Destiny's Path (13 page)

T
HE STARS WERE
snuffed out by a mass of seething black cloud. Thunder roared. Branwen blinked the teeming rain out of her eyes, trying to see in the sudden darkness.

“Blodwedd?” she screamed as storm-winds buffeted her and tore her hair.

Forked lightning cracked the sky open and showed Branwen the world around her.

She was at the edge of the glade still, but it was overgrown now, bereft of magic. The stones were half buried in fern and flower, their heads mantled in climbing plants. Tall trees grew where the woman had chanted and the four god-players had danced. But from high on the trunk of a nearby tree, the dead black eye sockets of a goat skull stared down mournfully, the last remnant of lost love and failed devotion.

“I am here,” came Blodwedd's crackling voice. “We must return—there is mischief afoot! I smell wolves in the night! Rhodri cannot fight them alone.”

Wolves!

Branwen drew her knife as she ran, and she felt the dark ecstasy of impending combat thrilling through her body. Here at last was an enemy she could strike at! Here was a prey to vent her frustration on! She gripped the knife tightly, chasing hard after the owl-girl as she flitted through the trees, praying Rhodri had not been caught unawares.

As she neared their camp, she could make out the frightened neighing of horses and the keening screech of Fain the falcon—but she could also hear harsh snarling and the growling of wolves.

Rhodri was on his feet, freed now from whatever spell had caused him to sleep so deeply earlier in the night. He was held at bay against a tree, his face twisted in fear, his clothes and hair saturated from the rain. He was holding off four or five wolves, Geraint's sword gripped in both fists as he swung it to and fro in a wide arc before him. As the blade scythed the rain, the wolves backed off and came snapping forward again.

Fain was doing his best to help, wings fluttering as he rose and swooped, flying into the wolves' eyes with outstretched claws, screaming, distracting them from their prey.

Even had Branwen been in a position to shoot a stone into a wolf's eye, the rain would have made it
impossible for her to aim accurately with the slippery wet leather slingshot. No! Knife work was needed now—and quickly, too, before one of the wolves got close enough to Rhodri to draw blood.

Blodwedd let out a fearsome shriek, throwing herself forward with her arms raised and her fingers crooked into claws. Far more owl-like than human at that moment, she threw herself on the back of one of the wolves, sending it tumbling. As the two rolled over and over, Blodwedd's arms and legs wrapped around the shaggy body of the fearsome creature, its vicious head twisting and the wide jaws snapping red.

Branwen sprang forward, stabbing fiercely, and caught a wolf in the hindquarters. Blood spurted as the wolf turned, howling in anger and pain; its eyes were poison-yellow, and its black lips drew back from slavering fangs. She slashed again with the long hunting knife, rending the wolf's shoulder to the bone. As lightning flashed, she saw a second wolf turn and leap toward her.

She dropped to her knees in the wet earth, and mud sprayed up around her. Claws raked across her back as the flying wolf overshot. Without a moment's hesitation Branwen lunged forward and sank her knife deep into its throat. It gave a hideous yowl as dark blood gushed from the wound, and then the wolf crashed in front of her in a tangle of twisted legs.

She took one quick look into the dead eyes and saw the jaws still open, the tongue hanging, red with
blood. Then she stumbled to her feet, dashing the rain out of her eyes, and whirled about as she heard a scrabble of claws behind her—the wolf with the injured shoulder.

She had no time to use her knife as the huge creature pounced. Instead she thrust her forearm between its jaws, forcing the mouth wide so that it could not bite together, fighting to stay on her feet as the weight of the animal came hammering down on her. There was the stench of its breath and the horrible smell of its rank, wet fur, followed by the scrape of its hooked and broken claws along her skin. Branwen wrenched her arm to one side, forcing the creature's head to twist on its powerful neck, and drove her knife upward, cutting through flesh and sinew and throbbing veins. Hot blood splashed over Branwen's face as the bulk of the wolf suddenly became lifeless, bearing her down into the mud.

Using all her strength, she pushed and kicked the hairy corpse off her. She scrambled to her feet, her shoes slipping, her face whipped raw by the rain. She saw Blodwedd rise from a dead wolf, her arms blooded to the elbow, her mouth red and dripping, her eyes ferocious. The wolf's throat had been bitten out.

