Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter TWENTY-SEVEN




Branwen was almost blinded by the whirling maelstrom, and it took all her strength to stay in the saddle as Terrwyn forged on, galloping deeper and deeper into the chaotic heart of Caradoc’s snowstorm. As she rode, the pelting ice stung her face and hands, and she could feel it gathering in her hair and on her cloak, heavy and clinging, soaking through her clothes, weighing her down.

Above the shriek of the wind, she could hear voices – men crying out in fear, horses whinnying – the frantic tramp of hooves and the sound of running feet. And through the sheets of flying snow she saw blundering shapes – warriors stumbling this way and that, their backs stooped, their arms thrown up as they tried vainly to escape the blizzard’s angry bite.

Banon had been right – the storm didn’t know friend from foe. The winds bowled over the warriors of the Four Kingdoms of Brython as readily as it did the Saxon enemy. Branwen saw tattered banners lying on the ground – the red dragon of her own folk wallowing in the slushy mud along with many white Saxon serpents.

Bodies lay scattered in their path, sombre proof of the slaughter that had already taken place. Even at the gallop, Terrwyn avoided treading on the dead, and when the heaps of corpses grew too dense, he slowed, his head nodding as he picked his way forward.

A new sound came to Branwen through the roaring wind, or rather, an old sound that she had not expected to hear. It was a single voice shouting defiance, accompanied by the clang of iron on iron. Even in all this madness, someone was still fighting!

‘Aet ic cempas! Aet ic garhéap!’

She grinned a hard, fierce grin, baring her teeth. She knew that voice.

So, even in the very teeth of Caradoc’s rage, Ironfist fought on undaunted!

Good! So much the better!

Terrwyn was moving slowly now, lifting his hooves high over the fallen warriors, searching for some clear space to walk on. Dead faces stared up at Branwen as they waded through the slain, the bearded faces of Saxons and the faces of her own menfolk with their heavy moustaches and shaven chins. Some were hacked about and bloody, others lay with gaping mouths and empty, sky-seeking eyes, pale and peaceful, or ashen and twisted in some final agony. Enemies in life they might have been, but they were comrades now in death as the snow began to drift and heap, mantling them in its chill cerements, hiding for a time the brutal horrors of warfare.

Now she saw movement through the snow – dark shapes darting to and fro around a tall figure that blazed at the centre with a wheel of pure white light.

Terrwyn paused, shaking snow out of his mane. Branwen leaned forward, puzzled by the circle of light, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

And then it came to her, as though a veil had been drawn aside in her mind. The towering warrior at the heart of the action was Ironfist, and the white light that blossomed on his arm came from her own white shield! The mystic shield that had been gifted to her in the summer! The shield of the Worthy Champion.

Branwen knew from experience the protective powers of the white shield. It had saved her from certain death on Merion’s mountain, when rocks had rained down all around her and the ground had broken under her feet. No arrow could hold in it, no sword or axe bite it. And Ironfist had taken it for his own – little wonder then that he was able to stand and fight in Caradoc’s storm. The greater mystery to Branwen was how his opponents still had the courage and heart to throw themselves upon him.

But they would not fight on alone! She lifted her shield, gripping Terrwyn’s reins in her fist. Tightening her thighs about his broad body, she raised her sword high.

‘On!’ she shouted. ‘Onward to death or glory!’

Terrwyn burst forward, his head down, his great muscles knotting under her as he pounded towards Ironfist.

‘The Shining Ones! The Shining Ones!’ yelled Branwen as she bore down on her enemy. The warriors who had been surrounding Ironfist, split apart and ran, vanishing into the storm as she came careering through the teeming snow.

She saw Ironfist’s lone eye widen in surprise. Then his mouth opened in a roar of anger and delight. ‘The waelisc shaman girl!’ he shouted. ‘Beyond all hope you come to die by my hand!’

Branwen braced herself, her sword arm poised for a powerful downwards slash as she came up level with the great general. A single well-placed sweep of her sword and all would be over. His head would roll in the dirt.

But Ironfist was not so easily bested. He stepped aside as Terrwyn thundered forward, lifting his shield as Branwen brought her sword down.

The impact of her blade on the mystic shield numbed her to the shoulder. She had feared her blow would be turned aside, but she had not expected such agony to explode up her arm. It was as if she had struck at a block of iron.

She rocked in the saddle, almost falling as Terrwyn galloped on past the general. Gathering herself, she pulled on the reins and Terrwyn slowed, rearing and neighing.

She turned him, trying to ignore the pain in her arm, trying to think of some way of getting through the Saxon general’s guard.

