Destiny's Path (7 page)

“She's not our enemy, Branwen,” said Rhodri. “You should learn to trust her. If we…”

He was silenced by a shadow across the doorway. The woman had returned. But she was not alone. The two men who had been repairing the walls came in after her—and Branwen saw to her dismay and alarm that their faces were set and grim, and that one was armed with a heavy wooden club while the other held a hunting spear in his two hands.

“Do you think the eyes of Bras Mynydd are blind?” spat the woman. “Last night a rider came from Doeth Palas—speaking of two runaway Saxon spies—a black-haired girl dressed in hunting clothes, and a boy in rags.”

Branwen and Rhodri scrambled to their feet, their bowls spilling their contents across the floor. The woman knew who they were! She had tricked them—putting them at their ease while she fetched the men.

“Our prince has offered a rich reward for you treacherous swines!” snarled the man with the spear. “And the offer holds good whether you be alive or dead.” He grimaced with anger. “So? What is it to be? Delivered alive and in bondage to Doeth Palas—or dragged there lifeless by the heels?”

B
RANWEN BACKED AWAY
from the two men, almost stumbling over the stew bucket, as she fumbled for her slingshot. Her knife would aid her only in close combat—but with the slingshot maybe she could keep the two men at bay until escape was possible.

She could not believe she had been taken so completely by surprise. She—the stealthy, keen-witted hunter—caught by the farm woman's pretense like a fly in a spider's web.

Rhodri held his hands out. “Whatever you have been told, it is not true,” he said. “We are not spies. We mean you no harm.”

“Listen to his voice!” snarled the man with the club. “He tells us his lies in a foreign accent!” He spat. “Saxon cur! You should not be given the offer of
life—you should be killed where you stand.”

Branwen's eyes moved quickly from man to man. Their expressions were cold and hard—this was not a situation she would be able to talk her way out of. She ground her heels into the earth floor, balancing herself, quickly fitting a stone into her slingshot and lifting her arm above her head. “The first man to approach me will regret it,” she said, her gaze flickering from the spearman to the man with the ugly, knobbed club. “My aim is true—ask the woman. Make a move on me and you will lose an eye!”

“Ware!” called the woman, stepping in behind the two men. “She's a devil with that thing.”

Rhodri took a quick step forward and picked up the iron tongs from beside the firepit, jumping back again as the spearman made a stab at him.

“There's no need for this,” Rhodri said, his voice trembling a little. “Let us go on our way and all will be well.”

“You'd have us let you go and tell your tales to Herewulf Ironfist?” scoffed the man with the club. “Betray us to the Saxon pestilence? Do you think us fools?” The man pounced, lunging at Rhodri with the club. Rhodri fended it off with the tongs, but they were struck from his hands. As he tried to avoid being hit by a second swing of the club, he lost his footing and fell backward with a gasp.

Branwen swung her slingshot and loosed the stone. It cracked off the man's wrist and he shouted
in pain, dropping his club and reeling sideways, his hand clutched to his chest.

“That could have been your eye if I wished it!” she shouted.

The spearman surged toward her with a roar of rage. She felt for another stone, but he was on her before she could reload the slingshot. She shifted her weight, sidestepping as the spearhead skimmed past her. Bringing her arm up, she caught the man across the throat as he staggered forward from the impetus of his missed blow. She ducked down, her shoulder hitting him in his stomach.

Flexing her legs, she heaved upward, using all the power of her limbs and her back to lift him off his feet. His own momentum betrayed him, and he was tossed onto his face behind her. She turned quickly, coming down heavily on him and straddling his back. Snatching the spear from his hand, she threw it out of reach. Now she slipped the knife from her belt and held it to his neck.

“Be still!” she shouted. “Or I shall cut your throat where you lie!”

He lay gasping, his face in the dirt. She knew he was no match for her—he was a simple farmer who probably had never wielded a weapon in anger before. Not that he wouldn't have run her through if she had given him the opportunity—she was all too well aware of that. But he could do her no harm now, and she wished to avoid hurting him further.
Keeping the knife blade steady against his skin, she turned to see how Rhodri was faring.

It was not good. He was lying on his back and the woman stood over him with the iron point of the spear against his throat.

Fool!
Branwen cursed herself for not having thrown the spear out of reach.

“Let Baddon up, or I'll skewer your friend like a pig,” the woman said grimly.

