mountain fastness to the north, enjoying the warmth and safety of a kinsman’s hearth.
There were, Bran considered as he clopped along, two ways to Gwynedd through the Cymraic heartland. Elfael straddled both, and neither was very good.
The first and most direct way was straight across Elfael to Coed Cadw and then through dense woodland all the way to the mountains. They were not high mountains, but they were rough, broken crags of shattered stone, and difficult to cross—all the more so for a man alone and without adequate supplies. The second route was less direct; it meant skirting the southern border of Elfael and working patiently through the intricate interlacing of low hills and hidden valleys to the west before turning north along the coast.
This second route was slower and passed uncomfortably close to Caer Cadarn before bending away to the west. There was a risk that he might be seen. Still, it kept him out of the treacherous mountain pathways and made best use of his mount’s limited value as a steady plodder.
Bran did not relish the idea of passing so close to the unfriendly Ffreinc, but it could not be helped. He considered laying up somewhere and waiting until nightfall; however, the idea of trying to remain hidden under de Braose’s nose and then thrashing around the countryside in the dark lacked the allure of ready flight. The day was new, he reckoned, and he would pass Caer Cadarn at the nearest point while it was still early morning and the invaders would most likely be otherwise occupied. Perhaps they were not even looking for him yet.
He reached the boundary stream but did not cross. Instead, he turned his slow steed west and, in the interest of keeping well out of sight of Caer Cadarn, followed the narrow waterway as it snaked through the gorsy lowlands that formed the border between Elfael and Brycheiniog to the south. In time, the stream would swing around to the northwest, entering Maelienydd, a region of rough hills and cramped valleys that he hoped to cross as quickly as possible. Then he would head for Arwstli, angling north all the while toward Powys—and so work his way cantref by cantref to Gwynedd and a glad welcome amongst his mother’s people.
Bran was thinking about how distraught and outraged his kinsmen would be upon learning the news of his father’s cruel murder and the loss of Elfael when the distant echo of a scream brought him up short. He tried telling himself he had imagined it only and was halfway down the path toward believing that when the terrified shriek came again: a woman’s voice, carried on the breeze and, though faint, clearly signifying terrible distress. Bran halted, listened again, and then turned his mount in the direction of the cry.
He crossed the stream into the far southwestern toe of Elfael. Over the nearest hill, he saw the first threads of black smoke rising in the clear morning air. He crested the hill and looked over into the valley on the other side, where he saw the settlement called Nant Cwm, a fair-sized holding comprised of a large house and a yard with several barns and a few outbuildings. Even from a distance, he could see that it was under attack; smoke was spewing from the door of the barn and from the roof of the house. There were five saddled horses in the yard between the house and barn, but no riders. Then, as Bran watched, a man burst from the front door of the house, almost flying. He ran a few steps, his feet tangled, then fell sprawling on his side. Right behind him came his attackers—two Ffreinc men-at-arms with drawn swords. Two more marchogi emerged from the house, dragging a woman between them.
Bran saw the hated Ffreinc, and his anger flared white hot in an instant. Snatching up the bow Mérian had given him, he grabbed the sheaf of arrows, and before he knew his feet had touched ground, he was racing down the hill toward the settlement.
In the yard, the farmer cried out, throwing his hands before him—clearly pleading for his life. The two Ffreinc standing over him raised their swords. The woman screamed again, struggling in the grasp of her captors. The farmer shouted again and tried to rise. Bran saw the swords glint hard and bright in the sun as they slashed and fell. The farmer writhed in a vain attempt to avoid the blows. The fierce blades