Prologue
The mutton stew was thin, and a long way from flavoursome, but Bradan gave thanks to Mother Marna all the same; Caderyn land was full of hungry mouths, and he was blessed to have what he had. The old chief sat propped up in bed, one fur about his shoulders and another across his legs, trying to keep the wooden bowl balanced on his lap. A sensible man would hold the bowl in one hand and the spoon in another, but little Emlyn had fallen asleep in the crook of his arm, and Taran himself couldn’t have made Bradan disturb the baby.
He looked down at Lucan’s son and smiled. There was nothing so beautiful as a child at peace, and Emlyn looked perfectly contented as he snoozed in the old man’s arm. Bradan squeezed him a little closer, and Emlyn snuggled against his chest the way Bevan once had, more than forty long winters ago. The white-haired chief let out a long breath. He knew only too well how memory could fade at his age, and he thanked the gods that for all the many things he’d forgotten over the years, those precious memories were still with him. They were worth the pain.
Bradan was spooning in another careful mouthful when the door opened and Siriol came in, with Emlyn’s twin sister dozing fitfully in her arms. Bradan had been given the honour of a room to himself behind Penafon’s longhall, partly in recognition of his age and status, but mostly to keep him hidden while he convalesced. Winter had struck him hard in the last few days, and if the chill wound up killing him, better that the others only find out after the fact. There were few enough good omens for those seeking refuge at Penafon; watching a headman die would only sap their spirits.
Siriol muttered softly to the babe in her arms.
‘You see, Morwyn, this is why old men shouldn’t play out in the snow.’ She shook her head. ‘Yes, your Uncle Bradan has been very silly, hasn’t he?’
It was pleasing to be called uncle, even in the midst of mockery; it reminded him that a man didn’t have to be blood to be family. Not that Bradan didn’t still fret about how his kinfolk were faring in all this madness. Mobryn was less likely to starve than most places, the settlements on the coast could still try to survive on fish, but that didn’t mean Bradan’s daughters weren’t in danger. Nowhere was safe in these times. Even without the famine, every day Bradan expected to hear news of more Sarracs arriving in Bryngarth, and of the great assault they all knew had to come soon.
He forced himself to think positively. What word they’d had from the coast had confirmed that his children and grandchildren were still alive, and more Caderyn were rallying to Penafon every day. As well as Tydfyl’s own warriors and the hundred legionaries who’d survived the fall of Bryngarth, they now had Odran’s warband from up that way, and most of three hundred more warriors from the surrounding countryside. It was no great army, but Penafon was a defender’s dream; set hard against high hills, an enemy was limited in how many ways they could climb up, and with ditches, palisades, and slush on the steep slopes, only Nantwyn or Bryngarth could have boasted better defences. And yet it didn’t matter for them. They both stood strong, and they both fell to Rhaedian’s dogs.
Bradan was spared from that gloomy thought by Siriol approaching the bed.
‘You’d best gather whatever strength you have; Gwalryn is on his way here and I’m sure he’ll want to rant or boast or grumble about something.’
The russet-haired chief appeared before Bradan could reply, and both he and Siriol immediately put fingers to their lips. In Bradan’s case, it meant wiping a spoon on his nose, but it was worth it; Gwalryn was not a quiet man by nature. Fortunately he understood the gesture at once, and he kept his voice carefully hushed as he stepped in.
‘Any improvement, my friend?’
Bradan shrugged.
‘Some. I feel weaker than this one,’ he tilted his head towards Emlyn, ‘but I don’t think I will be crossing the bridge today.’
Siriol’s mouth twitched in a smirk.
‘They do say that the best way to heal a chill is to sleep naked beside another warm naked body.’ Her eyes flicked up and down. ‘I’d offer my help, but I don’t want to cure your chill only for your heart to give out, old man.’
Bradan chuckled softly, and Gwalryn feigned a quiet sneeze.
‘I think this old man may be coming down with a chill too?’
It still struck Bradan to think that Gwalryn could call himself old, though he supposed it wasn’t really inaccurate; Gwalryn was past fifty now, and for all his impressive strength and boyish grins, the big man was certainly past his prime. Bradan shifted a little on the bed, his knees aching under the fur. It’s not that he’s young, it’s that you’re ancient. It was a painful truth. With his seventieth winter unpleasantly close, Bradan was indeed too old to be playing in the snow.
Siriol raised a brow at the younger of the two old men.
‘If you need a naked body to lie beside, you should ask Tydfyl to volunteer; call it his duty as your host.’
Bradan smiled.
‘You’d be more inclined to sleep lying with him.’
Gwalryn grunted.
‘I’ll just ask him to explain his new minting process; I’ll be dreaming before they’ve dug up the silver.’ He looked to Siriol. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t care to spare me that lecture?’