Rhodri shot Branwen an apologetic glance, as if blaming himself for the turn of events. Blood trickled down his neck where the spear point had nicked his flesh. From the look in the woman's eyes, Branwen had no doubt as to whether she would make good on her threat. One wrong move on Branwen's part, and Rhodri's life would end.

“Leave him be!” gasped Branwen. “See! Your man is safe and sound!” She took the knife from Baddon's neck and stood up, stepping back to let the man scramble to his feet. His face was red with anger and his eyes were ablaze.

“Drop the knife,” the woman said. Branwen hesitated. Geraint's knife was her last hope of survival. With it she might be able to slash her way to freedom. Without it she would be bound and delivered over to the justice of Prince Llew.

But she faltered for only a moment before letting the knife slip from her fingers. She could not make an escape for herself and leave Rhodri's corpse as
proof of her faithlessness. Better to suffer at his side than to live with that burden on her soul.

“And the slingshot, if you please,” said the woman.

Branwen let the strip of leather fall.

The man with the wounded hand moved toward her, his face livid with pain and ire, his lips tight. “You will wish we had killed you!” he spat, coming close. She stood her ground, gazing levelly at him and expecting the worst. He drew back and struck her hard across the face with his fist.

She staggered, her whole head exploding into pain, white lightning stabbing across her field of vision.

“A taste of what is to come!” he raged, spittle flecking on his lips. “I hope your death will be a slow and lingering one, and I hope I am there to see it.”

Branwen straightened, holding up her aching head, looking into his face. Refusing to show him any trace of fear.

“It's cowardice to hit an unarmed prisoner!” shouted Rhodri. The woman spun the spear in her hands and struck him in the stomach with the butt end. Rhodri doubled up on the ground with a stifled moan.

“Have your revenge on the girl later, Newlyn,” chided the woman. “Fetch rope now and tie them up.” She turned to Baddon. “And when they are secured, go you and harness up the oxcart. I'd have us drive
to Doeth Palas and turn them over to Prince Llew as soon as we can.”

“And take our reward,” Baddon said.

“Aye, lad, and take our reward!” replied the woman. “It will be some recompense for the hardship and loss of this past winter.”

Newlyn turned to leave the house, but he had not taken two steps before he was halted by the sound of scuffling from close outside. A moment later there was a shrill cry of pain. The young boy who had been threshing the grain came stumbling through the doorway, grimacing and holding a hand to the side of his face.

He stared at the woman. “Mama!” he cried, “she hurt me!” Then he fell onto his knees, blood showing between his fingers. Sharp nails had raked four cuts across his cheek.

“Fodor!” cried the woman, rushing forward, her arms outstretched. Before she had even reached him, the sound of a baby's cries outside the hut could be heard, along with a young woman's weeping, fearful voice: “No! No! Please don't!”

Another shape stood in the doorway, casting a long, ominous shadow into the house.

“Blodwedd!” breathed Branwen. “By all the saints,
no
!”

The crying baby hung from the crook of the owl-girl's arm, held as carelessly as a bag of grain. In her other hand she held Branwen's sword, its edge steady
above the baby's bent neck.

“Release them or I will cut its head off,” Blodwedd said, her deep voice cutting through the wailing from outside and the sobs of the woman, who had flung her arms around the kneeling boy.

“Put the child down,” said Baddon, moving away from Branwen. “See? Your friends are unharmed.” His voice was filled with dread.

“He's only an infant!” gasped Newlyn. “An innocent babe!”

“What is that to me?” demanded Blodwedd.

“Let us go free,” said Rhodri desperately. “She will do as she threatens.”

The woman pulled Fodor to his feet and drew him away from Blodwedd, her face gray with fear. “Do not harm the babe,” she said, her voice quavering. “If you must spill blood, kill me instead.”

Branwen crouched to pick up her knife and slingshot. “Stand back against the wall,” she said. “Let us leave, and there will be no more bloodshed.”

The two men backed away.

“You will pay for this deed,” said Baddon. “Escape now, but you will be hunted down and slaughtered.”

Branwen walked over to Blodwedd. “Give me the baby,” she said.

Blodwedd hesitated for a moment then nodded. Branwen drew the crying infant out of her arm and turned to the woman. “Take him,” she said. “And thank the saints that you are all still alive!” She looked
into the woman's anguished face, feeling pity for her. She regretted that her own lack of foresight had put them into this situation, and wished that the boy had not been hurt, that none of this had happened. But the wishes were fleeting—she dared show no remorse or compassion to these people. They would see it as weakness, and she could not afford to have it spoken abroad in Bras Mynydd that she was weak—she had no doubt that she would need to show a ruthless face in times to come.