Branwen turned away from the dreadful sight, desperate to get to Rhodri's side. He was still fighting for his life but managing to hold off the last two wolves, slashing and swiping at them as if the sword was a stick. He had no battle skills—no training as a
warrior. All he had was courage and the strength of his two arms. Fain was still with him, plunging with outstretched claws, rising in a flurry of wings as the deadly teeth snapped at him.

Behind the tree against which Rhodri was trapped, Branwen saw the two horses rearing on their hind legs, kicking the air, their eyes terrified as they dragged at their tethers.

“Hold on!” she yelled to Rhodri. “I'm coming!”

Screaming in rage, she flung herself on the nearer of the two remaining wolves, using her momentum and weight to drive her knife up to the hilt in its back. The wolf twisted and writhed in its death agonies, ripping the knife from her fist and knocking her feet out from under her, sending her slamming hard to the ground.

She blinked as she lay gasping on her back. Pain wracked her body, and the rain filled her eyes, mixing with blood and veiling her sight with a red haze. She heard snarling. She felt blindly for her knife. A great dark, shaggy head appeared above her. Claws dug into her chest. Crimson jaws opened, yellow eyes gleamed. Fetid breath blasted her face.

Her fingers scrabbled in mud and grass, finding no weapon. She dashed the red water from her eyes as the gaping maw plunging toward her throat. There was a shout from above her. The wolf's head jerked up and its neck arched back. It fell sideways, kicked for a few moments, then lay still.

Branwen sat up, coughing and choking. Blood bubbled from a wound in the wolf's back. Rhodri was standing over her, panting for breath. He held the sword in both his hands, its blade swimming with gore.

She got up, grimacing, aching from her fall. Blodwedd walked toward them through the rain.

Rhodri gave Branwen a wry smile. “A fine time to go for a walkabout, Branwen!” he said. “If not for Fain waking me up, you'd have returned to find me being enjoyed as a late supper by those fine fellows!” He looked around at the five dark corpses. Fain had come down to perch on one wolf's unnaturally bent head. Branwen looked away as the curved beak pecked for juicy morsels among the bloody fur.

“Do you think the soldiers in the valley below will have heard us?” Rhodri asked. “I'd rather we did not have to face them as well!”

“The storm is loud enough to drown out all else,” said Branwen. “And I doubt they would come to investigate the howling of wolves.”

Blodwedd came up to Rhodri and looked into his eyes. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

He flinched for a moment at the gruesome sight of the owl-girl; her teeth and lips were still red with wolf's blood, and her long fingernails were dripping.

When Blodwedd saw his dismay, her forehead wrinkled in concern. She crouched quickly and washed her hands in the long, wet grass, passing the
back of her hand across her mouth to wipe the gore away before standing again.

“No. I'm not hurt,” Rhodri said, his face softening as though he was touched that Blodwedd should have cared enough to clean herself for him. “You arrived before my strength gave out. I was more worried for the horses, truth be told. I thought they might…” His voice trailed away. He turned and Branwen became aware of something that she had not noticed until that moment.

The horses were gone. In their dread of the wolves, they had torn loose from the stump to which they had been tied.

“Curse the luck!” groaned Branwen. “We cannot follow their trail in the dark—and there's little chance of hearing them in this storm.” She pulled her cloak around her shoulders. “Let's hope they do not stray far. We must find what shelter we can from this downpour. With good fortune, we may find them in the morning.”

“We may,” Blodwedd said. “If we live out the night.”

“Why shouldn't we?” Branwen asked her. “The wolves are dead.”

“Five is a small pack, is it not?” Blodwedd asked. “I have lived in these mountains all my life, and I have observed many things and counted many beasts, both great and small. This was not the whole pack, Warrior-Child. These five were but out-runners—scouts sent abroad to lead the pack to food.”

A cold fear swept over Branwen. The owl-girl was right—and she should have known it! She had often accompanied her father and brother and the court warriors in winter, hunting the starving wolf packs that came ravaging down from the mountains through the deep snows. Even in the frozen heart of the worst winters, when their numbers were thinned by starvation and unendurable cold, the packs were always large—twelve or fifteen wolves at least, and sometimes as many as twenty.

“Perhaps this was a single family,” Rhodri suggested.