Siriol sighed and held Morwyn out towards him.
‘Hold this, would you?’
Gwalryn gladly accepted the sleeping bundle and cuddled it close to his chest. When Siriol slapped him it was firm enough to be felt, but gentle enough not to shock him or wake the babe. Bradan suspected he’d seen it coming. Siriol smiled.
‘Thank you.’
She reached out to take the child back, but Gwalryn kept hold of little Morwyn as he sat down on the bed. Bradan didn’t blame him for not wanting to let go. Young Garrett was half a world away risking his life in the Gaians’ war, and no matter how old a child got, any father worth the name kept worrying for them; of course Gwalryn wanted the comfort of holding the baby. Morwyn looked tinier than ever, cradled safely in the warrior’s thick arms.
Siriol shook her head and set about sorting furs in the makeshift cot. Gwalryn leaned towards Bradan.
‘We had some news from the south today. Another Breiryn warband trying to cross over. They had our people outnumbered but they’ve still yet to learn a damned thing about proper warfare. The word is that our band was half their size but the moment we formed a shieldwall and charged, the raiders scattered like a bunch of frightened gulls.’
Gwalryn was smiling, and Bradan knew he ought to be glad of the news, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile back. The Breiryn were only raiding them because they were hungry too. The Caderyn were holding onto hope by a fingernail, and outside Penafon disease and cold were wreaking havoc because bodies were too weak and starved to fight them off. Even here the food had to be carefully rationed, and with more Caderyn coming in every day, things were only going to get harder. Yet Bradan knew that for the Breiryn, it would be worse.
The Breiryn had never had leaders like Lucan and Tydfyl, chiefs who organised things on a tribal level, and they didn’t have a trained army to raid and counter-raid as it was needed. Bradan remembered how sickened he’d been at the plan to attack the Breiryn for their food, and how glad he’d been when the Gaians had offered them a way out. Now… now most of the Dragon Legion was Marna knew how far away, and Caderyn and Breiryn were fighting like rats to keep their people fed.
Bradan had lost all appetite, but the worst crime of all would be to waste what food they had, and so he made himself take another mouthful of stew. He thanked the gods in silence as Gwalryn went on.
‘It wasn’t just that they ran either; some of the fools fled in such confusion that they left their ponies behind. Our warriors won glory and a hearty supper both at once!’
His voice had risen a little, and Bradan felt Emlyn stir beside him. He stroked the boy’s soft hair, and Gwalryn held up a meaty palm in apology. Bradan gave him an accepting look, but once again he couldn’t make himself smile. His friend saw the pain in his face, and patted the babe in his arms as he spoke.
‘I know that you disapprove, and I take no joy in letting Breiryn starve either. But stories of victory keep spirits up among the people here, and if we let that spirit die we may as well ride north and hand Rhaedian our heads right now.’
Bradan nodded, his voice very quiet.
‘Outside I will try to seem glad, Gwalryn. In here, I’ll beg your leave to stay grim.’
Gwalryn bowed his head.
‘Of course.’
Siriol appeared beside him, her arms folded.
‘Unless you have something more important to share, the very old and very young need to get their sleep.’ Her eyes went to Bradan. ‘And finish their stew.’
Bradan obediently took up another spoonful. Seated as he was, Gwalryn’s eyes were at the level of Siriol’s chest, and the big chief gave her an appealing look.
‘Are you sure you can’t be tempted to keep this middling-old man warm?’
Siriol slowly raised a hand, and Gwalryn shook his head.
‘You are a cruel woman, Siriol.’
As if to prove him right, Siriol took her time in leaning down to pick up Morwyn, brushing close to Gwalryn as she took the child in her arms. It was only teasing, of course, as they both knew. Siriol was fond of complaining about how useless her husband was, but Bradan had seen the relief on her face when the news had come that he still lived. Granted, she was far from upset to hear that he was all the way west in Mobryn with their son, but it was clear that at least some affection existed between them. Affection, and loyalty.
‘It is hard to find amusement up here.’ She gave him a significant look. ‘Almost as hard as it is to find peace and quiet.’
Siriol walked over to the crib and started tucking Morwyn in, and as soon as the babe was comfortable, she started ushering Gwalryn from the room. He protested only a little, and paused to stroke Emlyn’s hair before he left. Bradan saw the gesture and wondered how poor Seren must be feeling, unable to do so simple a thing as touch her child’s hair as he slept. He would say some prayers to Marna later on, though he wasn’t really sure what he should ask for. Bringing Seren to Penafon would only land her in a place of danger. But then, what parent wouldn’t brave danger if it meant they could be with their children?