He stood facing her, spread-legged, shouting, brandishing his sword while the shield burned on his arm like the winter sun.

Again Branwen urged Terrwyn on. Again she lifted her sword.

‘You have something of mine, Thain Herewulf!’ she shouted as Terrwyn gathered speed. ‘I would have it back!’

He laughed. ‘Then come and take it, witch girl! If you are able!’

‘I come!’ she cried. ‘Be patient – I come!’

She was more cautious now, her eyes pinned to the shield as he lifted it. She must get in past it somehow. She must draw blood. Closer and closer, Terrwyn galloped. She would wait for Ironfist’s sidestep, then she would lean low over her horse’s neck and swing her sword down and around, slashing beneath the shield, opening up his belly and spilling his guts!

But Ironfist did not sidestep this time. He stood unmoving in Terrwyn’s path, his feet braced, the white shield up to his ice-blue eye.

Too late, Branwen realized what was happening. At the last moment she yanked on the reins, trying to turn Terrwyn aside. But her brave steed’s momentum carried him forward on to the white shield.

Ironfist withstood the charge as a hale old forest oak might withstand the futile butting of a young roe deer. Terrwyn was brought to a halt by the shield’s power, and as he tumbled sideways, his hooves flailing and his mouth open wide in a scream of pain, Branwen was flung out of the saddle.

Ironfist slashed upwards at her as she was hurled through the air. The blow went wild, but she felt the point of his blade cut her upper arm, quick and shallow, as she was tossed on the wind.

She came crashing to the ground among a pile of the dead. For a few moments she was too stunned even to draw breath. Pain flooded her like black water. She could hardly close her fingers around her sword hilt. She could hardly move for the agony.

But a warrior’s instinct took over. She turned painfully on to her side and thence to her hands and knees, still holding her shield on her arm, still gripping her sword.

Terrwyn was lying still, maybe killed by the impact. Ironfist was stamping towards her through the ranks of the dead.

‘What’s this?’ he howled. ‘Still awake, pretty maiden? Then let me sing you to sleep!’ He came at her faster now, the white shield up, his sword spinning in his hand.

Branwen forced herself on to her feet.

She tried to remember what Gavan ap Huw had taught her in the forest outside Doeth Palas when she had been green and impetuous and foolish. She tried to recall all that she had learned since, in a hundred battles, a hundred victories.

She dared not let Ironfist come upon her flat-footed. She had to bring the fight to him. Weight for weight, he could wear her down and crush her, even without the aid of the white shield. She had to rely on speed and agility.

She sprang forward, focused on the coming conflict, blotting out pain and fear, ignoring the snow that flew into her face, paying no attention to the slither of blood and gore under her feet or the congregation of dead eyes that stared up at her.

The white shield came up to Ironfist’s eye as she darted forward. She brought her weight down on her left foot, feigning a blow that drew his shield instinctively to block her sword. But she changed her balance, coming in close, striking around his shield to the right, hoping to bite into flesh.

But he was too skilled a fighter to be caught out so easily. He twisted into her blow, cracking down on her sword with his shield and almost cutting her with a sharp swing of his sword to her neck. She sprang back out of danger, her shield to her eyes, the upper rim angled outwards, her sword arm lifted and bent so the sword ran along her back, ready for her to unleash all the power of her arm and shoulder when the moment was right.

‘Good! Good!’ crowed Ironfist, his single eye glinting. ‘There’s little to savour in a swift victory! Fight well, witch girl! Fight for your life!’

He threw himself at her, his sword bearing down on to her left shoulder. But she ducked, fending the blow off with her shield and bringing her own blade up to sweep his aside. His weight crashed against her, shield to shield, and she stumbled back. Again his sword flew to her shoulder, again she blocked it, dancing back and to one side, trying to sneak in under his shield arm, her aching leg muscles taut as she bobbed and wove, stabbing and withdrawing, stabbing and withdrawing.

She moved to the left then jinked to the right, bouncing on her feet, drawing him first one way and then the other, waiting for the moment when she could angle her sword in past his defences and score a hit. But always the white shield blocked her, always his sword whistled close to her head and she was forced to leap back to survive.

He loomed over her, swinging his sword in a great arc. She crouched low, so that his blow swept above her head. She stabbed at his feet and he pushed the shield down to keep her sword off. Quick as lightning she sprang up again, leaping into the air and bringing her sword down at an angle into his neck.

Roaring in anger, he thrust the shield up to buffet her sword away, but not before she had drawn blood. She pranced backwards, grinning, drops of blood flying from the edge of her blade.

But it was not a deep wound, and it enraged rather than hurt him.

She heard Gavan ap Huw’s voice in her head.

