Caradoc of the North Wind (30 page)

Branwen braced herself to go crashing to the earth – but did not fall. A fierce wind rushed around her, holding her, snapping her clothes, tugging her hair with its goblin fingers, spitting splinters of cold into her eyes so she had to screw them shut as her sword and shield were ripped from her grasp. Then the wind stilled and she found herself standing on the hilltop, her enemies and companions lying senseless around her and Caradoc of the North Wind before her.

He had the form she had seen before: a golden youth, flaxen-haired, dressed in flowing robes, beautiful and bewitching, his eyes dancing with mischief, his smile captivating, his teeth like glimmering pearls between his full lips.

‘Why do you disturb me at my play?’ he asked, and his voice was sweet and captivating. ‘I was tossing tempests down on to a merchant ship on the open waters.’ The alluring smile widened. ‘You should have heard their screams as the waves flowed over them!’

‘Do you know who I am?’ gasped Branwen, finding it hard to concentrate under the beguiling gaze of the beautiful golden boy.

‘I do,’ said Caradoc. ‘Why would I come, else? You are the Chosen One – the Warrior Child, beloved of my brother and sisters.’

‘I saved you,’ said Branwen, forcing herself to keep focus. ‘I let you out of your prison.’

The boy’s head tilted. ‘Did you?’ He gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. ‘If you say so.’

‘I
do
say so,’ said Branwen. She pointed to the raging battle and the burning towers of Pengwern, surprised to realize that she could hardly hear the noise now, and puzzled to see that the view was blurred, as though through a haze of mist. ‘My destiny is to hold back the Saxons from the land of Brython,’ she exclaimed. ‘But I cannot do it! There are too many of them. Pengwern will fall, and one by one the citadels of Powys will be destroyed.’ She added urgency to her voice, seeing that the boy was looking at her without interest, as though he was eager to be off and away about his cruel games. ‘Brython will be lost! All will have been in vain! Do you not care?’

‘Why should I care?’ he asked petulantly. ‘Let the Saxons come, if they desire it; the waxing and waning of these human cattle does not concern me. They come, they go, what of it? The tempest blows. The storm rages. It matters not to me whose heads the rain falls upon.’

For a moment Branwen was lost for words. Had it come to this – all her striving and all her heartache and loss – brought down to this one moment as she stood upon a wind-torn hilltop, pleading for help from an indifferent child-god?

She pointed eastwards again, pouring all her hopes into one final effort. ‘Look!’ she demanded, thrusting her arm towards where the raven Ragnar perched still on the flaming gate tower of Pengwern. ‘Do you not know who he is?’

The boy’s eyes narrowed and a sneer curled his lip. ‘I know yonder carrion,’ he snarled. ‘Did I not best him in the mountains, with my sister at my side? Did I not send him fleeing in dread?’

‘Yes! You did! But he is returned!’ shouted Branwen. ‘He mocks you, Caradoc of the North Wind! He mocks the Shining Ones. He laughs in your faces! Do you not see? If you do nothing, he will triumph – for it is by his will that the Saxons have come. If they are not beaten back, they will flow over this land like foul water, Lord Caradoc! And he will come with them, and they will build temples and shrines to him. They will worship him and you will be cast out. You, and your brother and your sisters – you will be thrown into the outer darkness, never to return!’ Now she could see the outrage building in the boy’s face. ‘Can even Caradoc’s winds blow over a land ruled by Ragnar? Will you stand by and let this happen?’

‘Never!’ Caradoc’s voice changed beyond all recognition. It was no longer the sweet, mellifluous voice of the golden boy; it was a raging, roaring voice that boomed in Branwen’s ears like a hurricane. ‘Never!
Never!
’

He was no longer a boy. His shape expanded and grew, flowing like clouds as it rose high above the hill, dark as a storm, edged by lightning, roaring like thunder. Branwen threw her hands up over her ears, as the booming of Caradoc’s voice became the crack of a thunderclap loud enough to split the world open. The ground rocked under her feet.

Far, far above her head, she saw a limb of cloud reach beckoning into the north. She turned on teetering legs. Already the far northern horizon had turned dark – as though a range of black mountains had come suddenly into being on the very rim of sight.

