Destiny's Path (21 page)

“N
O
!” R
HODRI'S VOICE
rang in her head, cutting through the white mists that blurred her brain.

She felt the sword jarred from her neck and heard Ironfist spit a curse as he turned savagely. She saw Rhodri's terrified, courageous face beyond the great general's shoulder. She saw Ironfist lift his sword arm and crash down his sword across Rhodri's weapon, breaking the blade and jolting the hilt out of her friend's fingers.

She saw Ironfist's other fist pound downward, striking Rhodri in the face, driving him to his knees.

All this happened in the space of a single breath—and still in a daze, she could do nothing. The other young women fighting close by had not even seen what was happening—they were too busy
battling to save their own lives.

Branwen saw the sword arm lift again. Rhodri cringed from the deadly blow.

No!
She could not let him be killed.

Gasping with the effort, she flung herself on Ironfist's back, one arm hooking around his throat, the other reaching to grip the wrist of his sword arm.

He spun, roaring in anger, and tried to dislodge her, fighting to free his arm. But the desperation that had jerked her out of her stupor had also given her new strength. Her arm tightened on his throat, and he began to choke and cough as he stumbled. Ironfist wasn't so easily bested, however. He dug in with his heels and threw himself backward, crushing her against the wall of the Great Hall. He surged forward then pushed back again, beating the breath out of her lungs. Two, three times he drove her into the wall, until the pain made her lose her grip on his wrist and she was no longer able to keep the pressure against his windpipe.

His hand groped over his shoulder for her face, fingers stretching to find her eyes and gouge them out. She jerked her head back, but he caught her hair and brought her head down so her face smashed into the chain mail that covered his shoulder. She tasted blood. His elbow came into her stomach, and he twisted as she fell to her knees, spitting red, her mind reeling.

The hand caught her hair again, yanking her head up. She knelt as he raised his sword.

Forgive me. Forgive me. I've led you all to your deaths
.

A sudden sound shivered the air.

A howling, braying, whooping noise—skirling and swirling, rising above the sounds of battle.

Ironfist paused and turned, his face confounded by the strange noise coming from beyond the wall of Gwylan Canu. He stared off toward the distant mountains, glowing now, touched by the first light of the new day's sun.

And then the wind came.

It came down from the mountains, screaming like a thousand lost souls, shivering through the crags, bending tall trees as if they were mere meadow grass before its rushing breath. It came down from the high places of the Clwydian Range, with ice on its lips, driving all before it. It came rushing down through the ancient forests, ripping boughs from trunks, sending branches whirling, filling the air with leaves and twigs and flying debris.

The wind raced out over the bare rock and the long beaches, and it burst upon the Saxon hordes like a hammer, whipping their feet out from under them, tearing the swords and shields from their hands, tossing them through the air, piling them up against the outer wall of the citadel like stalks of wheat at the harvest.

As Branwen watched in silent awe, the wind fell upon the beached ships, ripping their sails to shreds, cracking their masts, splintering their timbers, throwing the terrified Saxons into the seething sea.

Roaring, it came surging over the wall of Gwylan Canu, dislodging stones, tearing the gates from their hinges, howling through hut and home and pen and paddock, ripping the thatch from the roofs, lifting wickerwork hurdles and throwing them like leaves across the sky in front of Branwen's stunned eyes. It blasted up the hill, rolling the Saxons before it, their heads cracking on stone, their swords and spears and axes skimming the ground, their cries drowned out in its wild halloo. Branwen's body tensed for the impact as the wind swept toward her.

Ironfist staggered back, holding his arm up to shield his face as the wind beat its way up to the very doors of the Great Hall.

Branwen felt its force hit her like an avalanche. It lifted her, plastering her helplessly against the wall of the hall, holding her there, her clothes glued to her body, her hair pulled back hard on her scalp, her skin lashed and pricked and scourged. It bellowed in her ears, its ear-splitting pandemonium heaping and piling in her head until she had to open her mouth in a soundless scream from the pain and the fury of it.