As though to mock his wishful words, a drawn-out howl sounded through the rain. Not the distant baying of a wolf on a lone crag—but the blood-chilling howl of a rapacious predator, sounding out his rallying call from far, far too close.

“They come!” hissed Blodwedd.

Branwen stared into the heavy curtain of the rain. Yellow eyes shone like jewels in the darkness. She turned slowly, her heart beating fast under her ribs. Two pairs of eyes…five…ten…twenty!
Even more!
Those eerie, luminous eyes were all around them—surrounding them in a deadly, unblinking ring.

There was a second, ghoulish howl, rising and falling in the night. It scraped at the inside of Branwen's skull like fingernails drawn down slate.

As the howl faded, the eyes began to move forward.

T
HROUGH THE RAIN
, the wolves began to take form, moving in from all directions. Branwen took two swift steps and grasped the hilt of her knife, still jutting from between the ribs of her last victim. It would not come loose easily, so she pressed her foot down on the carcass and pulled to rip it free.

She moved back to be near the others, her eyes flickering from wolf to wolf, from eye to gleaming eye. These were nothing like the half-starved, bony animals of winter; these wolves were large and well fed, powerfully muscled and filled with the courage of the pack. Their narrow shoulders came up to her waist, and from their bulk, she guessed that each one probably outweighed her. Formidable foes, indeed, especially in such numbers.

They had killed five, taken them by surprise and
from behind. But twenty-five?

“Can you communicate with them?” Branwen asked Blodwedd. “Animal to animal? Tell them we are under Govannon's protection!”

“Owls do not speak with wolves, Warrior-Child,” hissed Blodwedd, and Branwen could hear terror in her voice. “You must escape. See you the scar-faced old gray? He is their leader, I think. I will attack him while you break out of the circle. Run fast and swift, Warrior-Child. If you hear pursuit, find a tall tree and climb for your life. I will come to you when I may, and if not, Lord Govannon will send a more worthy creature to watch over you.”

“I'm not leaving you to be killed!” exclaimed Branwen.

“You must!”

“No!”

“Branwen, she's right,” Rhodri's voice was dull, as though he already knew that Blodwedd was lost. “I'll stay with her—hold them off. You must get away if you can.”

Branwen eyed the massive gray wolf that Blodwedd had indicated. He was old, she could tell, but there was strength and murderous intent in his yellow eyes, and when he came to a halt, about five paces from them, the rest of the pack halted also, their heads down, watching and waiting.

Branwen spread her feet, grinding her heels into the mud and squaring her shoulders. She lifted
her knife hand above her head; the blade ran with rainwater.

“Come, old gray-muzzle!” she shouted, staring into the wolf's deadly eyes. “Do you know who I am? I am Branwen ap Griffith! Come, if you dare—I don't fear you!”

The wolf's eyes burned into hers, lurid as candlelight—ravenous, impassive, unknowable.

Rhodri raised his sword, holding the hilt firm in both hands. Blodwedd's fingers curved and her lips drew back. Death hovered above them, impatient, expectant.

Branwen took a step forward, ready to fight for her life.

A peal of thunder shook the world, and the whole mountain seemed to rock, taking Branwen's feet from under her and throwing her in the mud. Gasping, she got to one knee, her ears ringing.

Lightning split the sky into fragments. A fizzing whiplash of blinding white fire struck a tree, bursting the trunk open and sending the tall branches tumbling in flames. Branwen was dazed by the lightning flash, but in the blur of partial vision she thought she saw a pathway opening through the trees—a shimmering pathway of coruscating green light. She knelt, her shoulders down, her mouth open, staring in wonder as the pathway unwound itself into the distance.

The trees seemed to bend away from the green pathway; their branches were bathed in the flickering
emerald light, and every leaf and bud sparkled. The path ran up a hill, and on its crest, caught in a mesh of trapped lightning, she saw a standing shape.

A man, but much larger than a man.

It was a great silhouetted man, dark as caverns, tall as mountains. He was standing spread-legged, and from his head rose twelve-point antlers flickering with lightning. Although she could not see his face or his eyes, Branwen knew he was looking at her—looking into her. One massive arm rose and the hand beckoned.

Then the thunder rolled again, and Branwen closed her eyes against the noise. When she opened them again, the green path was no more and the stag-man was gone.

