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.
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.