And then a sudden, stunning silence fell—the wind was gone, and the noise and the mayhem with it. Branwen could breathe again. She alone was still
standing. She saw Rhodri close by, rising unsteadily to his feet. Iwan and the fighting women were picking themselves up around her, their faces stupefied, their eyes uncomprehending.

Ironfist was sprawled against the wall of the Great Hall, panting for breath, the sword gone from his hand—blown away by the wind.

Then, as though the wind had been no more than a prelude, there came a new sound and a new wonder. From her vantage point on the hill, Branwen could see shapes—strange shapes, dark and sinister—moving down from the southern foothills with a rolling gait.

Branwen gasped as the great forms came swarming down the beach—they were
trees!
Enormous trees, walking on gnarled and angular roots, their heavy leaf-laden heads tossing from side to side as they jerked and lurched toward the sea.

And running among the spindly and crooked roots she saw wolves and stags, bears and wild boar, howling and bellowing and roaring and snorting as they came surging through the sand. It seemed to Branwen that all the beasts of the mountains had been summoned to drive the Saxon army back into the sea.

Some Saxon warriors tried to stand against the ravaging animals, but they were brought down by teeth and claws and stamping hooves, overrun by tusks and stabbing antlers and chomping jaws. Other soldiers simply fled in terror, floundering helplessly
in the surf, trying vainly to get back to their ships.

But the wind had smashed the beached ships to shards, and those still on the open sea were being tossed like eggshells on the surge of the waves.

Then a different sound caught Branwen's attention—the crack and crumble of tumbling stonework. She stared beyond the wind-ravaged huts of Gwylan Canu and saw that the wall of the citadel was falling inward, thrust down by the living trees. The gatehouse crashed in ruin as the unwieldy creatures climbed and clambered awkwardly among the fallen stones. Animals came leaping and bounding and crawling and running among them, falling on the warriors of Ironfist's army as they scattered in horror.

Flying like a dark cloud above the moving trees, Branwen saw flocks of birds—crows and eagles and hawks and falcons, buzzards and goshawks and harriers and kites—sweeping down on the Saxons, claws stretching, beaks open, eyes bright with a predatory light. All were led by a great, wide-winged eagle owl along with another bird—a bird she knew well.

“Fain!” she shouted, although she knew he would not be able to hear her voice in all the tumult.
“Fain!”

“And Blodwedd,” said Rhodri's awed voice at her side. “Surely that owl is Blodwedd!”

“Yes—perhaps it is,” Branwen gasped. “Rhodri—oh,
look
—Rhodri!” Her voice trembled. “
Look!
He has come!”

A new form came striding through the wreckage of the gatehouse—a tall, brown-skinned figure, as tall as the trees. He was manlike but in no way human, clad in a simple green tunic that hung down to his massive thighs, the mossy cloth stretched taut over a great, deep chest. The muscles of his bare arms and legs were huge and knotted, the skin lined with coiling, greenish veins. Solemn eyes flashed like emeralds from beneath bushy brows, and his wide mouth was open to show rows of pointed teeth. Tawny hair tumbled over the towering head, and from the temples there grew massive, branching antlers.

“Govannon of the Wood,” breathed Rhodri, taking Branwen's hand. “The Shining Ones have come to our aid.”

Branwen saw pure terror now on the faces of the Saxon warriors as they turned from the huge manlike form and ran, tripping over one another, hastening to make their escape.

Branwen gripped Rhodri's hand tightly. “I see it,” she murmured, her eyes riveted on Govannon as he strode among the animals like a king.

She heard the clash of weapons close by and tore her eyes away from Govannon of the Wood. She saw that Iwan and the warrior women were still fighting those few Saxons who had survived the windstorm. But this fight did not last long—even those Saxons who had clung onto their weapons had seen the moving trees and the armies of beasts and birds that were
falling upon their comrades. For most of them the only thought in their minds was to seek a means of escape, and the final few began to drop their weapons and flee.

“Ironfist!” Branwen hissed, suddenly recalling herself. The Saxon general was gone. He must have realized that his cause was lost and stolen silently away while all eyes were on the marvels that followed the unearthly wind.

