Destiny's Path (2 page)

B
LOOD
. F
LAMES
. D
ARKNESS
. Screaming chaos.

Savage voices shouting in an unknown tongue.

Hel! Gastcwalu Hel!

Hetende Wotan!

Gehata! Tiw! Tiw!

Branwen's sword clashed against a thrusting spear point, knocking it aside. The whirl and
thunk
of axes rang in her ears. Around her, arrows fell, thudding into flesh. There was the hideous, tearing crack of iron cleaving bone. A sword slashed down toward her neck, the agonizing impact knocking her to the ground as her blood spurted hot and high.

Branwen awoke with a jolt into a pale dawn. She knew she could not have been asleep for very long. It was that mysterious time halfway between night and
day, with the sun still hidden under the horizon.

She sat up, unwilling to fall back into her gruesome dreams. Rhodri was leaning against the trunk of the old tree, his head drooping, his eyes closed. She hoped his dreams were sweeter than hers. She looked fondly at him, remembering their first meeting. She had been lost and alone in the fog-bound mountains. She had thought him a Saxon marauder and clouted him with a stick, only learning her mistake afterward. He wasn't an enemy, but he had spent most of his life in Saxon captivity.

Branwen learned much later that Rhiannon of the Spring had engineered their meeting, and they met again, in the forest outside Doeth Palas, the fortress village of Prince Llew of Bras Mynydd. For some unexplained reason, their fates were intertwined.

By all the saints, that seemed a whole lifetime away! But it was not—she and Rhodri had fled Doeth Palas only two nights past.

She rested against the tree once again, gazing up into the branches, watching the shifting patterns of the leaves in the breeze, oil-black against the cloudy sky.

A small, almost inaudible scuttering caught her attention. Then she felt the kiss of a tiny motion on her hand, which was lying in the brown leaf mold that gathered in heaps and drifts under the tree. Soft feet had pattered over her fingers. She tilted her head a little, trying to see.

It was a mouse—a small gray mouse. Branwen smiled, her heart lifted by the sight of the little beast as it nosed and plowed its way through the rot and debris between her hand and her leg, its whiskers twitching, its eyes bright and black and shining.

The mouse scampered around her hand and dived under a gnarled root, vanishing with a whisk of its tail. Branwen lifted her hand—slowly, slowly—and took a piece of bread, crumbling it in her palm. She rested her hand, palm upward, close to the root.

“Come on, little one,” she whispered. “Come and feed.”

She waited, listening to Rhodri's slow, deep breathing, her eyes on the dark gap under the root.

A pink nose appeared. Whiskers quivered. The mouse emerged, rising onto its haunches, sniffing the air. Could it smell the bread?

It moved closer, its body trembling. It lifted its forepaws onto her hand, sniffing the breadcrumbs.

That's it. Eat your fill, my friend. Have no fear
.

But to her disappointment, the mouse turned and slipped away under the root again without eating.

You can trust me, little one. I won't harm you
.

She heard furtive movements from beneath the root—more movement than could be explained by a single mouse. A family of mice, perhaps?

She smiled with joy to see the mouse appear again. And to her delight, the mouse was followed by five others, perfect little mice children, scuttling
and tumbling over the rotting leaves as they followed their mother's lead.

Biting her lip, Branwen hardly dared to breathe as the mother sprang onto her hand, leading the children to the food. Their feet tickled Branwen's skin as they gathered and fed in her bounteous palm.

Suddenly, a shape came sweeping down from the sky. Branwen's heart jumped. It was a grayish-brown shape, gliding phantom-soft on widespread wings. She gasped and jerked her head back as it pounced. Then it was gone again—a mouse clutched in either claw.

The other mice fled.

“No!”
Branwen howled in distress, her whole body contracting in a spasm of horror, her hands beating the ground as the owl glided away into the trees.

Rhodri woke with a start. “Branwen? What?”

Branwen scrambled to her feet, running in pursuit of the gray predator.

She heard Rhodri chasing after her. He caught her arm and brought her to a halt.

“Branwen? What is it?” he asked.

“An owl took the baby mice,” Branwen cried. “I gave them bread. They were on my hand.”