The woman stood and grasped the squalling baby to her chest, her eyes hollow and her cheeks wet with tears.

Branwen held out her hand for the sword. Blodwedd's eyes narrowed momentarily then she handed it over.

The owl-girl turned in the doorway. “Get you inside!” she said. The little girl Ariana and the young woman who had been at the threshing with Fodor came into the house, cringing. They ran quickly to be near the two men.

“Look in the chest,” Branwen said to Rhodri. “Take what we need.”

Rhodri knelt by the open wooden chest and began to go through the piled clothing.

Blodwedd's eyes shone eerily as she stared at the men. “Do any more live here?” she asked.

“No,” said Baddon, glaring at her. “This is all of us. Go—take what you wish and leave us.”

Blodwedd looked at Branwen. “It is not safe to leave them alive,” she said. “They will raise the alarm. We must kill them all.”

Branwen stared at her, revolted by the indifference in her voice as she condemned these people to death. But she realized the truth of what the owl-girl was saying. If these folk were left alive and free, they would spread the alarm.

“No!” gasped Rhodri, looking up at Branwen in horror, as though sensing her indecision. “No matter how great our cause, nothing good can come of such a cruel deed. Tie them up—gag them—but we can't kill them.” His voice rose with emotion. “These are not Saxons, Branwen. These are your own people—the people you are destined to protect!”

“I will not kill them,” Branwen said. “But they must be tied hand and foot.” She looked at the huddled family. The woman was now near the others, with the baby swaddled in her clothing. His wailing ebbed to sobs as she rocked him in her arms. Fodor clung tightly to her skirts. Branwen hated the look of fear and loathing in the woman's face.

“Where is there rope?” Branwen demanded.

“In the barn yonder,” said Newlyn. “But if you leave us tied, you may as well kill us now—seldom and few are the folk who come nigh our farm. Belike we should be dead of starvation before we were found.”

Branwen pointed her knife at him. “Be silent!” She turned to Rhodri. “Go to the barn—fetch the rope.”

Glancing uneasily at her, Rhodri left the house, dropping a pile of clothing by the door as he went.

Branwen was angry. It was a fiercer, more wrenching anger than she had felt even on the battlefield when the Saxons had swarmed around her. A deeper anger than she had ever felt toward Rhiannon. It was an anger that gnawed in her belly and boiled in her mind, ignited by the fact that for a few terrifying moments she had actually considered heeding Blodwedd's words—because for that fleeting time she had weighed in the balance these people's lives against her own safety.

“It would be safer if we cut their throats,” Blodwedd said, her voice totally emotionless.

Branwen turned on her. “You've hurt the boy and terrified the others—aren't you satisfied with that?”

The great golden eyes blinked. “Satisfied?” she echoed, as if she didn't understand what Branwen meant. “I will be satisfied when our quest is done and the place of singing gulls is swept clean of the Saxon hawks,” she said. “I will be satisfied, Warrior-Child, when I am set free to soar the open skyways once more.” Her eyes glowed. “And until that glorious time, all who block my path will be struck down.”

“Surely she is not human,” Branwen heard the woman murmur. “See! Her eyes! She is a demon.” She turned to look at Branwen, and there was dread and disgust in her face. “You have called up demons to aid you,” she said, her voice shaking. “I have heard of such things from my mother's mother—of creatures
that have slept long in forest and stream and mountain. Things that slumber deep and should never be awoken.” Her eyes flashed. “Beware, girl—they will serve you only while it pleases them. Such creatures have their own dark purposes and desires.”

Branwen gave a harsh bark of laughter. “You think I do not know that?” she said. “You think I would choose the life of a hunted fugitive if I were free to do otherwise? You have
no idea
of the burden I bear! Count yourself lucky that the demons did not choose you or yours for their ‘dark purposes and desires'!”

Rhodri came back into the house, lengths of hempen rope in his arms. He looked sharply from Branwen to Blodwedd.

“Branwen, I think the man spoke true,” he said. “If we tie them up, they may well die of thirst and starvation before they are found.”

“Blodwedd would have me slaughter them, you'd have me set them free to condemn us,” said Branwen. “And I am left with the weight of decision.”

“And what is that decision?” asked Rhodri.