Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,68

infiltrated the Saxon town of Chester in search of the casket-prison of Caradoc of the North Wind.

The cell in which Ironfist had incarcerated her for the last month was in the bowels of a huge old Roman structure, long ruinous and decayed.

A susurrus murmur rose from the gathered townsfolk and soldiery as Branwen appeared in front of them. She stumbled but balanced herself quickly, refusing to show weakness. Above her, the cracked shell of the Roman building lifted to the clear sky, its impossibly tall walls rounded, and circled with broken stone pillars as thick as forest oaks.

General Ironfist was there, decked out in his finest clothes, his cloak as red as fresh blood, spilling down off his broad shoulders and foaming at his feet. A golden helmet was on his head, etched with coiling serpent shapes, their scales of inlaid silver, their eyes green jewels that flashed and sparkled as he moved under the burning morning sun.

‘Welcome, Branwen of the Petty Gods,’ he called, spreading his arms to her as she walked forward in the ring of armed men. ‘The sun shines down upon us on this most blessed of days.’

‘I see I’ve drawn quite a crowd,’ Branwen called to him, staring unafraid at the multitudes with their eager faces, greedy for bloodshed. Women were there as well as men, their expressions choked with blood lust even as they gathered their children close to watch the evil shaman girl meet her doom. Further off, the helmets and spear tips and chain-mail of the mounted warriors flashed in the sunlight.

Branwen eyed them all with a stony face, determined to show Ironfist and the gawping Saxons no hint of the fear that clenched so hard and fierce in her stomach.

‘Indeed you have,’ said Ironfist. He turned to the gathered people and shouted something in his own language. The congregation let out cheers and catcalls and jeers of laughter.

Ironfist turned back to her. ‘I would not have you die alone and friendless, Branwen,’ he told her, his single blue eye glinting in his ugly face. ‘Call upon your gods, shaman girl. Beg the Shining Ones to save you.’

Branwen lifted her chin and stared challengingly at him, saying nothing.

She knew better than to cry out for help from Rhiannon or Govannon or Merion or Caradoc. They would not come, and her pleas would only serve to amuse the Saxon spectators. She would not perform for them like that! She would show them what fortitude a child of Powys could present as death took her.

‘No?’ Ironfist said, thrusting out his lower lip in pretence of disappointment. ‘Well, if you will not, you will not.’ He walked over to her. The guards stepped aside to let him through. He put his hand on Branwen’s shoulder and turned her, pointing upwards with his other hand.

She followed the line of his finger. Upon the head of one of the stone pillars perched a large raven, watching her with baleful eyes that flickered with an unhallowed red fire.

‘To tell you the truth,’ Ironfist murmured in her ear, as though passing on some amusing secret, ‘had they come, they would have been unable to do anything but watch you suffer. In this place, Branwen, in this land, Ragnar reigns supreme.’

Such a horror came into Branwen’s heart as she looked up at the hideous raven that she didn’t dare to speak in case her voice broke and let her down.

Ironfist stepped back and said something to her guards in his own language.

Branwen was held by the arms as four horses were led forward. Branwen watched them with growing apprehension. Was she to be trampled to death? It would be a horrible way to die, but it was hardly the dreadful new manner of death that Ragnor had threatened her with.

Four Saxon guards began unravelling coiled ropes. They brought them to Branwen and each tied a rope around her elbows and knees, knotting them excruciatingly tightly.

Biting her lip to prevent herself from crying out with the pain, Branwen saw the four ropes being fed out to where the horses stood, stamping their hooves and tossing their heads.

Four ropes and four horses.

Branwen shuddered as an inkling of what Ironfist had planned for her came into her mind.

The other ends of the ropes were knotted to the horses’ saddles. Ironfist shouted instructions and the four horses were led away from one another, two to points at Branwen’s left, two to her right.

More soldiers moved through the crowds, parting them so that four wide