Free Destiny's Path by Frewin Jones Page A

game—but it’s hard to catch deer or wild pig in full daylight—and we’d be as well off working through the day as wandering the forest till dusk. But I’m concerned about Blodwedd. What might she do if we do not return soon?”
    â€œShe’s not our enemy, Branwen,” said Rhodri. “You should learn to trust her. If we…”
    He was silenced by a shadow across the doorway. The woman had returned. But she was not alone. The two men who had been repairing the walls came in after her—and Branwen saw to her dismay and alarm that their faces were set and grim, and that one was armed with a heavy wooden club while the other held a hunting spear in his two hands.
    â€œDo you think the eyes of Bras Mynydd are blind?” spat the woman. “Last night a rider came from Doeth Palas—speaking of two runaway Saxon spies—a black-haired girl dressed in hunting clothes, and a boy in rags.”
    Branwen and Rhodri scrambled to their feet, their bowls spilling their contents across the floor. The woman knew who they were! She had tricked them—putting them at their ease while she fetched the men.
    â€œOur prince has offered a rich reward for you treacherous swines!” snarled the man with the spear. “And the offer holds good whether you be alive or dead.” He grimaced with anger. “So? What is it to be? Delivered alive and in bondage to Doeth Palas—or dragged there lifeless by the heels?”

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    B RANWEN BACKED AWAY from the two men, almost stumbling over the stew bucket, as she fumbled for her slingshot. Her knife would aid her only in close combat—but with the slingshot maybe she could keep the two men at bay until escape was possible.
    She could not believe she had been taken so completely by surprise. She—the stealthy, keen-witted hunter—caught by the farm woman’s pretense like a fly in a spider’s web.
    Rhodri held his hands out. “Whatever you have been told, it is not true,” he said. “We are not spies. We mean you no harm.”
    â€œListen to his voice!” snarled the man with the club. “He tells us his lies in a foreign accent!” He spat. “Saxon cur! You should not be given the offer oflife—you should be killed where you stand.”
    Branwen’s eyes moved quickly from man to man. Their expressions were cold and hard—this was not a situation she would be able to talk her way out of. She ground her heels into the earth floor, balancing herself, quickly fitting a stone into her slingshot and lifting her arm above her head. “The first man to approach me will regret it,” she said, her gaze flickering from the spearman to the man with the ugly, knobbed club. “My aim is true—ask the woman. Make a move on me and you will lose an eye!”
    â€œWare!” called the woman, stepping in behind the two men. “She’s a devil with that thing.”
    Rhodri took a quick step forward and picked up the iron tongs from beside the firepit, jumping back again as the spearman made a stab at him.
    â€œThere’s no need for this,” Rhodri said, his voice trembling a little. “Let us go on our way and all will be well.”
    â€œYou’d have us let you go and tell your tales to Herewulf Ironfist?” scoffed the man with the club. “Betray us to the Saxon pestilence? Do you think us fools?” The man pounced, lunging at Rhodri with the club. Rhodri fended it off with the tongs, but they were struck from his hands. As he tried to avoid being hit by a second swing of the club, he lost his footing and fell backward with a gasp.
    Branwen swung her slingshot and loosed the stone. It cracked off the man’s wrist and he shoutedin pain, dropping his club and reeling sideways, his hand clutched to his chest.
    â€œThat could have been your eye if I wished it!” she shouted.
    The spearman surged toward her with a roar of rage. She felt