hilltop, the nag slowed and stopped, and Bran swiftly scanned the descent for his best chance of escape. The slope fell away steeply to the stream he had been following. On the other side the land opened onto a meadow grazing land— flat and bereft of any rock or tree big enough to hide behind. Away to the northeast rose the thick dark line of Coed Cadw.
He turned his face to the north, kicked his mount to life once more, and rode for the strong, protecting wall of the forest.
CHAPTER 13
The ancient woodland rampart rose before him in vast dark folds, like a great bristling pelt covering the deep, rocky roots of Yr Wyddfa, the Region of Snows in the north. His rickety mount trotted along at a pace resembling a canter, and still some distance away from the nearest trees, Bran despaired of reaching them before his galloping pursuers overtook him.
Midway between himself and the forest, a course of rock jutted up out of the mounded earth, forming a narrow spine of stone that ran all the way to the forest. Tiring quickly now, his slow-footed animal resumed its customary amble. Bran slung the bow across his chest and, gripping his clutch of arrows, slid off the beast’s back and sent it on. As it sauntered away without him, he bounded to the rocky outcrop and ducked behind it.
He knew the marchogi would not follow a riderless horse, and the lazy animal would not wander far, but he hoped the slight misdirection would distract them at least long enough to allow him to reach the shelter of the forest. Once amongst the trees, he had no doubt at all that he could elude pursuit without difficulty. The forest was a place he knew well.
Crouching low to keep his head below the jagged line of rock, Bran worked his way quickly up the rising slope toward the tree line, pausing now and again to scan the open ground behind him. He saw no sign of the marchogi and took heart. Perhaps they had given up the chase and returned to pillage the farm instead.
The last few hundred paces rose up a steep embankment, at the top of which lay the forest edge. Bran paused and gathered himself for the last mad scramble. Gulping air, he tried to calm his racing heart as, with a final glance behind him, he ran to the escarpment. It took longer than he thought to reach it, but clambering over the grey lichen-covered rocks on hands and knees, he eventually gained the top, pulling himself up the last rise with his hands and gripping the arrow bundle with his teeth.
The trees lay just ahead. He put his head down and staggered on. He had taken but a half-dozen steps when a Ffreinc rider appeared from the edge of the forest and stepped directly into his path. Bran did not have time even to raise his bow before the warrior was on him. Sword drawn, the soldier spoke a command that Bran could not understand and indicated that Bran was to turn around and start back the way he had come.
Instead, Bran ran toward him, dove under the belly of the horse, and, legs churning, continued running. The rider gave a shout and put spurs to his mount. Bran flew to the forest.
This first rider cried after him, and his shout was answered by another. A second rider appeared, racing along the margin of the forest to cut off Bran’s flight before he could reach the wood.
Desperation lent him speed. He gained the entrance to the dark refuge of Coed Cadw as two more riders joined the chase. The rippling thud of the horses’ hooves thrummed on the turf, punctuated by gusting blasts of air through the galloping animals’ nostrils. On the riders came, whooping and shouting as they converged on his trail, readying their spears as if he were a deer for the kill.
They were loud, and they were overconfident. And they had not enough wit to know to quit the saddle before entering the wood. Realising this, Bran stopped dead on the trail and turned to face his attacker. The oncoming rider gave out a wild shriek of triumph and heaved his lance. Bran saw the spearhead spin as the lance left the rider’s hand. He gave a simple feint to the side, and the spear sliced the air where his head had been. The rider cursed and came on, drawing his sword.
Whirling around,