Stephen Lawhead - Hood

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, Bran retrieved the spear and, turning back, knelt and planted the butt of the shaft in the ground as the charger sped forward-too fast to elude the trap. Unable to stop, the hapless animal ran onto the blade. With a scream of agony, the horse plunged on a few more strides before it became tangled in the undergrowth and went down in a heap of flailing hooves and thrashing legs. The rider was thrown over the neck of his mount and landed on hands and knees. Bran rushed to the stunned knight, ripped the knife from his belt, and with a shriek like the cry of a banshee, plunged the blade into the exposed flesh of the man's neck, between his helmet and mail shirt. The knight struggled to his knees, clawing at the blade, as Bran ran for the shelter of the trees.

A few strides into the wood, the main trail split into several smaller paths, fanning out into the tangle of trees and undergrowth. Bran chose one that passed between two close-grown trees-wide enough to admit him, but narrow enough to hinder a rider. His feet were already on the path, and he was through the gap when the second rider reached the place.

He heard a frustrated shout behind him and the tormented whinny of a horse. Bran glanced back to see that the rider had halted because his mount was tangled in the branches of a low-lying bramble thicket, and the warrior was having difficulty extricating himself.

Unslinging his bow, Bran shook the arrows from the bundle and snatched one from the ground. He pressed the bow forward, took aim, and let fly. The missile sped through the trees and took the rider in the chest just below the collarbone. The force of the impact slammed the warrior backward in the saddle, but he kept his seat. Bran sent a second arrow after the first. It flew wide of the mark by a mere hairsbreadth.

He had two arrows left. He bent down to snatch them up, and as he straightened, he glimpsed a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye.

The spear sped through the air. Bran tried to leap aside, but the steel-tipped length of ash was expertly thrown, and the blade caught him midstride, striking high on the right shoulder. The force of the throw knocked him off his feet and sent him sprawling forward.

Bran fell hard and heard something snap beneath him. He had landed on the arrows, breaking one of the slender shafts in the fall. One arrow left. Gasping for breath, he rolled onto his side, and the spear came free.

The rider drove in fast behind his throw, sword drawn and raised high, ready to part Bran's head from his shoulders. Bran, crouching in the path, picked up the bow and the last arrow; he nocked the shaft to the string, pressing the longbow forward in the same swift motion.

The wound in his shoulder erupted with a ferocious agony. Bran gasped aloud, his body convulsed, and his fingers released their grip on the string. The arrow scudded off along the trail, to no effect. He threw down the bow, picked up the Ffreinc lance that had wounded him, and stumbled from the path, pushing deeper into the wood.

The coarse shouts of his attackers grew louder and more urgent as they ordered their pursuit. The branches were now too close grown and tangled, the trail too narrow for men on horseback. Bran sensed the marchogi were dismounting; they would continue the chase on foot.

Using their momentary inattention, he turned off the trail and dove into the undergrowth. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, he slipped through the crowded ranks of slender young hazel and beech trees, scrambling over the fallen trunks of far older elms until he came to another, wider path.

He paused to listen.

The voices of his pursuers reached him from the trail he had left behind. Soon they would realise their quarry was no longer on the path they pursued; when that happened, they would spread out and begin a slower, more careful search.

He put his hand to his injured shoulder and probed the wound with his fingers. The ache was fierce and fiery, and blood was trickling down his back in a sticky rivulet. It would be best to find some way to bind the wound lest one of the pursuers see the blood and pick up his trail that way. Luckily, he thought with grim satisfaction, the marchogi no longer had a dog with them.

As if in answer to this thought, there came a sound that turned his bowels to water: the hoarse baying of a hound on scent. It was still some way off, but once the animal reached the trailhead, the hunt would be all but finished.

Turning away, Bran lurched on, following the path as it twisted and turned, pressing ever deeper into the wood. He ran, listening to the cry of the hound grow louder by degrees, keenly alert for something, anything, that might throw the beast off his scent.