The twins’ only grandparent, Tegwen, was probably tearing her hair out as well, though she’d been right to return to Graigarw; the Gorvicae needed to keep strong and it was, Bradan hoped, safer there. At least, safer than it is here. He let out a breath, and exchanged short nods with Gwalryn as he left. Even more than usual, Bradan found himself feeling very old and very tired.
He was not given much time to reflect on the sadness of life. He had, under Siriol’s stern eye, just finished the last of his watery stew when another visitor came to his room. Tydfyl waited politely at the door until the older man beckoned him in.
Bradan motioned to a chair, wondering at how his host looked more like his father every day, his sombre nature growing grimmer as this hungry winter went on.
Siriol looked to Penafon’s chief and barely kept her voice respectful.
‘Father, both Bradan and the children need their rest.’
Tydfyl’s voice was flat.
‘I will not be long. Be so kind as to wait nearby, and we shall call you back in shortly.’
Siriol hesitated, but at nod from Bradan she dutifully left, closing the door gently behind her. Tydfyl made for the chair, and while he didn’t stop to stroke Emlyn’s hair or touch his cheek, Bradan had a distinct feeling that he wanted to. Like Gwalryn, Tydfyl had a son fighting far away in Ushir, and Bradan didn’t doubt that he’d be looking at Emlyn and remembering Mervyn at that age. But Tydfyl didn’t move close to the bed. He sat straight-backed in the chair and kept his eyes on Bradan.
Looking at the lean-faced chief, Bradan still couldn’t find it in him to like Tydfyl, for all his efforts. He was an honourable man, and probably the best person to be leading the Caledon in this time, but while he strove to do the right thing by his people, he did it without any hint of passion. Tydfyl was a man made to organise supplies, build defences, and make hard choices. He wasn’t a man warriors would follow into battle.
Tydfyl opened with the usual courtesy.
‘Are you well?’
Bradan twitched his shoulders.
‘Less unwell.’
Tydfyl nodded slowly.
‘I’m glad you are recovering. Even if all you can do is sit in a chair and talk, your help would be appreciated. We’ve been fortunate to have Odran’s warband come in, but for every warrior who arrives we have ten helpless refugees. They need comfort as much as housing, and to be made ready for the day war comes to Penafon.’
Bradan nodded his agreement. Lying in bed might be good for his aching body, but his spirit yearned to be doing something to help defend his homeland. In the absence of fighting battles, he asked about Tydfyl’s plans.
‘Have you had any progress with the Thraewyn?’
Chief Sylan’s response to their first messenger had been half-hearted at best, and Tydfyl had been sending more messages to the Thraewyn’s leader, offering more of Penafon’s silver in exchange for his assistance. Tydfyl shook his head.
‘I misjudged our man, and may have made matters worse. He was insulted at what he considered to be a bribe for his warriors’ blood, and repeated his offer of allowing grain to pass through his lands but nothing more.’
Bradan couldn’t help muttering a curse. None of them knew Sylan well, beyond his reputation as a pragmatist, and Tydfyl’s offer had seemed the right course of action to all of them. Bradan reminded his host of that, but Tydfyl just shook his head again.
‘We made a mistake, and it may have cost us.’
Tydfyl’s eyes went to Emlyn, and Bradan could almost feel his desire to hold the boy in his arms and remember that he was a father. It would give the grim man comfort, but Bradan knew it would seem strange to suggest it. Instead, he tried drawing attention to the boy, hoping Tydfyl would take the hint.
‘I was thinking earlier how this one,’ he dipped his head at the sleeping infant, ‘might have been my great-grandson if Bevan had lived. It makes no real sense, I know, but I do often look down on him and feel very like his grandfather.’
To his surprise, Tydfyl’s mouth quirked in a very small smile.
‘By that uncertain logic, in another life I might have been Lucan’s father, or adopted father at any rate.’ Bradan’s brows drew together, and Tydfyl answered before he could ask. ‘I should be clear, this was long before I met my Meleri. Years ago, when my father brought Rhianwyn to trial after Moon Ridge, I thought the best way to save her was by offering to marry her. My argument was that by marrying me she would show Alraig that she was fully committed to the Caledon, and distance herself from the Gaians who’d caused all the trouble.’ He gave another of his tiny smirks. ‘It wasn’t the most romantic of proposals.’
Bradan almost laughed, imagining Rhianwyn’s response to that suit. It had been a dark time for her, no doubt about it, but he’d have wagered good silver that the Wildcat had smiled at Tydfyl’s rational wooing. Bradan hoped the dour man learned a thing or two before he and Meleri kissed palms.