She ran to the corner of the Great Hall.

There! She saw him.

A solitary figure, darting among the rocks, ran toward the rear of the headland, a borrowed shield on his arm and a scavenged spear in his hand. Perhaps he hoped to hide there, among the tumble of raw rocks—to hide from the wrath of Govannon until all was done and he had the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

Branwen had other plans. She would not let him escape so easily. She snatched up a sword and shield.

“Branwen—no!” It was Rhodri's voice. He was at her shoulder. “Let him go!”

“I can't,” Branwen hissed. “He has to pay for what he has done!” She stared into his eyes for a moment. “Stay back, Rhodri—you can't help me with this.”

So saying, she sprang away after Ironfist, her long legs quickly eating up the distance between them.

“Coward!” she shouted. “Come back and fight me!”

He was at the farthest point of the headland now, standing on the last ridge of wind-blown rock. A single step farther and he would plunge into the pounding sea.

He turned, grinning.

“Would you have single combat with me, child?” he called. “Do you long for death? Do you ache for it?”

Branwen came to a halt, eyeing him carefully. She walked slowly up the slope toward him, her shield up, her sword angled across her back—as Gavan had shown her—her muscles tensed and ready to uncoil.

“Deadain, andgietleas cild!”
shouted Ironfist, leaping down at her and thrusting the long spear.

She brought her sword sweeping over her shoulder, aiming for his neck. But he fended it off with his shield and, as he leaped by her, stabbed his spear at her side. She snatched her shield back to cover herself, dancing away from him as he ran past her.

She turned as he came for her again, thrusting the spear at her belly, his eyes burning and his teeth bared. Branwen brought her shield down hard on the shaft of his spear, hoping to break it, but he pulled back and she stumbled forward, only just avoiding the spear point.

She dived headlong, curling up and rolling across the uneven ground as he stabbed at her, missing and missing again. Then she bounced to her feet and brought her sword sweeping in under his shield,
hoping to take his legs out from under him.

But Ironfist was too wily a fighter. With a cry, he leaped over her scything blade and came down heavily, his shield pounding on hers, his weight forcing her almost to her knees. She ducked this way and that to avoid his jabs and thrusts.

Her limbs were weary and her muscles ached, but there was no possibility of rest or respite until this fight was over. She surged upward, using all the power of her legs and back to push him off, so that she could bound away and get beyond the reach of his spear, however briefly.

She glanced behind herself—she was on the very edge of a dark cliff that dropped straight down into the hungry sea foam. If she could enrage him so that he threw his spear—and if she could react quickly enough when he did so—then perhaps she could leave him weaponless.

“Do you know me now, Herewulf Ironfist?” she howled, spreading her feet and brandishing her sword. “I am the Savior of Brython! Drop your weapon and kneel to me, Saxon dog—and perhaps I will spare your life!” But Ironfist was not to be taken so easily. Grinning wolfishly, he moved up toward her, his spear reaching out, the point darting from side to side as he sought to find a way past her shield.

But she had planned for this also. She leaped sideways, allowing his spear point to break through the space around her, and then brought her arm down
hard into her side, trapping the shaft before Ironfist could withdraw it. Springing down on him, she aimed a deadly blow at his head—but his shield came up under her blade and swept it aside.

Betrayed by her own momentum, she plunged past him. He turned and struck her on the back of her head with his shield. The pain flared in her skull and down her neck as she stumbled forward. But she caught her balance again and turned, angling her shield downward so that his next thrust at her sent his spear point stabbing into the ground.

With a scream of agony and rage, she lifted her foot and brought it down hard on the shaft of his spear. It snapped, but he was hurtling toward her already, his shield up, all his weight behind the charge.

He struck her and took her clean off her feet. She felt dizzy and sick; pain throbbed through her head and jaw as she crashed onto her back. But she'd had wits enough left to keep her own shield up, even as he loomed over her, his face twisting into a malevolent grin as he pounded his shield down on her again and again. Her arm became numb and her whole body shrieked in pain. Her sword arm dropped, and both her weight and his bore down on her bent elbow as she tried to rise.