Caradoc of the North Wind (2 page)

His eyes narrowed, glittering like garnets. ‘What is that to you?’

‘I am here in King Cynon’s name,’ Branwen said. ‘I have been sent to lead Llew’s daughters safely to the royal court.’ She turned, making a wide gesture to the east with her outstretched arm. ‘No way is secure between here and Pengwern,’ she said. ‘The land hides Saxon raiding parties aplenty. But I will guide you true, Angor, if you will follow my lead.’

‘Get you gone!’ shouted Angor. ‘I was a seasoned warrior two score years before you were born. The princesses are under my protection and want for no other.’ Cold contempt came into his voice. ‘Most especially not the aid of one who worships ancient demons.’

Branwen smiled grimly. It was a long time since barbed words such as that had caused her any discomfort. ‘We are the Gwyn Braw!’ she called, ‘the king’s reavers – and you are surrounded. Do as I command, and all will be well.’

Branwen saw fury transform the old soldier’s face, but before he could spit out a response, the sounds of fighting erupted from Branwen’s right. All heads turned at the noise; nothing could be seen through the shrouding trees, but there was shouting and howling, the thud of weapons on shields, the clash of iron on iron, the hiss of arrows.

And above all, Branwen could hear Aberfa’s roaring voice. ‘Gwyn Braw! Gwyn Braw for the king!’

It seemed the Saxons had not departed.

They had been lying in wait, hoping to lure their enemies into the open – and now they had struck.

CHAPTER TWO

A
n arrow cut a dark path through the air, thudding into the chest of one of Angor’s soldiers. And then came another arrow from the hem of trees, chiming as it glanced off the wall of the tower. A third flew, catching a man in the leg.

‘Saxons, curse them!’ Blodwedd cried. ‘I should have known they were close by! I
would
have, if not for this deadly cold numbing my senses!’

More arrows came flashing out of the woods to the right. Several men fell. Some crawled back towards the entrance to the tower, others made no further movement.

‘To cover!’ bellowed Angor. He ran for the dark entrance, arrows slicing all around him. With a liquid reflex that would have been astonishing in a man a third his age, he swung his sword, striking an arrow in mid-flight and deflecting it into the sky.

‘Gwyn Braw to me!’ howled Branwen, throwing herself over the boulders and racing towards the sounds of conflict. She was aware of Blodwedd at her side, and as she ran she heard cries from behind as Banon, Dera and Iwan came charging from the tree-cover.

A Saxon soldier came out of the trees ahead of Branwen, running at the half-turn, slashing behind him as Linette pursued him with her sword whirling. Straight on to Branwen’s blade he ran, almost knocking her off her feet as he collapsed with a groan.

A spear sang close by Branwen’s head, the sound of its passing fierce in her ears. A spear flung from behind! She turned. A score or more Saxons were swarming from some hiding place behind the tower, streaming out now, brandishing swords and axes and screaming their deadly war cries. ‘
Ganghere Wotan! Hel! Gastcwalu Hel! Hetende Tiw!
’

They crashed into Dera, Banon and Iwan, driving them back, their feet slipping in the slithering snow.

This new assault trapped Angor and his remaining men in the open, some few Saxons racing along the tower walls to cover the entrance while the others attacked with all the ferocity of their warlike race.

Shouts and screams rang through the frozen air and hot blood sprayed high as iron cut deep into flesh. Yet more Saxons were running from the trees now, cloaks billowing, mouths open like red wounds in their bearded faces.

With a deep howl, Blodwedd flung herself at a tall Saxon warrior wielding a double-headed axe. Her clawed fingers tore at his eyes, her mouth open at his throat.

The man blundered back, snatching at her as she clung to his chest. Blood spurted and he toppled backward. Blodwedd rose like an avenging spirit, gored to the chin, her eyes blazing, seeking new prey.

A man came at Branwen with a spear. She pranced aside, bringing the rim of her shield down on the wooden shaft, cracking it apart before twisting at the hip and thrusting the shield hard into his face. He stumbled sideways, dropping to one knee, spitting blood and teeth.

