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."

"I have no place to go," cried the woman, turning again to the twisted, bloody body of her dead husband. "Oh, Gyredd!" Her face crumpled, and she began to weep.

"Lady, you will mourn him in good time," Bran said, "but later, when you are safe. You must think of your child now and do what is best for him."

Taking the crying boy into his arms, he walked quickly to the horse on the hill, urging the woman to hurry. Its rider slain, the animal had stopped running and was now grazing contentedly. If he considered taking the good horse for himself and giving the plough horse to the farmwife, one look at the woman struggling valiantly to bear up under the calamity that had befallen her abolished any such thought. Here was a woman with a boy so much like himself at that age they could have been brothers.

"Here is what you will do," Bran said, speaking slowly. "You will take the lad and ride to the abbey. The monks at Saint Dyfrig's will take care of you until it is safe to return, or until you find somewhere else to go."

He helped her onto the horse, holding the boy as she limbed into the saddle. "Go now," he commanded, lifting the child and placing him in the saddle in front of his mother. "Tell them what happened here, and they will take care of you."

Putting his hand to the bridle, Bran ran the horse to the top of the rise where he could get a clear view of the countryside around. There were no marchogi to be seen, so he pointed the woman in the direction of the monastery. "Take good care of your mother, lad," he told the boy, then gave the horse a slap on the rump to send them off. "Do not stop until you reach the abbey," he called. "I will see to things here."

"God bless you," said the woman, turning in the saddle as the horse jolted into motion.

Bran watched until they were well away and then hurried back to the farm. He dragged the dead farmer to the grassy hillside, then fetched a wooden shovel from the barn; the fire had been hastily set, and the flames had already burned down to smouldering ash, leaving the barn intact. Working quickly, he dug a shallow grave in the green grass at the foot of the hill, then rolled the body into the long depression and began piling the soft earth over the corpse.

He left the shovel at the head of the grave to mark the place and then ran to retrieve his arrows. Pulling them from the bodies was a grim task, but they were too valuable to waste, and he had no way to replace them. Despite his care, one of them broke when he tried to worry it free from the rib cage of the dead soldier, and the one that had missed its target could not be found. In the end, he had to settle for recovering but four of the six.