“Branwen!” It was Rhodri's voice, calling through the numbness that clouded her ears. “Quickly! Get up!” There was joy and relief and disbelief in his voice. “The thunder frightened them away! The wolves have gone!”

A hand helped her up. The rain was falling like spears, splashing knee high, beating into her face. She turned to Rhodri, her mind full of green clouds.

“Branwen?” There was a sudden alarm in his voice. “What's wrong? What's happened to you?” She stared at him, groggy and befuddled. Blodwedd was also looking into her face with apprehension.

“She has seen marvels,” said the owl-girl.

“What…is it…?” Branwen asked.

“Your eyes!” said Rhodri. “They're…they're filled with green light.”

“This is not good,” said Blodwedd, her voice fearful. “There are few whom the wendfire light does not change.”

“Why?” gasped Rhodri. “What is it?”

“It is the light that fills those who have looked into the eyes of the Lord Govannon,” said Blodwedd. “Alas! Death lies often in that light.”

“What did you see, Branwen?” urged Rhodri. “Tell us. What did you see?”

“I…don't…know…,” Branwen mumbled, trying to think. “A man…with antlers. He beckoned….” She turned, pointing through the trees. “That way!” she said. “We have to go that way!” A few ragged thoughts managed to come together in her head. “The wolves!” she gasped. “What of the wolves?” She stared around, lifting her knife.

“Did you not hear my words? They're gone,” Rhodri said. “Branwen, can you
see?
”

“Yes.” She caught hold of his arm. “Come on—we must go this way.”

Without waiting to see whether they were following, she began to run unsteadily over the slippery ground, her body battered by the rain.

She went stumbling into densely packed trees where the ground rose sharply under her feet. Beneath the sheltering arms of the forest, she no longer felt the full fury of the storm, though the rain
splashed down all around her in huge heavy drops, beating on the leaves above her like the sound of ten thousand spears pounding against ten thousand shields.

There was a cave ahead. She had not known what she was running toward until she saw the black mouth open in front of her—and then suddenly she knew, as if she had known all along. A deep cave. Shelter from the storm.

She stood in the wide cave-mouth, her head suddenly clear again.

Rhodri and Blodwedd were running toward her through sheets of rain. His arm was around her shoulders, and their heads were down, their backs bent against the torment of the weather.

“Where is Fain?” she shouted above the din of the pounding rain.

“He will have found a safe place to weather the storm,” called Blodwedd. “Have no fear for him.”

They came into the shelter, panting and dripping. Rhodri pushed his hair out of his eyes. “It has gone,” he said, looking into her face.

Branwen frowned. “What has?”

“The green light—it's gone from your eyes.” He shook his head. “You saw Govannon?”

“I don't know.” She turned to Blodwedd. “Did I?”

“I believe you did,” said the owl-girl. “Indeed, so.” She looked even thinner and stranger with her saturated clothes clinging to her body, and her long hair
plastered against her skull. Her round eyes seemed to fill half her face.

“He led me here, I think,” said Branwen. “Look!” she pointed. Brushwood and small branches and twigs were strewn across the cave floor. “We can build a fire.”

“If we can see what we're doing…,” said Rhodri, staring into the black depths of the cave. “Are you sure we haven't been led to a wolves' lair or a bear's den?”

“I'm sure,” said Branwen. She gathered the brittle branches and twigs and set them in the center of the floor, just deep enough into the cave that she could still see by the dim light. She took tinder and firestones from the leather pouch at her belt and knelt to arrange the wood. Picking the thinnest twigs, she made a nest into which she placed a small amount of the dried moss tinder. She held the firestones close to the tinder and struck one against the other. Sparks flew, flashing and fading in an instant. The rain hammered down. Rhodri and Blodwedd stood close by.

Strike and chip.

Flying sparks.

Patience and concentration.

Strike and chip.

Branwen watched for the spark that would live long enough to cause a smolder in the tinder—smolder to scorch to smoke to flame.

Branwen could see from the corner of her eye that
Blodwedd was shivering. She saw Rhodri put a tentative arm around her shoulders. The owl-girl pressed close against him, and Branwen saw him wrap his arms protectively around her; Blodwedd's skinny body relaxed against him, her head resting against his chest.