Her sword rose and fell and his open-eyed head rolled like a boulder in the snow. Even before the severed head came to rest, Branwen was poised on the balls of her feet, shield up, sword ready – eager for her next enemy to come.

As Blodwedd had said: this was good sport to warm the bones on such a day!

Branwen sprinted into the trees. Through the lattice of trunks and branches, she saw Aberfa, tall and solid, like an oak tree herself, a spear in one hand and a sword in the other, while Saxons crowded around her like pack-dogs. Branwen had no fear for Aberfa – she could deal with twice the number that assailed her.

But where was Rhodri? True, he had learned much of the art of war; it was a long time now since Branwen had cause to keep him from harm’s way, and his skills with shield and sword had grown with each encounter. But she still worried about him. He did not like shedding blood and he lacked the killer instinct of a natural warrior. She feared that one day he would look into the eyes of the man in front of him, and hesitate one second too long.

Branwen ran forward, and caught sight of Rhodri. He was being beaten back step by slow step by a mighty Saxon with an axe in either hand. Tall and broad-shouldered as Rhodri was, his opponent towered over him, blows ringing down like hammers on an anvil.

But with a fiendish howl, Blodwedd was upon the giant’s back, her nails feeling for his eyes, her arms pulling his head back as her sharp teeth sank into the exposed neck. There was a gurgling cry cut short, and then the man came down in a flurry of fine snow, like a felled tree.

A hard-won instinct made Branwen turn the moment before a sword would have taken her in the back. She fended off the blow with her shield and stabbed quick and true. Her enemy fell. His hot blood steamed in the cold air.

New cries erupted among the Saxons.

‘
Awyrigende galdere! Awyrigende Waelisc galdere!
’

A fierce smile widened on Branwen’s face. She had heard those fearful cries before – many times.

‘
It is the accursed shaman! The damned waelisc shaman girl!
’

In their brutal language
waelisc
simply meant foreign. They, the invaders of Brython, referred to its native people as
foreigners
in their overweening arrogance! But there was fear now in the Saxon voices. They had not reckoned on confronting the fearsome waelisc shaman and her followers.

Branwen swung her sword.
‘Astyrfan!’
she howled. ‘
Astyrfan!
’ A Saxon word she knew well.
Kill! Kill!

Her followers took up the war cry till the snowy hills rang with it.

Kill! Kill!

Arrows flew from Rhodri’s bow. Dera’s sword weaved a net of gleaming fire around her head as she plunged into the fray. Iwan pursued fleeing Saxons and cut them down.

‘Do not follow them!’ Branwen shouted as the last of the Saxons went pounding away through the trees. ‘Let them limp home, if they can, to tell others of the dread of the Gwyn Braw of Powys!’

It had become her custom always to leave someone alive to spread the word about the dreadful shaman girl and her warriors. The more the stories were told, the greater would be their fear. Fear was a greater weapon than any forged of iron. If men fled from her, she would not need to slaughter them, and already she felt the weight of too many deaths upon her head. Not that she flinched when need drove her to aim for throat or heart. But her own blood lust in battle worried her. She dreaded that one day the red mist would fall down over her eyes never to rise again. On that day she truly would become the thing that everyone feared.

She strode from the trees, sheathing her sword and slinging her shield over her back.

Angor was standing close to the tower’s entrance, panting a little, his sword bloody and two Saxons dead at his feet. Of his soldiers, five lay dead, three were injured and another two showed no sign of hurt.

Iwan turned from the forest, grinning from ear to ear. ‘This Mercian rabble grows more cowardly by the day!’ he called.

Banon’s voice was raised in response. ‘They are like vermin before the broom of the good housekeeper of Brython!’

Aberfa and Linette came out of the trees, Aberfa’s weighty arm about Linette’s slim shoulders. Rhodri and Blodwedd were not far behind them, the owl-girl wiping the blood off her face with her sleeve.

Iwan came to a halt, staring at Angor with narrowed eyes. A muscle jerked in his cheek; Branwen knew he was recalling his last encounter with the captain, at the gates of Gwylan Canu. Angor had promised his parents that their son would suffer an agonizing death if they did not open the gates of their citadel to him.

