard stank, the odour inside the hall was that much worse.

  From the hall, he could hear the sound of a great roister. He crept to the massive door, peered inside, and instantly wished he had not. He saw seven giants, the least of which was three times the height of any human man, and the greatest amongst them was three times the height of the smallest. Each giant was a gruesomely ugly brute with pale, blotchy skin; shaggy, long hair that hung down his broad back in nasty, tangled hanks; and a single large eyebrow across his thick, overhanging forehead. Each giant was more hideous than the last, with fat, fleshy lips and an enormous, long nose shaped like the beak of a malformed bird. Their necks were short and squat, their arms ridiculously long, and their legs thin through the shank and fat at the thigh. They all carried clubs of iron, which any two human men would have found a burden to lift.

  Three long tables filled the hall, and on those tables was a feast of roast meat of every kind of creature under heaven, which the giants ate with ravenous abandon. While they ate—rending the carcasses with their hands, stuffing the meat down their stubby necks, spitting out the bones, and then washing it all down with great, greedy draughts of rendered lard and fat drawn from a score of vats around the hall—they laughed and sang in disagreeable voices and raised such a revel that Bran’s head throbbed like a beaten drum with the noise.

  The Blesséd Bran stood for a moment, gazing upon the carnage of the feast, and felt an implacable rage rise inside him. Then, across the hall, he spied an enormous kettle of burnished bronze and copper, silver and gold—so large it could easily hold sixteen human men at once; or three teams of oxen; or nine horses; or seven stags, three deer, and a fawn. A fire of oak logs blazed away beneath the prodigious vessel.

  Seeing this, Bran thought, The prize is within my grasp, and taking a deep breath, he stepped bol
dly through the door. “Giants!” he called, “The feast is over! You have eaten your last corpse. I give you fair warning— doom is upon you!”

  The giants were startled to hear this loud voice, and they were even more surprised when they saw the tiny man who made such a bold and foolish claim. They laughed in their beards and blew their noses at him. Two of them bared their horrible backsides, and the others mocked him with rude gestures. Up rose the chief of the monstrous clan, and he was the most repulsive brute of them all; taller than seven normal men, he was greasy with the blood of the meat he had been gorging.

  Sneering, he opened his gate of a mouth and bellowed, “What you lack in size, you make up for in stupidity. I’ve eaten five of your race already today and will gladly count you amongst them. What is your name, little man?”

  “Call me Silidons, for such I am,” said Bran, hiding his true name behind a word that means “nobody.”

  “You will have to kill me first, and I have never lost a fight I entered.”

  “Then you cannot have entered many. Today we will put you to the test.” So saying, the giant lifted his massive hand and commanded two of his nearest fellows forward. “Seize him! Show this imbecile how we deal with anyone foolish enough to oppose us!”

  The two giants rose and lumbered forth, their fleshy lips wide in distorted grins. Bran stepped forward, and as he did so, he grew in size to half again his height; another step doubled his size. Now the crown of his head came up to the giants’ chests.

  The giants saw this and were astonished but undaunted. “Is that the best you can do?” they laughed.

  Taking up their iron clubs, they swung at Bran, first one way and then the other. Bran leapt over the first and ducked under the second; then, leaping straight up into the air, he lashed out with his foot and caught one of the giants in the middle of the forehead. The great brute dropped his club and grabbed his head. Snatching up the enormous weapon, Bran swung with all his might and crushed the skull of the giant, who gave out a throaty groan and lay still.

  Seeing his comrade bested so easily infuriated the second attacker. Roaring with rage, he whirled his heavy club around his head and smashed it down, cracking the flagstones. Bran stepped neatly aside as the club struck the floor, then quickly climbed the broad shaft as if it were an iron mounting block.When the giant lifted the club, Bran leapt into the brute’s face and drove both fists into the giant’s eyes. The ghastly creature screamed and fell to his knees, clutching his eyes with both hands.

  Calmly, Bran picked up the club and swung hard. The brute pitched forward onto his face and rose no more.

  Looking around, he called, “Who will be next?”

  Crazed with fear and spitting with rage, the remaining giants rose as one and charged Bran, who ran to meet them, growing bigger with every step until he was a head taller than the tallest. Four blows were thrown, one after another, and four giants fell, leaving only the enormous chieftain still on his feet. Not only bigger, he was also quicker than the others, and before Bran could turn, he reached out and seized Bran by the throat.

  Drawing a deep breath, Bran willed his neck to become a column of white granite; with all his strength the giant chieftain could not break that thick column.

  Meanwhile, Bran took hold of the giant’s protruding ears. Grabbing one in each hand, he yanked hard, pulling the giant chieftain forward and driving the point of his granite chin right between the odious monster’s bulging eyes. The giant’s knees buckled, and he tumbled backward like a toppled pine tree, striking his head on the stone floor and expiring before he could draw his next breath.

  Triumphant, Bran strode to the hearth and plucked the still-bubbling cauldron from the flames. Grasping the miraculous pot in his strong arms of stone, Bran walked from the castle of bone, back to the world outside, where he once again met the ancient hag who was waiting for him.

  The hag jumped up and scurried to meet him.

  “Truly, you are a mighty champion!” she cried. “From this day you are my husband.”

  Bran glanced at her askance. “Lady, if lady you be, I am no such thing,” he declared. “You said I would achieve my greatest desire, and marriage to you is far from that. And even if I were so minded, I could not, for I am promised to another.”