Rhodri stared at her. His voice was low and calm. “Owls eat mice, Branwen,” he told her. “It's what they do.”

She turned on him, angry for a moment. “I know that,” she said. “I'm not a fool!”

He paused before speaking. “So why has it upset you so much?”

She held her palm out toward his face. “They came because I offered them bread,” she said. “They trusted me and the owl took them. It was my
fault
.”

His brows knitted. “It's your fault that owls eat mice?” he said.

She glowered at him. “No. But I tempted the mice into the open,” she said slowly. “If I hadn't been there, they would still be alive.” She walked back to the tree, but couldn't bring herself to sit again beside that root.

She pointed down to where it lifted from the leaf mold. “Keep away from me, if you wish to live,” she called.

“Branwen, stop,” said Rhodri. “Try to sleep some more. Things will seem less bleak when the sun is up, I promise you.”

“I can't sleep,” said Branwen. She looked solemnly at him. “Rhiannon told me I was the Sword of Destiny—the Emerald Flame—the Bright Blade who would save the people of Brython from the Saxons.” Her voice rose. “And yet I cannot keep even a handful of mice safe!”

Rhodri bit his lip, looking anxiously at her but not speaking.

Branwen's shoulders slumped. “Rhiannon was wrong,” she said. “The Shining Ones chose badly.” She took a deep breath. “Do you hear me, Rhiannon?
You chose the wrong person! Choose again. Choose better next time!”

She turned and walked toward the horses. Rhodri snatched up the bag that still held the remnants of their food and drink.

“You want to ride on?” he asked. “Without any real rest?”

“Ride, yes,” said Branwen. “On? No!” She picked up her saddle and threw it over the horse's broad back.

Rhodri frowned at her. “You're going back?”

“I am.” She stooped and fastened the saddle girth. “Back home where I belong.” She stood up. “I'm not the great leader the Shining Ones need,” she said. She pointed into the east. “We took the Saxons unawares and threw them back for a time. But you know the truth better than I do. You were Ironfist's servant. How big is the Saxon army that is encamped outside Chester?”

“At least ten times the number that came against Garth Milain,” Rhodri said, his voice subdued. “Maybe more.”

General Herewulf Ironfist was the strong right hand of the king of Northumbria—the hammer with which the Saxons intended to smash Brython. Shortly before Rhodri had escaped his long captivity, he had learned of Ironfist's plan to take Garth Milain by treachery. It was Rhodri's warning that had prevented a massacre. But even forewarned, the House
of Rhys had found the battle to be closely fought—and dearly won.

“And what will be your ex-master's response to the defeat of the host he sent against us?” Branwen asked.

“He will be angry,” Rhodri said. “He may decide to send five times that number against Cyffin Tir to make sure of a swift and complete victory.”

Branwen nodded as she climbed into the saddle. Her weariness was gone now—she felt renewed energy flowing through her, a new certainty. “And if he comes, I will be where I
should
be—at my mother's side. Shoulder to shoulder. Blade by blade. Let Rhiannon find someone else to be Savior of Brython.”

Rhodri picked up his own saddle. “Then I will come with you,” he said. “Let the wrath of the Shining Ones fall upon both our heads, if it must be so.”

“No,” said Branwen. “Your home lies in the west. You have no mission in the east and I won't let you put yourself in danger because of me.”

“You rescued me from torture and certain death in Doeth Palas,” said Rhodri. “And I should repay you by scurrying off into the west while you ride eastward? I think not!”

“You're a fool, then.”

“Perhaps,” said Rhodri. “But a grateful and faithful fool, I hope, and one who will never desert you.” He bent to tie the saddle girth under his horse. “And I
ride with you knowing that we will probably be killed at journey's end. Killed quickly if I'm lucky, because if Ironfist captures me alive…” He left the sentence unfinished. Then his face appeared over his horse's back. “Escaped servants are dealt with most harshly if recaptured,” he said. “I have seen it once and have no wish to see it again—especially not if I am to be the victim. The Saxons have cruel and slow ways of punishing those who seek to defy them.”

