Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,94
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.