Even as she watched, the darkness rose. Like a pack of wolves the storm clouds came racing across the heavens, approaching with an impossible speed, drowning the land under their shadow, devouring the sky.

Branwen heard a harsh croak, distant but strangely loud in her ears. She turned her eyes to the east. The raven monster was still crouched on the burning tower, but staring northwards now, wings unmoving, head down as its red eyes watched the wrath of Caradoc advancing. Then it turned its head to Branwen and she felt Ragnar’s evil will beating on her like a great hammer. She flinched as the malice ate into her brain. Even as she reeled, a bright light sped past her, like a golden thunderbolt streaking into the east. The raven took to the air with a wild cry and turned and hurtled away, pursued by the wild and wilful boy-god of the Shining Ones.

Branwen shook her head, clearing it of the evil that had threatened to infest it. The storm was almost upon them, mighty and magnificent and terrible. While she stood numbed by reverence and dread, the racing edge of the storm curled over Pengwern and with a noise like a thousand hissing snakes, the blizzard struck.

The howling snow came down over the battlefield in an obliterating white blanket, drowning everything that lay beneath. And although the violent snowfall did not strike the hilltop itself, the icy wind that brought it almost took Branwen off her feet.

She could see nothing in the valley save for the rolling clouds and the lashing snow. Above the roar of the snowstorm, she could hear men’s voices crying out in fear. Closer by, Terrwyn neighed loudly as he struggled to his hooves, flicking his tail and turning his head from side to side as though trying to shake off some enchantment. The other horses were getting up, also, as were Branwen’s companions – stumbling and blinking as though ripped from deep sleep to find the world utterly changed about them.

None of the Saxons that lay scattered on the hillside stirred. Caradoc had put a swift end to them, Branwen guessed.

‘By the saints, what has happened here?’ gasped Dera, staggering to Branwen’s side.

‘I called on Caradoc, and he came!’ Branwen shouted above the storm. ‘This is his work.’

‘Such a storm!’ gasped Aberfa. ‘From nowhere, it would seem!’

‘I thought the Shining Ones would not help us?’ asked Iwan, staring at Branwen in amazement. ‘Wasn’t that what you were told?’

‘Rhiannon said that the three that were bound to the land could not help us!’ called Branwen.

‘And Caradoc is
not
bound to the land!’ laughed Iwan, taking her by the shoulders. ‘Well done, my barbarian princess!’

‘But do not the warriors of the king suffer as badly as do the Saxons?’ asked Banon. ‘Will the blizzard know friend from foe? Who will have the upper hand when Caradoc’s storm has passed over the land?’

‘I do not know,’ said Branwen, holding Iwan’s hands for a moment in hers before turning back to stare down into the whirl of the snowstorm. ‘Would that I could see! Would that I could find Ironfist in all this chaos and bring him to his end.’

‘You shall find him,’ said Rhodri, from behind Branwen. She turned and saw that he was holding Terrwyn’s reins, and that there was a golden light in his eyes. ‘Mount up, Branwen – your destiny lies below – go you and seek it!’

‘That is madness,’ said Dera. ‘She will not be able to keep in the saddle in such weather.’

‘She will,’ Rhodri said with quiet assurance and command. He rested his hand on Terrwyn’s muzzle and murmured some soft words close to the horse’s head. ‘There – he will not let you fall, and he will guide you true to your enemy, Branwen.’

She stepped forward, but felt Iwan’s hand on her arm. She turned her head to look into his worried face.

‘Do not fear for me,’ she reassured him. ‘All will be well. I shall see you again before this day is done.’

He frowned. ‘I hope so with all my heart,’ he said. ‘If you do not return safely to me, I shall be very angry with you, Branwen. I may never speak to you again!’ He looked at Rhodri. ‘But if harm befalls her, be warned I’ll have harsh words for you, Druid – or whatever it is that you have become.’

‘I cannot foresee what will happen between Branwen and Herewulf Ironfist, Iwan,’ Rhodri said calmly. ‘And it is too soon for me to know
what
I have become.’ He turned his head slowly, looking at each of the Gwyn Braw in turn. ‘But I do know this. None of you can go with her into the blizzard – it will be the death of you – Branwen must do this alone or not at all.’

