Destiny's Path (20 page)

“Call your men down,” Branwen ordered, pressing the knife to his flesh. “I will kill you if I need to.”

But before he could speak, the braying of war-horns tore the air. The Saxons on the ramparts ran to the far edge of the wall and stared down, shouting greetings in loud, exultant voices.

Ironfist gave a howl of laughter. “Too late, girl-child!” His voice rose to a commanding roar. “Warriors of King Oswald, get to the gates. Open them to our most welcome brothers!”

“No!” Branwen yelled. “Make no move! I'll cut his throat!”

“Do as I order!” bellowed Ironfist. “And then avenge my death!”

The men on the walls drew their swords and came pounding down the stone stairs of the gatehouse. Iwan and the women rushed forward to meet them.

Branwen stared for a moment into Ironfist's defiant eyes. The general was unarmed. His hands were bound. She could not bring herself to slit his throat when he could not defend herself. She pulled her knife away.

“Rhodri, watch over him. See he does no harm!”

Rhodri nodded grimly, grasping Ironfist's tied hands.

Branwen ran forward.

Iwan and some of the women were already fighting, but the Saxons were huge, strong men, and they were beating their way steadily to the gates. Beyond the wall, the war horns brayed continuously, and
Branwen could hear also the commotion of men shouting and of swords being hammered on shields.

She threw herself into the battle, leaping in front of the warrior closest to the gates. He was a great scarred beast with a yellow beard and eyes like blue diamonds. He swung a two-handed war-ax at her. She ducked, feeling the air sing as the sharp iron swept a hair's-breadth over her head.

She lunged forward and stabbed her knife upward. Its blade was deflected by the man's chain-mail jerkin, and she found herself falling to her knees with the momentum of her wasted blow. He roared, lifting his ax high and bringing it down. Branwen curled up, rolling in against the brute's legs, knocking him off-balance. He staggered, his face red with wrath, and his open mouth sprayed spittle.

She turned onto her back on the ground, with her head between his feet. Taking her knife in both hands, she thrust upward. Blood sprayed down on her as the man tottered sideways and fell. She leaped on his back, plunging her knife into his neck.

A hard blow sent her reeling. Another warrior had come up behind her, but he had struck first with his shield rather than his sword—otherwise it would have been the last of her. Groggily, she crawled away, picking up the dead man's fallen ax. Twisting her torso and opening her shoulders, she threw the ax behind her. She saw the curved blade strike the man full in the face. She looked away as he fell.

But another man sprang over her and ran to the
bar that held the gates closed.

“Stop him!” she shouted, staggering to her feet despite the ringing in her head.

An arrow cut the air. It struck the man in the shoulder. Dera ap Dagonet ran forward, swinging her sword and shouting. But the man grasped the bar with both hands, leaning down on it, too consumed with battle-lust to heed his wound.

Branwen could hear a tumult from outside, the sound of men hammering on the gates.

A shrill voice called out. “Ships! Saxon ships!”

Branwen gasped. The voice came from one of the women on the hill of the Great Hall. She was staring and pointing into the east. The buildings of Gwylan Canu blocked Branwen's view out over the sea, but the woman's terrified alarm was clear enough. Her hellish vision was coming true. Ironfist's fleet had arrived.

Even as she despaired over this news, Branwen heard the crashing thud of the gate bar being pulled aside. She turned back in time to see the doors swing open and a whole host of Saxon warriors come pouring in.

Ironfist had been right—the sea's wind had indeed brought ill fortune to her. Now all that she could hope for was to die valiantly and take with her as many of these Saxon dogs as possible.

“F
ALL BACK
!” B
RANWEN
cried. “Fall back to the hill!”

Her instinct had been to hurl herself at the Saxon warriors as they came flooding through the open gates of Gwylan Canu with bloodthirsty whooping and howling. But when she saw how the women she had urged to fight were being driven back, she knew she had to do what she could to get them out of immediate danger. Then she could rally them in a good defensive position.

A sword swung and Linette fell. Branwen started to run to her aid, but feet were already trampling over her. There was nothing to be done. The words from her vision hammered in her mind.

Too late! Too late!

She saw Dera ap Dagonet running toward her,
blood streaming from a cut on her forehead. “We cannot hold them!” she gasped. Resignation filled her sable eyes, as though she knew she was going to die—but there was no fear in them. No fear at all.

“We must keep them from rescuing Ironfist!” shouted Branwen. “If we have him, we may still be able to negotiate for his release.”

“But you heard him—he is willing to die!” exclaimed Dera.

“Let's hope his men are less willing to let him be slaughtered!” growled Branwen. “Go! Gather the others! We will make a last stand on the hill if need be.”

Branwen ran to where Rhodri was still standing with the Saxon general.

Ironfist had an exultant, savage smile on his face. “Kill me or don't kill me, girl-child!” he spat in her face. “It will make no difference now. My army will sweep over you like the tide! Before the sun rises, every man, woman, and child who is not Saxon-born will perish here—and their deaths will be upon your head!”

