Stephen Lawhead - Hood

Then, all at once the sound ended. The forest went quiet.

Bran stopped.

His shoulder was aflame, and cold sweat beaded on his brow. He waited, drawing air deep into his lungs, trying to steady his racing heart.

Suddenly, the hound gave out a long, rising howl that was followed instantly by a shout from one of the soldiers. The dog had found his trail again.

Bran staggered forward once more. He knew he could not long elude his pursuers now-a few moments, more or less, and the chase would end.

And then, just ahead, he spied a low opening in the brush and, beneath it, dark, well-churned earth: the telltale sign of a run used by wild pigs. He dove for it and scrambled forward on hands and knees, dragging the spear with him. His pursuers were still on the trail he had just quit.

He drove himself on, wriggling through the undergrowth, around rocks and over roots. Low-hanging branches tore at him, snagging his clothing and skin.

The hound reached the end of the pig run and hesitated. At first the marchogi assumed the dog had been distracted by the scent of the pigs. There was a shout and a yelp as they dragged the dog away from the entrance to the run and moved on down the trail.

Bran gathered himself for another push. Pulling himself up by the shaft of the spear, he lurched ahead-four heartbeats later, the hound loosed another rising howl, and the chase resumed behind him.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Bran ran on.

Above the crashing and thrashing in the wood behind him, he heard something else: the liquid murmur of falling water. Bran followed the sound and in a moment came to a small, boulder-strewn clearing. A swift-flowing stream cut through its centre, coursing around the base of the huge, round moss-covered stones.

Bran picked his way amongst the rocks, only to find that the path ended in a sheer drop. The stream plunged into a pool beneath the stony ledge on which Bran was standing. The waters gathered in the pool and then flowed away into the hidden heart of Coed Cadw.

Bran gazed at the pool and realised that, like the path, his flight had ended, too.

With his back to the waterfall, he turned to make his last stand. His breath came in shaky gasps. Sweat flowed down his face and neck. The shaft of the spear was slick with his blood. He wiped his hands on his clothes and tightened his grip on the spear as the marchogi approached, their voices loud in the silence of the forest.

They reached the clearing all at once-the hound and three men-bursting into the glade in a blind rush. Two soldiers held spears, and the third grasped the leash of the hound. The dog saw Bran and began straining at its lead, snarling with slavering fury and clawing the air to reach him.

The soldiers hesitated, uncertain where they were. Bran saw the cast of their eyes as they took in the rocks, the waterfall, and then… himself, standing perfectly still on a stone above the fall.

The dog handler shouted to the others; the knight on his left raised his spear and drew back his arm. Bran readied himself to dodge the throw.

There came a shout, and a fourth man entered the rock-filled hollow behind the others; he wielded a sword, and the front of his hauberk was stained with blood from the arrow wound beneath his collarbone. He made a motion with his hand, and the marchogi under his command spread out.

Bran tightened his grip on the spear and braced himself for the attack.

The man with the sword raised his hand, but before he could give the signal, there was a sharp snap, like that of a slap in the face. The hound, suddenly and unexpectedly free of its broken leash, bounded toward Bran, its jaws agape.

Bran turned to meet the hound. One of the soldiers, seeing Bran move, launched his spear.

Both dog and spear reached Bran at the same time. Bran jerked his body to the side. The spear sailed harmlessly by, but the jaws of the hound closed on his arm. Bran dropped his spear and threw his free arm around the neck of the dog, trying to strangle the animal as its teeth ripped into the skin and tendons of his arm.

Two more spears were already in the air. The first found its mark, passing through the dog and striking Bran. The hound gave out a yelp, and Bran felt a wicked sting in the centre of his chest.

Wounded, his vision suddenly blurred with the pain, Bran fought to keep his balance on the rock ledge. Too late he saw the glint in the air of a spear streaking toward him. Thrown high, it missed his throat but sliced through the soft part of his cheek as it grazed along his jaw.

The jolt rocked him backward.

He teetered on the ledge for an instant, and then, still clasping the dying dog like a shield before his body, he plunged over the waterfall and into the pool below.

The last thing he saw was the face of one of his attackers peering cautiously over the edge of the fall. Then Bran closed his eyes and let the stream bear him away.

1Lrian took the news of Bran's death hard-much harder than she herself might have predicted had she ever dreamed such a possibility could occur. True, she heartily resented Bran ap Brychan for running away and deserting his people in their time of need; she might have forgiven him all else, if not for that. On the other hand, she knew him to be a selfish, reckless, manipulating rascal. Thus, though utterly irritated and angry with him, she had not been at all surprised by his decision to flee. She told herself that she would never see him again.

Even so, never in her most resentful disposition did she conceive-much less wish-that any harm would come to him. That he had been caught and killed trying to escape filled her with morbid anguish. The news-reported by her father's steward and overheard by her as he related the latest marketplace gossip to the cook and scullery girls-hit her like a blow to the stomach. Unable to breathe, she sagged against the doorpost and stifled a cry with her fist.

Sometime later, when summoned to her father's chamber, where she was informed, she was able to bear up without betraying the true depth of her feelings. Shocked, horrified, mournful, and leaden with sorrow, Merian moved through the first awful day feeling as if the ground she trod was no longer solid beneath her feet-as if the very earth was fragile, delicate, and thin as the shell of a robins egg, and as if any moment the crust on which she stood might shatter and she would instantly plunge from the world of light and air into the utter, perpetual, suffocating darkness of the tomb.

Soon, everyone in King Cadwgan's court was talking of nothing else but Bran's sad, but really only-too-predictable, demise. That was harder still for Merian. She put on a brave face. She tried to appear as if the news of Bran and the misfortune that had befallen Elfael meant little to her, or rather that it meant merely as much as bad news from other places ever meant to anyone not directly concerned-as if, lamentable though it surely was, the fate of the wayward son of a neighbouring king ultimately was nothing to do with her.

"Yes," she would agree, "isn't it awful? Those poor people-what will they do?"

She told herself time and again that Bran had been an unreliable friend at best; that his apparent interest in her was nothing more than carnal, which was entirely true; and that his sad death had, at the very least, delivered her from a life of profound and perpetual unhappiness. These things and more she told herself-spoke them aloud, even. But no matter how often she rehearsed the reasons she should be relieved to be free of Bran ap Brychan, she could not make herself believe them. Nor, for all the truth of her assertions, could she make herself feel less wretched.