“Then you're twice the fool,” Branwen said with a wry smile. “Come—saddle up. I would be home again as soon as possible.” She looked around, feeling as though inhuman eyes might be watching her from the shadows under the trees. Had Rhiannon really departed, or was she merely standing back, watching with those terrible ice blue eyes—waiting, catlike, for Branwen to make a wrong move?

Rhodri had once said,
How do you run away from a goddess? Where can you hide?
Branwen had no answer to those questions, but the sooner she was down off the mountains and out of the forest, the safer she would feel. The thought of being once more with her mother was like a guiding light in the front of her mind. To the east, then—to Garth Milain and whatever else fate and the Saxon menace had in store for her.

Branwen watched as Rhodri clambered awkwardly into the saddle, then they both turned toward the brightening dawn. The light was gray and grainy
still, but it was slowly climbing the sky and snuffing out the stars, and a hint of dusky green had begun to color the forested hills that tumbled before them.

Branwen clicked her tongue and nudged her heels into her horse's flanks. Rhodri followed dutifully behind as they rode into a wide clearing.

They had not gone more than a few paces across the open ground when a sudden gust of wind came swirling out of the west, lifting Branwen's hair and whipping it about her face.

She turned, her eyes narrowed against the wind as it came hissing through the trees, fluttering the leaves, bending the branches.

“It seems the very air is intent on helping us along our way,” said Rhodri, his hair flying and his clothes flapping about him. “A good omen, perhaps?”

“But do you feel it?” Branwen called to him. “It's strange. It isn't cold.”

It was not. Instead it came dashing through the trees as warm as blood and as relentless as a racing tide. The wind grew in intensity, filling the forest with creaking and rustling and groaning as the boughs of the trees were twisted and wrenched, their leaves quivering with a shrill sound like the swarming of bees.

It flung itself in among the rusted leaves of the past autumn, sending the debris of the forest floor whirling into the air so that Branwen and Rhodri had to cover their faces with their arms for fear of being blinded.

The horses snorted and whickered, their manes and tails torn by the wind, their eyes rolling in fear. It was all Branwen could do to keep her seat as the wind—scorching now—buffeted her and slapped her face with its hot hands. Her shield was torn from the saddle and went bowling across the forest floor.

Above her, shredded clouds flew across the sky; below her, the ground seethed in racing turmoil. Suddenly the forest vibrated to a deep, reverberating howl.

Branwen clung on grimly as the wind sought to tear her from her horse's back. She knew now that this was nothing natural. This was no wind of the world—this was something
other
. A warning—a lesson—a punishment! Beside her, Rhodri was hunched over in his saddle, his horse staggering.

Blindly, Branwen reached for her sword, drawing it and brandishing it defiantly in the air.

“I…do…not…fear…you!” she shouted, the wind throwing her words back into her throat. “Do…your…worst! I…
will
…go…home!” The maniacal wind dropped as suddenly as it had risen. The swirl and storm of dead leaves ebbed and fell away around them, and all became silent.

It was as if the forest and the mountains and the sky and the very ground beneath her feet were suddenly poised and listening.

Waiting.

Rhodri lifted his head, his mouth open, gasping.

“Is that all you have?” shouted Branwen, turning in the saddle, staring defiantly into the west and waving her sword above her head. “Is this what I should fear?”

“Branwen!”
Rhodri's voice was urgent, ringing with alarm.

She turned to follow the line of his eyes.

The rushing air was thronged with owls on the attack.

B
EFORE
B
RANWEN COULD
react, the leading bird struck her, its brown wings wider than the span of her arms, its golden eyes circular and luminous and deadly. A tawny wing hit her hard in the face. Claws raked at her sword hand, drawing blood. She snatched her arm away, and her sword fell from her fingers.

She reeled in the saddle, aware of Rhodri shouting behind her. A second owl came at her, its sharp beak open, its talons stretching forward.

The other owls descended on them, twenty or more in number, enough to overwhelm them. Great owls were all around Branwen, circling, swooping, floating on the air, silent as ghosts. Wings struck her from all sides. Claws tore at her clothes and tangled in her hair.

Her horse reared up, neighing in fear and pawing at the air. She tumbled backward out of the saddle, striking the ground with such bone-jarring force that the breath was beaten out of her.

