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 Merian 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 slashed again, and the man lay still.
At the farmer's death, Bran's vision hardened to a single, piercing beam, and the world flashed crimson. He bit his lip to keep from crying out his rage as he flew toward the fight. As soon as he judged he was within the longbow's range, he squatted down and opened the cloth bundle.
There were but six arrows. Every arrow would have to count. Bran nocked the first onto the string, pulled the feathered shaft close to his cheek, and took aim-his target the nearer of the two soldiers struggling with the farmer's wife.
Just as he was about to let fly, the farmhouse door opened and out of the burning building ran a young boy of, perhaps, six or seven summers.
One of the marchogi shouted, and from around the far side of the house another Ffreinc soldier appeared with a sword in one hand and the leash of an enormous hunting dog in the other. This was the commander-a knight with a round steel helmet and a long hauberk of ringed mail. The knight saw the boy escaping across the yard and gave a shout. When the child failed to stop, he loosed the hound.
With staggering speed, the snarling, slavvering beast ran down the boy. The mother screamed as the hound, fully as big as her son, closed on the fleeing child.
The hound leapt, and the terrified boy stumbled. Bran let fly in the same instant.
The arrow whirred as it streaked home, burying itself in the hound's slender neck, even as the beast's jaws snatched at the child's unprotected throat. The dog crumpled and rolled to the side, teeth still gnashing, forelegs raking the air.
As the whimpering boy climbed to his feet, the Ffreinc menat-arms searched the surrounding hills for the source of the unexpected arrow. The knight who had released the dog was the first to spot Bran crouching on the hill above the settlement. He shouted a command to his marchogi, pointing toward the hillside with his sword.
He was still pointing when an arrow-like a weird, feathered flower-sprouted in the middle of his mail-clad stomach.
The sword spun from his hand, and the knight crashed to his knees, clutching the shaft of the arrow. He gave out a roar of pain and outrage, and the two soldiers standing over the dead farmer leapt to life. They charged at a run, blades high, across the yard and up the hill.
Bran, working with uncanny calm, placed another arrow on the string, took his time to pull, hold, and aim. When he let fly, the missile sang to its mark. The first warrior was struck and spun completely around by the force of the arrow. The second ran on a few more steps, then halted abruptly, jerked to his full height by the slender oak shaft that slammed into his chest.
Next, Bran turned his attention to the two marchogi holding the woman. No one was struggling now; all three were staring in flatfooted disbelief at the lone archer crouching on the hillside.
By the time Bran had another arrow on the string and was taking aim, the two had released the woman and were running for the horses. One of the marchogi had the presence of mind to try to cut off any possible pursuit; he gathered the reins of the riderless horses, leapt into the saddle, and fled the slaughter ground.
Bran raced down to the farmyard, pausing at the foot of the hill to release another arrow. He drew and loosed at the nearest of the two fleeing riders. The arrow flew straight and true, sizzling through the air to sink its sharp metal head deep between the shoulders of the Ffreinc warrior, who arched his back and flung his arms wide as if to embrace the sky. The galloping horse ran on a few more steps, and the warrior slumped sideways and plunged heavily to the ground.
Bran's last arrow streaked toward the sole remaining soldier as he gained the low rise at the far end of the yard. Lashing his mount hard, the rider swerved at the last instant as the missile ripped by, slashing through the tall grass. The fleeing warrior sped on and did not look back.
Bran hurried to the farmwife, who was on her knees, clutching her wailing son. "You must get away from here!" he told her, urgency making him sharp. "They might come back in force." The woman just stared at him. "You must go!" he insisted. "Do you understand?"
She nodded and, still holding tight to her child, turned her tearful gaze back to the yard where her husband lay. Bran saw the look and relented. He allowed her a moment and then took her gently by the shoulder and turned her to face him. "They will come back," he said, softening his tone. "You must get away while you can."