Do not let your emotions rule you. The blood may be hot, but the mind must be always cool.

Branwen smiled grimly as the furious Saxon came at her, swinging wildly in his pain and ire, wasting energy as she skipped away from him, darting to the left and right as he stormed forward like a wounded bull.

But his rage did not last. Ironfist’s attack became more measured, more wise. He struck from above and she deflected his sword with a twist of her wrist. Again and again he smote down on her, like a blacksmith forging iron. The power of his blows was gradually bleeding the strength out of her and she knew she could not afford to trade blows for much longer.

She lowered her sword, bringing her shield up instead to protect her shoulder. The edge of his sword bit deep into her shield while she swung her arm in a long low arc and snagged his ankle with her sword. She cursed that she had not struck a better blow – she had hoped to take his feet out from under him.

But now she was in danger – his sword was wedged in the rim of her shield and she could not pull free. She dropped to one knee, aiming for his legs again, but he was ready for her now. He brought his shield down hard, driving her sword into the ground. With a roar, he lifted the shield and hammered it down a second time – and now her sword broke halfway to the hilt.

And as she stumbled to her knees, the hilt slipping from her fingers, the white shield was brought up quick and vicious into her face. She was lifted to her feet by the power of his blow, her neck stretching, her head snapping back, pain filling her skull.

Her feet slipped from under her as her mind spun. She pivoted sideways, her left arm still trapped by the leather grips of her shield and the broken shield still snagged on Ironfist’s sword.

She fell heavily, jarring her elbow and hip, spitting blood from the blow to her face. Her arm slid free of her shield. She saw a flare of white from the corner of her eye as Ironfist hammered the shield down on to her head and shoulder, beating her to the ground.

She could not think for the pain. She could not get up for the fatigue that wracked her body. All she could see was a red fog dotted with fleeting flecks of white snow.

Ironfist’s foot came down on her chest, crushing her to the ground. She flailed with her arms, praying to feel a fallen weapon under her scrabbling fingers. Praying for a miracle.

She stared upwards with swimming eyes. Ironfist towered over her. He leaned to the right and beat her shield on the ground until his sword came free. She felt his foot grinding down on her breastbone, making it impossible for her to breathe. She saw him lift his sword above her face, the point aiming down towards her eyes.

A thousand images of her life wheeled in front of her eyes – the good and the bad and the wonderful and the terrible – changing rapidly as the blood pounded in her temples. And echoing the beat of her blood was a word, growing out of the confusion, filling her head.

Caliburn. Caliburn. Caliburn.

Pulsing in her mind, louder and louder as the world began to drift away.

… call for Caliburn when all is lost …

She had no breath in her body. She could not call – she could not even speak. But her lips formed the word and she let it out silently into the snowbound world.

‘… Caliburn …’

‘What’s this?’ growled Ironfist, leaning closer. ‘Do you beg for mercy, witch girl? I cannot hear you.’

‘… Caliburn …’

The pressure lifted a little from her chest and she was able to gulp in air at last.

She stared up into the Saxon general’s scarred face. ‘Caliburn!’ she gasped. ‘Caliburn!’

He stared at her for a moment, then he lifted his sword arm again. ‘Enough of this,’ he said. ‘Let’s put an end to you!’

But before his blow could fall, a blast of thunder rocked the world, almost shaking him off his feet. And as he tottered and flailed for balance, a shaft of lightning came flashing down with a fearsome scream, striking the ground only a few paces from where Branwen lay, exploding in a ball of blinding light.

When the flare of the lightning bolt was gone, a sword jutted out of the scorched ground. A sword that shone like silver, a sword with a hilt that glittered with gold. A sword that radiated light like the noonday sun.

In a daze, she got to her feet and stepped over to the sword. Its blade was sunken into stone. She took hold of the hilt, vaguely aware of Ironfist’s voice shouting behind her.

She tightened her grip on the sword and pulled it out of the stone, the shimmering blade ringing like bells as it came free.

She turned, holding the sword up – holding Caliburn like a blade of pure light. Ironfist threw himself at her, the white shield up, his sword swinging.

Effortlessly, Branwen swung the sword. It clove through Ironfist’s descending blade as though through a willow wand, sending sparks flying. Effortlessly, the sword danced over the rim of the white shield. Effortlessly it took Herewulf Ironfist’s head from his neck.

The great body crashed down at Branwen’s feet, the white shield flying from the limp arm, rising into the air, spinning like a wheel.

She lifted her left arm and the white shield came to her.

And as she stared down at the dead body of her old enemy, the blizzard ceased and the storm clouds lifted and the midday sun shone down on her.