Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,4

‘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