  The wild-haired hag opened her gaping, toothless mouth and laughed in Bran’s face. “O man of little understanding! Do you not know that whoever possesses the Cauldron of Rebirth is the Lord of the Forest?

  He is my husband, and I am his wife.” Reaching out, she seized him with her scaly, clawlike hands and pressed her drooling lips close to his face.

  Repulsed, Bran reared back and shook off her grip.

  He started to run away, but she pursued him with uncanny swiftness. Bran changed himself into a stag and bolted away at speed, but the hag became a wolf and raced after him.When Bran saw that he could not elude her that way, he changed into a rabbit; the hag changed into a fox and matched him stride for stride. When he saw that she was gaining on him, Bran changed into an otter, slid into the clear-running stream, and swam away.

  The hag, however, changed into a great salmon and caught him by the tail.

  Bran felt the hag’s teeth biting into him and leapt from the stream, dragging the salmon with him. Once out of the water, the salmon loosed its hold, and instantly Bran turned into a raven and flew away.

  But the hag, now become an eagle, flew up, seized him in her strong talons, and pulled him from the sky.

  “You led me on a fine chase, but I have caught you, my proud raven!” she cackled with glee, resuming her former repulsive shape. “And now you must marry me.”

  Squirming and pecking at the bony fingers clasped tightly around him, Bran, still in the form of a raven, cried, “I never will! I have promised myself to another.

  Even now she is waiting for me on the shining shore.”

  “Bran, Bran,” said the hag, “do you not know that I am that selfsame woman?” Smiling grotesquely, she told him all that had happened to him since meeting him that very morning on the strand where she went every day in the guise of a beautiful lady to search for a champion to become her mate. “It was myself you promised to take to wife,” she concluded. “Now lie with me and do your duty as a husband.”

  Horrified, Bran cried out, “I never will!”

  “Since you refuse,” said the old woman, still clutching him between her hands, “you leave me no choice!”

  With that, she spat into her right hand and rubbed her spittle on Bran’s sleek head, saying, “A raven you are, and a raven you shall remain—until the day you fulfil your vow to take me to wife.”

  The hag released Bran then, and he found that though he could still change his shape at will—now one creature, now another—he always assumed the form of a raven in the end. Thus, he took up his duties as Rhi

  Bran the Hud, Lord of the Forest, whom some call the Dark Enchanter of the Wood. And from that day to this, he abides as a great black raven still.

  The last note faded into silence. Laying aside the harp, Angharad gazed at the rapt young man before her and said, “That is the song of King Raven. Dream on it, my son, and let it be a healing dream to you.”

  PART THREE

  THE MAY

  DANCE

  CHAPTER 22

  Warm winds from the sea brought an early spring, and a wet one. From Saint David’s Day to the Feast of Saint John, the sky remained a low, slate-grey expanse of dribbling rain that swelled the streams and rivers throughout the Marches. Then the skies finally cleared, and the land dried beneath a sun so bright and warm that the miserable Outlanders in their rusting mail almost forgot the hardships of the winter past.

  The first wildflowers appeared, and with them wagons full of tools and building materials, rolling into the valley from Baron de Braose’s extensive holdings in the south. The old dirt trackways were not yet firm enough, but Baron de Braose was eager to begin, so the first wagons to reach the valley churned the soft earth into deep,
muddy trenches to swamp all those who would come after. From morning to night the balmy air was filled with the calls of the drivers, the crack of whips, and the bawling of the oxen as they struggled to haul the heavy-laden vehicles through the muck.

  The Cymry also returned to the lower valleys from their winter sanctuaries in the high hills. Although most had fled the cantref, a few remained—farmers for the most part, who could not, like the sheep and cattle herders, simply take their property elsewhere—and a few of the more stubborn herdsmen who had contemplated their choices over the winter and concluded that they were unwilling to give up good grazing land to the Ffreinc. The farmers began readying their fields for sowing, and the herdsmen returned to the pastures. Following the age-old pattern of the clans from time past remembering— working through the season of sun and warmth, storing up for the season of rain and ice, when they took their ease in communal dwellings around a shared hearth—the people of the region silently reasserted their claim to the land of their ancestors. For the first time since the arrival of the Ffreinc, Elfael began to assume something of its former aspect.

  Count Falkes de Braose considered the reappearance of the British a good sign. It meant, he thought, that the people had decided to accept life under his rule and would recognise him as their new overlord. He still intended to press them into helping build the town the baron required—and the castles, too, if needed—but beyond that he had no other plans for them. So long as they did what they were told, and with swift obedience, he and the local population would achieve a peaceable association. Of course, any opposition to his rule would be met with fierce retaliation—still, that was the way of the world, and only to be expected, no?

  Anticipating a solid season of industry—a town to raise and border fortifications to be established—the count sent a messenger to the monastery to remind Bishop Asaph of his duty to supply British labourers to supplement the ranks of builders the baron would provide. He then busied himself with supervising the allotment of tools and materials for the various sites. Together with the architect and master mason, he inspected each of the sites to make sure that nothing had been overlooked and all was in readiness. He personally marked out the boundaries for the various towers and castle ditch enclosures, spending long days beneath the blue, cloud-crowded sky, and counted it work well done. He wanted to be ready when the baron’s promised builders arrived. Time was short, and there was much to be done before the autumn storms brought an end to the year’s labour.