Ironfist, leaning closer. ‘Do you beg for mercy, witch girl? I cannot hear you.’
‘… Caliburn …’
The pressure lifted a little from her chest and she was able to gulp in air at last.
She stared up into the Saxon general’s scarred face. ‘Caliburn!’ she gasped. ‘Caliburn!’
He stared at her for a moment, then he lifted his sword arm again. ‘Enough of this,’ he said. ‘Let’s put an end to you!’
But before his blow could fall, a blast of thunder rocked the world, almost shaking him off his feet. And as he tottered and flailed for balance, a shaft of lightning came flashing down with a fearsome scream, striking the ground only a few paces from where Branwen lay, exploding in a ball of blinding light.
When the flare of the lightning bolt was gone, a sword jutted out of the scorched ground. A sword that shone like silver, a sword with a hilt that glittered with gold. A sword that radiated light like the noonday sun.
In a daze, she got to her feet and stepped over to the sword. Its blade was sunken into stone. She took hold of the hilt, vaguely aware of Ironfist’s voice shouting behind her.
She tightened her grip on the sword and pulled it out of the stone, the shimmering blade ringing like bells as it came free.
She turned, holding the sword up – holding Caliburn like a blade of pure light. Ironfist threw himself at her, the white shield up, his sword swinging.
Effortlessly, Branwen swung the sword. It clove through Ironfist’s descending blade as though through a willow wand, sending sparks flying. Effortlessly, the sword danced over the rim of the white shield. Effortlessly it took Herewulf Ironfist’s head from his neck.
The great body crashed down at Branwen’s feet, the white shield flying from the limp arm, rising into the air, spinning like a wheel.
She lifted her left arm and the white shield came to her.
And as she stared down at the dead body of her old enemy, the blizzard ceased and the storm clouds lifted and the midday sun shone down on her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
All around Branwen, stunned and frightened warriors were picking themselves up and staggering ankle deep through the impossible snow while horses stood shivering, or galloped away over the battlefield with their reins flying.
The dead and wounded were mantled in the fresh snow, but already blood was staining the whiteness and in places it had become pools of red slush from which jutted broken spears and shield rims and clawing dead fingers.
Above the field of carnage, the sky was blue. To the north a tail of dark cloud flicked for a moment as it fell below the horizon.
Branwen walked forward in a daze, the shield of Cudyll Bach on her left arm, the sword Caliburn in her right fist. She stood over the fallen head of Herewulf Ironfist, one time Thain of Winwaed, commander of King Oswald’s armies.
She heard voices around her. Angry voices.
‘Awyrigende waelisc galdere!’
‘Astyrfan awyrigende!’
She glanced around herself, seeing Saxon warriors moving towards her from all sides. She slung her shield over her back and stooped. She grasped Ironfist’s head by the hair and raised it high. She turned slowly in a circle, showing the bloody trophy to the advancing warriors – showing them their dead general.
They hesitated, watching her with eyes filled with hate and fear.
‘I am Branwen of the Shining Ones!’ she howled. ‘I am the shaman girl of the waelisc! I am the witch girl of Pengwern! Fly from here if you value your lives!’
She did not know if any of them understood her words – but she knew they would respond to the deadly and ruthless tone in her voice.
The ring of Saxons wavered as she stood defying them. One or two turned and ran. Others followed. Soon they were all running, running hard to the north, throwing down their weapons, slithering and sliding on the snow, trampling the slain in their panic.
And as they ran, Branwen heard war horns blowing from within the walls of Pengwern.
Grimacing with distaste, she released the grisly head, watching dispassionately as the Saxons fled. Like ripples in a lake, the word was spreading across the battlefield. ‘Ironfist is dead! The shaman girl killed him! The witch girl brought the storm down upon us! Run! Run for your lives!’
The whole wide field was alive now with fleeing Saxons. Bands of King Cynon’s warriors pursued them, some on foot, others mounted, whooping and shouting and cutting down any who lagged behind. A troop of