Branwen refused to give him the satisfaction of a response. “Bring him,” she said curtly to Rhodri. She strode rapidly past the huts and houses of Gwylan Canu, making for the hill of the Great Hall.

She would make a last stand there, with her back to the Great Hall of the House of Puw. Or maybe there was the chance that some lieutenant of Ironfist's army would be prepared to barter the lives of the women
and children of Gwylan Canu for the life of his general. Even if
she
had to die in that place, it would offer her some solace to know that the women who had followed her to this ruin might survive.

She ran up the long slope. A spear grazed her shoulder and glanced off the stony ground. She turned. The Saxons were streaming up through the buildings. She saw another of the women fall with an ax in her back. Ironfist was dragging back despite Rhodri's efforts to force him up the hill. With a hissed curse, Branwen ran down to them, snatching hold of Ironfist's arm and pulling him forward.

They came at last to the doors of the Great Hall, piled high with stones and rocks. The timberwork rang to the sound of hammering fists and Branwen could hear the oaths and shouts of the imprisoned men within.

Let them howl! These men at least will not join the battle—not till all is lost!

Branwen turned at the top of the hill, staring out over the sea. As she looked into the east, all hope left her. Six ships rode the foam, and a seventh was already beached upon the sand. She stood frozen in despair, watching the ships. They looked strangely elegant as they rose and fell on the waves, their low, wide hulls leaf-shaped with high prow and stern, their single masts holding white sails billowing with the sea-scented east wind.

Each ship swarmed with Saxon warriors—there
were five, ten times the number that had taken Gwylan Canu.

A second ship made landfall, and the warriors poured from its sides in a dark flood. Branwen felt the chill of death come over her, almost as though Saxon iron was already piercing her heart. But why should she be surprised? She had always known in her heart that this “great destiny” of hers would end like this—in death. The fates had acted foolishly when they had picked as their tool the girl-child of Griffith ap Winn and Lady Alis.

Their mistake would doom all of Brython.

“Branwen?”

She turned at the voice. It was Iwan. He looked keenly into her face.

“No!” he said sharply, as if he could read her thoughts. “No! You won't give up! I won't let you!” He gestured to the women gathered on the hill—the ten or so who had survived the initial Saxon onslaught. “They are yours to command!” he said. “You cannot abandon them.” His eyes blazed. “You cannot abandon
me
!”

She saw Rhodri looking at her—and beyond him, the eyes of the warrior women were turned to her, waiting for some word.

“Take your sword back,” Iwan said, holding the hilt out to her. “There are plenty of others for me.” In that he was right—all around her feet were scattered the weapons taken from the hall.

She closed her fingers around her sword hilt, and at its touch a wild elation poured like fire through her veins. Despair was the ultimate betrayal of life! She would not succumb to it! Her mind boiled. A red mist veiled her eyes. New strength surged in her muscles.

“We fight!” she shouted, lifting the sword and brandishing it at the Saxon warriors that were swarming up the hill. “I am the Emerald Flame of my people! I am the Sword of Destiny! I am the Bright Blade!”

She swept up a shield and leaped down the rocks to meet the oncoming hordes. Striking a running Saxon with her shield, she used the whole weight of her body to crush him to the ground. Branwen looked for an instant into his savage eyes before bringing her sword down into the gap between his chain-mail jerkin and his black beard. Dark blood sprayed up toward her.

A spear thrust at her from the side. She threw herself backward as the iron tip sliced past her stomach. She was on her feet in a moment, digging in her heels and finding her balance—knees flexed, shoulders open, shield up to her eyes, and sword arm bent back, ready for a killing stroke.

Three Saxons came for her. Sword, spear, and ax.

She sidestepped the spear-thrust and chopped down with her sword, snapping the spear in half, then stepped into the spearman and brought the upper rim of her shield hard in under his chin. His head snapped up as he stumbled.

Already, Branwen was turning to meet the swing of the ax. She angled her shield to counter it. The buffet numbed her arm, and she had to throw one leg back to keep from being tossed off her feet. But her shield deflected the ax-blow, and the warrior staggered forward onto her sword point. He roared, and red spittle spattered her face as he reached a clawing hand toward her.

She bent her back, pushing in closer, deepening the thrust of her sword under his ribs. Suddenly his dead weight came down on her, pressing her to the ground. Her sword arm was trapped under him. She fought to get out from beneath his body, but her arm was still caught as she saw a sword plunging toward her face.

She heard a shrill cry. Another sword drove the Saxon blade aside. A slim, dark figure bounded in—Dera ap Dagonet, her face a ferocious mask, blood-smeared and feral. She spun on her heel, sinking her sword into the Saxon's belly.

Branwen heaved and managed to push the dead warrior off. Her eyes met those of her rescuer. There was no time for words. They were surrounded by Saxons. They stood back to back—and it was good to feel Dera's strong shoulders against hers as Branwen fought, striking out with her shield, slashing and thrusting with her sword, constantly shifting her footing as the bearded warriors bore down on her.