His eyes went to Morwyn, asleep in her crib, and he prayed she would grow up to be even one tenth the woman her grandmother had been. Everyone talked of the battles Fearless Wildcat had won, but Rhianwyn had been so much more than a war leader. She had turned Alraig from her accuser into her most trusted advisor, and Gawan from her enemy into her dearest friend. She had bridged a gap between Gaian and Lurian, and between three tribes who’d been fighting each other for longer than anyone knew. She’d been a legend in her own time, and that legend would only grow as her son and grandchildren grew up in the world she made. Assuming we can keep that world from crumbling to dust.
The younger chief’s smirk did not last for long, and he looked down for a moment before meeting Bradan’s eyes again.
‘I have something to ask of you Bradan, though I appreciate it must wait until you’re stronger. And I don’t want you to think it means I have lost faith in us.’
Bradan didn’t think he’d like where this was going. He nodded for Tydfyl to go on.
‘I had another reason for contacting the Thraewyn, and if their chief has taken offence at my messages then I’ll need another man to speak to him.’
Bradan hardly relished the prospect of travelling to Pendewin, no matter how much strength he regained; it was a long way to go, sneaking through a strip of Breiryn territory before he even reached the Thraewyn, and all in weather no sane man would want to travel in. And all to meet a chieftain who might cast me out of his hall. Nevertheless, Bradan knew his duty.
‘If it must be done, it must be done. What was your reason?’
Bradan couldn’t think of anything more they could ask of the Thraewyn chief. He’d made it clear he was willing to permit trade and travel through his land, and he’d made it just as clear that he wouldn’t send warriors to their aid. What else… Bradan realised it as Tydfyl’s eyes went to the sleeping Emlyn.
‘I want his word that he will take the twins in, if Penafon should fall.’ He forestalled Bradan’s objection with a raised hand. ‘I do not say that it will fall, only that we’d be fools not to have a plan in place. The legion will not be in Avidia forever, but we have no guarantee that Lucan will return in time to save us. His children must have a place of safety to which they can flee.’
Bradan could see the sense in it, but all the same it was hard to keep his voice down.
‘And what about everyone else?’
He loved these two as if they were his own, but there was a whole tribe’s worth of children that they needed to protect. Tydfyl saw the look in Bradan’s eyes and tried to appease the anger in them.
‘If the Caderyn must abandon this place there is no other stronghold that could support us in large numbers. We would have to scatter to the settlements south of the Rush, or find passage to Niswyn, or most likely risk Breiryn ambush and Sylan’s wrath by fleeing into Thraewyn land. If that has to happen then I want his sworn word in advance that, even if he will do nothing else, he will keep the children safe.’
Bradan didn’t know what to say. He liked to think that no Lurian chief would turn away a helpless neighbour when to refuse them meant certain death, but the Breiryn certainly wouldn’t welcome a stream of refugees crossing their land and, as they had lately discovered, Chief Sylan was not a man they knew well. Who knew what he might do if not already bound by oath? And are we truly so much better anyway? We, who keep ourselves alive by letting the Breiryn starve?
The old man felt older than ever as he nodded to his host.
‘Give me a few more days, and if you still think I am the man for this, then I will do as you ask.’
Tydfyl nodded once and rose. Bradan saw him look again at the children, clearly wishing he could hold one in his arms, and feel that warm comfort the way Gwalryn had. But Tydfyl was not Gwalryn. The Headman of Penafon kept his hands at his sides.
‘Thank you, Bradan. I pray Marna that you heal quickly.’
He wasted no more words and walked from the room. No doubt he’d find Siriol somewhere nearby but for a few moments at least, Bradan was alone. The white-haired chief let out a very tired breath.
For all his words to the contrary, Bradan couldn’t help wondering if Tydfyl had indeed lost all hope. They could talk to their neighbours and ready defences all they liked, but the fact remained that without outside help the Caderyn here were as good as lost, and with little news and less hope from the Gorvicae and Dariniae, their only real chance at outside help was a legion on the other side of the world.
They had no way to know if word of their plight had reached Tamora and even if it had, the message could take long moons in reaching Lucan. Even when he did hear, would Lucan be free to bring their army home, or would Acteon force him to remain in Avidia to fight his war for him? In the meantime all the broken Caledon could do was dig defences, gather what food they could even if it meant starving their neighbours, and pray to all the gods that some calamity befell the Sarracs. Bradan hated to admit it, but Tydfyl might not be wrong in assuming all was lost.
No! The old chief ground his teeth and held little Emlyn closer. The Caderyn had thought all was lost after Lepidus crushed them at Nantwyn. The Gorvicae had thought all was lost when Taliesyn stayed passive against Agmund Rhaedianson. And how many of us almost gave in to despair when we heard of Rhianwyn’s death? Yet every time the Caledon had fought on, and had won through in spite of all odds. They had done it before and they could do it again. They could! Bradan looked at the sleeping boy in his arms and did his absolute best to believe it. We must!
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/229101709-red-storm