Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,3
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.