Before long, the uneven ground beneath her feet
became slippery with spilled blood. Three bodies lay twisted in front of Branwen; a fourth warrior was on his knees, his hands up to try and staunch the flow of lifeblood from his throat.

But as hard as they fought, Branwen knew they would not be able to survive here, out in the open where the Saxons could come at them from all sides. It would be only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed by sheer force of number.

“We must…get to the…hilltop…,” Branwen gasped.

“I'm with you…,” came Dera's voice.

Branwen drove her shield into a Saxon face. “Now!” she howled.

Side by side, they sprang back up the hill, and for a brief moment Branwen had the chance to see how the uneven battle was going.

It did not go well. Rhodri was still with Ironfist, holding a sword at his neck. But he had been driven up against the wall of the Great Hall, and only four warrior women stood between him and the press of Saxons. Iwan had been forced to take a stand up on the rocks that blocked the doors of the hall. He was fighting stalwartly, and several more of the women were gathered there with him.

Branwen saw Aberfa there, swinging a Saxon ax in her powerful arms, sending the blood flying. Banon was with him also, leaping from rock to rock, thrusting down with a spear and then dancing away
as her opponent fell back with blood welling from his wounds.

But their courage could never be enough. The daring warriors of Gwylan Canu now numbered ten—against hundreds. And all the while, still more Saxons were surging in through the open gates.

Branwen felt a pang of anguished pride as she saw Lord Madoc appear at the corner of the Great Hall, sword in hand, leading a group of women and old men, armed only with staves and rocks.

They would die. They would all die.

There was only one shred of hope for them—and Branwen knew it existed only if Ironfist was kept back from his men long enough for her to reach him. She knew what she had to do. She had no choice.

Dera had run ahead and was already springing up onto the stones to fight alongside Iwan and the others. Branwen hacked her way along the hill, coming up behind the Saxons who were fighting to rescue their general. She took them by surprise, cutting them down with blow after blow of her sword. She saw with a rush of sudden joy that one of the women holding them back, her gown soaked with blood from a wound in her shoulder, was Linette—alive and fighting still!

Branwen fought her way through the Saxons and came face to face with Ironfist. He glared defiantly at her, no sign now in his flinty eyes of the drunkenness that had earlier blurred his vision.

“Kill me now, girl-child,” he hissed. “You'll not get another chance!”

She knew in her heart that he was right. But his death would not prevent the Saxons from swarming over Gwylan Canu and slaughtering all who stood in their way—man, woman, and child.

As she stared into those cold blue eyes, she thought of the warriors she had known in her short life. Bloodthirsty and cruel, many had been—but all of them had a code of honor—every one of them! Could such honor live in a Saxon warlord? Surely it could—surely even such a man as Herewulf Ironfist could be asked to take an oath so deep and strong that he would not dare to break it.

It was a weak hope—a fool's hope, perhaps. But if he accepted her as a leader of these people—as a true warrior ready to sacrifice herself for those who followed her—maybe then she could bring this horror to an end.

“How do I stop this?” Branwen shouted in his face, lifting her voice above the hideous din of the battle. “These people do not deserve to be massacred. If I tell them to stop fighting—if I give myself up to you, to do with me as you wish—will you then spare them?”

“Branwen—no!” gasped Rhodri.

Branwen ignored him. She watched impatiently as Ironfist regarded her warily, a slow grin coming to his lips as he seemed to run this new idea over his
palate. “Well?” she demanded. “Do we have an agreement? My life for theirs? Will you give me your word on the name of your greatest gods to honor such a pact?”

“I will,” Ironfist replied, his eyes gleaming with a savage light. “By Wotan's fiery spear, I swear it! Your life forfeited for theirs saved!”

“Agreed!” said Branwen. She avoided looking into Rhodri's appalled face as she pushed his sword away from Ironfist's neck. She stepped behind the Saxon general and slashed through the ropes that bound his wrists.

He turned, his eyes burning into her face. Wordlessly, she offered him her sword, letting her shield fall to the ground at her feet.

Ironfist took the sword from her.

“Keep your oath. Call off your armies,” Branwen said, hearing her own voice through the dense white fog in her mind. “Bring this slaughter to an end.” She felt a profound sense of calm and peace. A curious emptiness grew and grew inside her chest, as though her heart, her lungs, her very spirit were being absorbed and lost in an expanding void.

Ironfist's guttural laughter brought her tranquility to a sudden and brutal end.

“Foolish child,” he hissed, lifting the sword and running its cold edge along her neck. She felt warm blood trickling. “Did you truly believe I would honor such a pact?” He laughed. “Know this, girl-child. You
will die now at my hand, and before the sun has risen on this day of triumph, every man, woman, and child of Gwylan Canu will die with you.”

Branwen looked into his eyes, furious with herself for having believed this Saxon might have shown some sense of honor. In truth, there was nothing in his eyes but lust and brutality and murder.

She had gambled her life and she had failed. There was nothing more to be done.