Iwan never took his eyes off Angor. ‘You are in our debt, Captain,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘But you need give us no word of thanks; it is enough to see the gratitude in your kindly eyes.’

Angor scowled but said nothing.

Dera was less insouciant. She confronted Captain Angor, her black hair like a banner down her back as she looked into the old warrior’s face. ‘Well now, you are saved from your folly by the Gwyn Braw, and yet
I
see no gratitude in your eyes, old man.’

Angor stared her down, his face stern and grim. ‘Have you no shame, daughter of Dagonet ap Wadu?’ he snarled. ‘To take arms with the witch girl of the dead gods? Your father must howl his misery to the stars that ever you were born.’

Dera gave a hiss of rage and half drew her sword. Banon leaped forward and caught her arm, dragging her away from the sneering captain.

‘Peace, Dera,’ Branwen demanded, standing between her and the captain. ‘Remember why we are here.’

‘I remember well enough!’ spat Dera. ‘And it was not my will that we should play nursemaid to Llew ap Gelert’s brats. For all of me, we should leave them to this man’s care and see them all dead ere nightfall!’

‘That would have no honour in it,’ Blodwedd responded, gliding up to Angor and gazing up into his face. ‘You believe that Branwen follows dead gods, human?’ she hissed, her voice as soft and deadly as snakes. ‘The Shining Ones are not dead. Look you, man – their eyes are upon you even now.’ Her own eyes widened to golden wheels, and Branwen saw alarm and distaste battle in Angor’s face before he tore his gaze from hers and turned to stare fixedly at Branwen.

‘Do you have no control over the demons and fools in your charge?’ he said, a note of derision entering his voice. ‘Do your worst. I do not fear you, Branwen ap Braw!’

Branwen ap Braw –
Branwen, Death’s daughter
.

‘Branwen ap
Braw
, is it?’ Rhodri said mildly. ‘I think her mother would take offence at that jibe, Captain Angor.’

‘Why waste words on this wretch?’ demanded Aberfa. ‘Let us fetch the girls from their hiding holes and get away from here as quick as we may. The wind is getting up and I’d be under shelter before the night falls.’

‘We shall depart in a moment,’ agreed Branwen. She held Angor’s eyes. ‘Your path is yours to choose,’ she said calmly. ‘You will release the daughters of Llew ap Gelert into our custody, but whether you come with us to Pengwern or make your way elsewhere, I care not.’ She eyed the three injured men. ‘It is a long path that will take you back to Doeth Palas, Captain Angor. For your men’s sakes, I’d have you in my party – so long as you will obey my commands.’

Angor’s eyes blazed. ‘That I shall never do!’

‘Then they will likely perish of their wounds,’ Iwan said. ‘Cursing you for a stubborn fool with their last breaths.’

‘I have healing skills, Captain Angor,’ added Rhodri. ‘I will tend your men whether you come with us or no.’

‘He will take the road to Pengwern with you, do not doubt it,’ said a new voice from the half-blocked entrance to the tower; a female voice, young but full of authority. ‘Captain Angor will follow my commands, or my father will have his head!’

And so saying, Meredith ap Llew, eldest daughter of the prince of Bras Mynydd, stepped out over the rubble and came into the open.

‘Greetings to you, Branwen ap Griffith,’ she said. ‘Far have we both travelled since last we saw one another under my father’s roof in Doeth Palas.’ She bowed her head. ‘My life is in your hands. I know we were never friends, but I hope you will see me safe to my wedding with the king’s son.’

CHAPTER THREE

I
t was so strange for Branwen to encounter the daughter of Llew ap Gelert under such circumstances that for a few moments she could do no more than gaze at her in silence.

They had last seen one another during the long-lost summer before the war had begun. They were of an age, the two girls, but shared nothing else in common. Spoilt and pampered, Branwen had thought Meredith and her younger sister Romney, forever preening themselves, their soft bodies draped in silken gowns, their minds empty and vain.