As she struggled to rise, she saw Rhodri vanish in a maelstrom of battering wings. Still the owls came plunging and plummeting down upon her, grabbing at her clothes and ripping her hair with their deadly claws and knife-sharp beaks, giving her no chance to get to her feet.

“Stop! Stop!” Branwen cried, striking out with her fists. But there were too many of them for her to fight. She huddled on the ground with her arms held up, trying to protect her face. The world was all owls, silent and terrible and huge. She was completely blinded by the bodies and wings of the mobbing birds.

Through the clamor of the attack, though, she heard hoofbeats fading rapidly away. Her horse, fleeing in fear. Next she heard Rhodri's horse—also galloping away! Was Rhodri leaving her, escaping from the talons and the ripping beaks? If only she could
see!
If only the birds would give her a moment's respite!

She was startled by the feel of a hand on her arm. Rhodri! He was on hands and knees, his head down to protect his eyes from the chaos of the wheeling birds.

And then, quite suddenly, the owls drew off,
leaving Branwen and Rhodri huddled together on the ground, gasping for breath.

The owls rose into the sky, their eyes glowing as they circled the small clearing, as though they were confident in the weakness of their prey and content now simply to patrol—to keep Branwen and Rhodri pinned down in the clearing.

Gathering her wits, Branwen moved her hand cautiously toward her slingshot. Her sword had fallen out of reach, and she was sure the birds would not allow her to make a grab for it. Perhaps if she let off a stone to show at least that she was capable of fighting back, they might hold back long enough for her and Rhodri to run for shelter under the trees.

She ducked as an owl swept close over her head.

Branwen loosened the pouch from her belt and picked out a stone. She kept low, bent over to hide her movements, bobbing her head every time one of the birds plunged toward her.

“Are you hurt?” Rhodri gasped, crouching low to the ground.

“No. Just a scratch on my hand.”

“I'm not hurt either, but they could have caused much harm. Branwen—why are they doing this to us?”

“I don't know. I'm going to sling a stone at the largest one—I think it may be their leader. When I hit it, run to the trees if you can.”

“Aim well, Branwen,” warned Rhodri. “If you
anger them, you had better prove you can hurt them—otherwise I don't hold out much hope for our survival!”

“I won't miss!” Branwen said confidently. She was ready. The knuckle of stone was nestling in the fold of the slingshot.

A wing grazed her shoulder.

Now!

She rose, whirling the slingshot around her head. An owl flew at her face. She flipped her fingers open, and the stone sped straight and true at the owl that had first attacked her.

The stone struck the bird high on the wing. It gave a fearsome screech as it faltered in the air, then spiraled downward. Branwen dived to the ground, enclosing her face in her interlaced hands, as several owls came for her. Through the cage of her fingers, she saw the wounded owl tumble heavily down through the trees and into a dense pile of leaves. Its wings flapped, and then the bird became still.

Branwen lay facedown on the ground, hoping she had given Rhodri time to escape. She was certain the owls would not let her go—not after she had injured their leader.

Strangely, though, the flurry of wings was all around her but still she felt neither claw nor beak. Why were the owls not ripping at her?

And then, mere moments after the fallen owl stopped moving, the rest of the flock drew off, rising
into the air and speeding away over the trees. Branwen heard their faint, eerie hooting as they departed.

Gasping, she pulled herself to her knees and dragged a hank of hair from her face, staring all around. The owls were gone.

She got to her feet. Rhodri had stopped halfway to the trees. He walked back to her, gazing around them uncomprehendingly.

“You did it,” he said, his eyes wide. “You drove them off.”

“I think I killed their leader,” said Branwen, pointing to the heap of leaves that lay at the foot of an ancient, wrinkled oak tree. “I wish I had not needed to do that. It was a magnificent creature, and it did me little harm.”

“Magnificent, maybe,” Rhodri pointed out. “But did you see the size of those claws?”

“I did,” said Branwen, sucking at her bloodied hand. The wounds were not deep or very painful—she had suffered worse injury in her childhood adventures in the forests. “But they only cut me once—to force me to drop my sword. It is very strange. I don't understand it.” She looked into the sky. “And why did the others fly away like that?”