She tried not to care that her friend's hand had come up gently to rest on the owl-girl's head. Rhodri was only showing kindness to the bedraggled creature—even a stray dog would deserve comfort on such a night. And besides, she did not envy Blodwedd the warmth of his embrace—it was only the thought that his affections were leading him astray that caused her concern. The last thing Rhodri needed was to lose his heart to something that was not human. At the end of that thorny path waited only despair.

Clear your mind
.

Concentrate on the stones.

Strike and chip.

Watch for the one heroic spark.

Strike and chip.

A wisp of smoke curled. Branwen leaned low, doubling over to blow gently on the smoldering spark. A tiny white flame quivered. She blew again, nursing the budding flame, then carefully fed it more moss.

More flame rose now from the pile, leaves of fire with red and yellow edges. She offered twigs to the flame. Soon they would have a fine, leaping fire. Soon they would be warm and dry.

 

They huddled around the fire while the rain fell like molten iron and the thunder bellowed all around them, beating the hills like drums. The incessant noise made Branwen's teeth ache. Garish lightning came and went, turning the rain from black to silver.

The fire gave light enough to illuminate the whole of the small, round cave. The walls were of stooping gray stone, striated with bands of minerals that sparkled blue and yellow in the light. The earthen floor, strewn with pebbles, sloped slightly toward the mouth so that the rain did not seep in.

Rhodri spotted something that disturbed them: Scattered among larger stones at the back of the cave were human bones—a skull, a complete rib cage, other long bones. Evidence, perhaps, of some poor soul devoured by wild animals. Maybe dragged in here from the forest…or attacked within while sheltering from bad weather.

It was not a comforting discovery.

The fire spat and crackled fiercely, making Branwen's eyes smart.

“I'm hungry,” Rhodri said, gazing into the flames.

“So am I,” said Branwen.

“What little food we had is with the horses.”

“I know.”

“At least we don't need to go thirsty,” he said, turning his head to the cave mouth, where torrents
of water splashed and foamed. “That's a good thing.” He looked at her. “Where were you—when the wolves first attacked me?” he asked. “Where did you go?”

“I don't know,” Branwen said. “A place…” She shook her head. “An
old
place.”

“A young place,” said Blodwedd. Branwen gazed into her eyes for a moment, then looked away.

“Yes. A young place.”

“I don't know what you mean. What kind of place?”

Branwen gnawed a torn fingernail. “It was a clearing in the forest—but we were seeing a scene from long ago. Lifetimes upon lifetimes ago. There was a woman…. She was singing—chanting—a song about the Shining Ones. It was wonderful…glorious….”

“One of the druades, she was,” Blodwedd murmured. “Woman priests of the old ways. Wise heads. Full throats. Great hearts.” There was sadness in her voice. “Long gone now. Hunted down. Betrayed.” She clutched at her arms. “The smooth-faced conquerors came. But theirs is not the blame. They had their own shrines and wells—their own gods. The Druid blood they shed had no divinity for them. It was her own followers who led them to her. Wickedness.”

Blodwedd dropped her head and became silent, her eyes darkly reflecting the fire.

Branwen spoke hesitantly, drawing her thoughts out like tangled, knotted threads. “People fear the
Shining Ones,” she said. “They say that these Old Gods—they are not real. They never
were
real. Stories for children! Make-believe! And yet they fear them—fear to talk of them—fear to have their names spoken aloud.” She looked at Rhodri. “I think I begin to understand why that is.”

“They turned their backs on the old ways,” said Rhodri.

Branwen nodded slowly. “My father told me once to be honest and true always in your dealings with others, because you can never trust a man you have betrayed—you will always fear his revenge.”

“And if a man's revenge is fearsome, how much worse would be the revenge of a betrayed god?” said Rhodri. “Yes. I see the problem.”

“The Shining Ones are not vengeful,” said Blodwedd. “They are wild and perilous, like an avalanche—like deep water—like a thunderstorm. But they are not cruel—not vengeful.”

“No, maybe they aren't, but they're pitiless, all the same,” said Branwen. “Pitiless in shaping people to their needs.” She stared across the fire. “Why did they choose
me
, Blodwedd?”

“You think the Shining Ones chose you, Warrior-Child?” said Blodwedd. “No. They did not choose you. The mountains chose you. The forests and the rivers chose you. The land of your birth chose you, Warrior-Child. Be honored!”

“I want you to stop calling me that,” said Branwen.
“Use my real name.”