‘Then go with our blessings on you!’ said Dera, resting her hand for a moment on Branwen’s shoulder. Aberfa and Banon moved forward and briefly took her hands. Then Rhodri gave her Terrwyn’s reins and stepped aside so that she could mount up.

She paused, looking into his face. ‘Is it still you, my friend?’ she asked him.

‘It is,’ replied Rhodri. ‘But I am no longer half one thing and half another as I have been all my life, Branwen. I am complete – I am whole. I am
one
.’ His brows creased. ‘Beware the shield, Branwen, it can do great harm.’

She nodded, not quite sure what he meant by that, but determined to remember it.

She climbed into the saddle. Dera handed up her shield and sword.

She took one final look at her friends and companions before flicking the reins.

Terrwyn leaped forward, as though at the sound of battle horns. Branwen saw the faces of the Gwyn Braw blurring as she sped across the hill. She wished for a passing moment that she had thought to kiss Iwan one time before leaving him. Well, it was too late for such regrets, and if she came out alive from the storm, she could easily rectify her omission many times over.

Caradoc’s ferocious snowstorm raged below her, filling her vision, drowning out all thought. Fighting against a rising terror, she clung on tightly as Terrwyn cantered over the edge of the world and took her, plunging down at a full gallop, into the devouring white throat of the blizzard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

B
ranwen was almost blinded by the whirling maelstrom, and it took all her strength to stay in the saddle as Terrwyn forged on, galloping deeper and deeper into the chaotic heart of Caradoc’s snowstorm. As she rode, the pelting ice stung her face and hands, and she could feel it gathering in her hair and on her cloak, heavy and clinging, soaking through her clothes, weighing her down.

Above the shriek of the wind, she could hear voices – men crying out in fear, horses whinnying – the frantic tramp of hooves and the sound of running feet. And through the sheets of flying snow she saw blundering shapes – warriors stumbling this way and that, their backs stooped, their arms thrown up as they tried vainly to escape the blizzard’s angry bite.

Banon had been right – the storm didn’t know friend from foe. The winds bowled over the warriors of the Four Kingdoms of Brython as readily as it did the Saxon enemy. Branwen saw tattered banners lying on the ground – the red dragon of her own folk wallowing in the slushy mud along with many white Saxon serpents.

Bodies lay scattered in their path, sombre proof of the slaughter that had already taken place. Even at the gallop, Terrwyn avoided treading on the dead, and when the heaps of corpses grew too dense, he slowed, his head nodding as he picked his way forward.

A new sound came to Branwen through the roaring wind, or rather, an
old
sound that she had not expected to hear. It was a single voice shouting defiance, accompanied by the clang of iron on iron. Even in all this madness, someone was still fighting!

‘
Aet ic cempas! Aet ic garhéap!
’

She grinned a hard, fierce grin, baring her teeth. She knew that voice.

So, even in the very teeth of Caradoc’s rage, Ironfist fought on undaunted!

Good! So much the better!

Terrwyn was moving slowly now, lifting his hooves high over the fallen warriors, searching for some clear space to walk on. Dead faces stared up at Branwen as they waded through the slain, the bearded faces of Saxons and the faces of her own menfolk with their heavy moustaches and shaven chins. Some were hacked about and bloody, others lay with gaping mouths and empty, sky-seeking eyes, pale and peaceful, or ashen and twisted in some final agony. Enemies in life they might have been, but they were comrades now in death as the snow began to drift and heap, mantling them in its chill cerements, hiding for a time the brutal horrors of warfare.

Now she saw movement through the snow – dark shapes darting to and fro around a tall figure that blazed at the centre with a wheel of pure white light.

Terrwyn paused, shaking snow out of his mane. Branwen leaned forward, puzzled by the circle of light, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

And then it came to her, as though a veil had been drawn aside in her mind. The towering warrior at the heart of the action was Ironfist, and the white light that blossomed on his arm came from her own white shield! The mystic shield that had been gifted to her in the summer! The shield of the Worthy Champion.