“I have no idea,” said Rhodri. “And there is something else I do not understand.” He pointed under the trees. Their two horses were standing in the shadows, calmly waiting as though the owl attack had never happened.

“This is not natural,” Branwen said. “None of this is natural—but I do not know what it means.” A movement caught her attention—the slightest of tremors in the pile of leaves where the owl lay hidden.

Could it be alive?

“Rhodri, you have some healing powers,” Branwen said. “I think the owl may not be dead.”

They ran across the clearing.

Rhodri reached the mound of dead leaves first and stooped over, carefully sifting through it with his fingers.

“It must be buried deeply,” he murmured, raking more leaves aside.

“Be careful!”

A sudden burst of movement erupted from beneath the leaves, as though the injured bird was thrashing about in agony. Rhodri jerked back, startled.

“I cannot see it!” he gasped. He reached down again.

Suddenly, a slender human arm shot up out of the leaves, and a narrow, long-nailed hand caught his wrist in a fierce grip. Rhodri gave a shout of shock and alarm as he struggled to free himself, digging in with his heels and heaving backward.

A form rose out of the leafy mound—not a bird, but a slim-bodied girl about Branwen's age.

With a yelp, Rhodri finally managed to yank his arm free. He fell back, hands and feet scrabbling on the ground to get away. Branwen, too, took a step
back, her fingers groping for a stone to fit into her slingshot, her eyes fixed on the girl.

She was shorter than Branwen by a full head, and her thin body was clad in a dappled brown garment that left her arms and legs bare. Her skin was the color of toasted wheat, and the long, curved nails of her hands were as white as stone. But it was her face that held Branwen's attention. Round and wide-cheeked, it was framed by a feathered fall of dark brown hair. In the center were two huge amber eyes, lustrous and deep, under sweeping brows. Although beautiful, it was a face filled with fury and pain.

One of the girl's hands came up to touch a small wound on her upper arm. An impossible suspicion dawned in Branwen's mind. The owl that she had hit with the stone was nowhere to be seen—and in its place was this strange girl—a girl with an injury on her arm! Could it be…?

The girl's blood threaded down to the pile of leaves, dark as pitch. Her wide mouth opened and she let out a piercing, inhuman scream.

Rhodri scrambled to his feet, moving well away from the strange girl and closer to Branwen. The girl's mouth snapped closed. She lowered her head and stared balefully at them, her eyes burning like molten gold. Her whole body trembled.

Branwen's mouth was dry. She swallowed hard. There was something frightful about the glaring girl—something feral. But she had confronted the supernatural before, and she was resolved to show no
fear before this uncanny stranger.

“I am Branwen ap Griffith,” she said. “My companion's name is Rhodri. Will you give us your name?”

The girl's throat moved, and she opened her mouth as if she was trying to speak. But for a few moments only harsh, croaking sounds came from her.

“Don't be afraid,” said Branwen. “We mean you no harm.”

The girl coughed and put her hand to her throat.

“You're hurt,” Rhodri said. “I can tend your wound if you will let me.”

He took a tentative step toward the girl. She fixed her huge, owl's eyes on him, and her lips drew back in a snarl. One hand still rested at her wounded shoulder, but she raised the other like a claw.

Branwen watched her closely, seeing the blood that spun down from her injury, seeing the dangerous, predatory shine of her golden eyes.

“Rhodri, be wary,” she said quietly. “Don't you see what she is?”

Rhodri glanced back at her. “What do you mean?”

“She is the owl I hit with my slingshot,” said Branwen, hardly able to believe what she was saying—but knowing that it was true.

Rhodri halted in his tracks, staring at Branwen. “What…what do you mean? She can't be. Look at her—she's human.”

The girl finally found her voice. “Not…
human…,” she croaked in a strange, throaty tone. “Not human…but cursed to appear so.” She coughed again. “My name…is Blodwedd.” Her uncanny gaze switched to Branwen. “You have injured me,” she cried, stepping forward with the claw of her hand still lifted—toward Branwen's face. Branwen took an involuntary step backward. “You shall pay dearly for causing harm to the messenger of the Shining Ones!”