Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

B RANWEN HAD BEEN thirteen the first time she hunted a true monster.

It began with drownings.

There were a few every year. The winter rains lashed rivers into floods. Unwary travelers, careless children, and even a few animals would go missing only to be found when the water receded. It was sad, but it was expected.

But one spring, three village children perished.

There was a lake near Argoed, and children often went there to swim, fish, and sail small boats made of grasses and sticks. The lake had no name, but its waters were clear, and someone had built a small dock.

The drownings happened over the course of a month, and all that was found of the children were their clothes: torn and bloodstained, floating in the reeds.

It set off a small panic. The blacksmith crafted iron charms for frightened parents rather than his usual assortment of tools and horseshoes. A farmer took a long spear and a net down to the lake, determined to drag the monster from its depths.

No one ever saw him again.

After that, no one would go near the lake.

It had been Rhain who gave Branwen the idea to hunt it. They had been helping plant her mother’s small garden. “No one knows what the monster is,” he said, leaning on his shovel.

The garden had smelled of spring—greenery, clean soil, and possibility. Branwen had convinced her mother to let her plant flowers alongside her feverfew and mint.

“Did someone ask the barwn for help?” she asked.

Rhain gave her a knife-edge smile. “Weeks ago. He said he’d pass word along to the king, but the soldiers are… occupied elsewhere.”

Which meant they were raiding the neighboring kingdom of Gwaelod. Branwen frowned. “But the barwn’s supposed to protect us.”

“He’s supposed to do more than sleep, eat fine meals, and entertain guests, yes,” Rhain agreed, “but so long as he keeps the taxes flowing toward the royal coffers, no one gives a damn what he does.”

Branwen leaned forward. “What can be done?”

Rhain reached down to pull a rock from the garden. “Same as we’ve always done. Keep your head down, wear some iron, and come home before dark. I might ask about, see if anyone’s hounds have had a litter. Wouldn’t hurt keeping a dog around.”

Sweat trickled through Branwen’s hair, and she scratched at the back of her neck. “It’s not right, that we’re always the ones who have to hide.”

Rhain gave her a look that was half pity, half amusement. “If I was twenty years younger, mayhap I could do something. But until I knew what the creature was, I couldn’t fight it. That’s the real power the otherfolk have—not the magic or the immortality. It’s their illusions. Changing how a person sees the world? That’s true power.”

“You think… you think if the villagers knew what the creature was, they could kill it?” she asked.

Rhain gave a little shrug. “If it’s something small. If it’s an afanc, we’re all going to have to move.”

Branwen touched the afanc-fang knife at her belt. She carried it everywhere; its weight was a reminder that she was never helpless.

“Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no,” said Rhain. “I know that face. That’s a reckless face.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Branwen delicately.

Rhain had given her a flat-eyed stare. “Don’t be the fourth child lost, girl.”

“I’m not a child,” she said. “But don’t worry. I won’t be the fourth.”

And she wasn’t.

For that night, a three-year-old boy wandered free of his parents’ yard. Their gate had been left unlatched.

A search set the village aflame. Torches were lit, parties set out. Even those who lived as far from the village as Rhain and Branwen heard of it, and Rhain told Mam to lock her doors. He had an old sword from his days in the armies and an assortment of hunting supplies. He armed himself and headed for the village.

Mam went to comfort the boy’s parents, bringing herbs that might soothe the mother’s terror. Once Mam was out of sight, Branwen picked up her dagger and a lantern.

She had never snuck out at night before. As she walked, she pulled her iron-stitched blindfold off. If there were monsters lurking in the night, she needed to see them. She followed the path toward Argoed, but she did not go to the village. Rather, she headed for the lake.

The water looked still and flat as a stone in that windless night. There was no moon, and the stars were blotted out by drifting clouds. Branwen set her lantern on the shore. She walked around the water, waiting. Listening. And looking. But the water remained as opaque as ever. If there was a monster, it did not need magic to conceal itself. The lake was disguise enough.

Frustrated, Branwen picked up her lantern. It was expensive—glass and metal. She pulled off her boots, bound up her hair, and took a steadying breath.

She waded into the water, lantern in one hand and knife in the other. The water lapped around her calves, so cold it stole the breath from her. Once the water was waist-high, Branwen halted.

She twisted the clasp on the lantern to seal it shut. At once, the light dimmed. There would only be a few moments before the fire winked out. With one last gulp of air, Branwen allowed herself to sink beneath the waves.

The world went quiet, the only sound in her ears that of lapping waves. The lantern sputtered but remained alight.

That was how she saw it.

Something was hidden in the silt-soft bottom of the lake. It had buried itself so that only its eyes were visible. Two golden, toad-like eyes peered up at her. It had been waiting.

Terror ripped through Branwen. She hung, suspended in the water, unable to move.

A llamhigyn y dwr. She had heard them called water-leapers, for they had the body of an enormous toad and the wings of a bat. They were wickedly clever, and often fishermen only knew of their presence because of snapped lines and gutted nets. When one had to be slain, it took a group of hunters and an iron net to drag it to shore. Hunters would pin the monster in place while one brave soul used a long-handled spear to kill it.

It was not a creature to be trifled with.

And its attention was wholly on Branwen.

The llamhigyn y dwr blinked. It was her only warning.

The monster surged from the depths in a cloud of silt. Branwen kicked backward, the lantern tumbling from her fingers. Its light went out. She swam as hard as she could, kicking her way toward the surface. She had to tell the village, get help, find—

Something wrapped around her ankle and yanked her down. Branwen thrashed, gritting her teeth against a scream. She could not cry out lest she lose what little breath she had.

She slashed out with her dagger, but the blade cut only water. The grip on her ankle tightened, and she was dragged deeper.

Her chest was on fire. This was how a llamhigyn y dwr killed its prey. It used its long tail to drown a victim and then devoured them.

Branwen thought of her mam returning home and finding Branwen’s cot empty. She thought of Rhain searching the reeds, only to find a knife and an iron-stitched blindfold.

No. She would be no one’s prey.

Branwen reached down to take hold of the llamhigyn y dwr’s tail. Her fingers curled around the slimy skin before she drove her knife into its flesh and severed the tail.

She felt the llamhigyn y dwr scream. It reverberated through the water.

The creature’s jaws clamped around her shoulder. Branwen let out a howl of fury, bubbles swirling as she released the last air in her chest. With more luck than skill, she stabbed again and again and again, sinking her knife into slimy, thick flesh. Finally, the grip on her released.

Branwen kicked herself to the surface, and when she broke free of the water, she was sputtering and gagging. She swam to the lake’s edge. The knife was still in her hand, dripping with water and golden blood. Branwen rolled onto her side, trying to slow her breathing. Finally, when she was sure she would not fall, she pushed herself upright and looked over her shoulder.

There, in the center of the lake, floated the dead monster.

The aftermath was jumbled in her memories: She recalled walking unsteadily to the village, the story spilling out of her like the lake water she vomited outside of the inn. A blanket was pulled around her shoulders, and several men went to the lake to study the monster.

The missing boy had not been near the lake. He had wandered toward the road and was found unharmed by a passing traveler. Even so, the lad’s parents fervently thanked Branwen for killing the monster.

Only Rhain had disapproved. “Foolish girl,” he had said, his warm hand steady as he pressed a bandage against her injured shoulder. “One day, your luck will run out.”

The world sharpened .

It was a unique sensation, one Branwen had only ever found on a hunt. All her thoughts fell away, banished to some distant corner of her mind. There were no people to complicate matters, no lies, no niceties, no worries for her home or mother. It was almost a relief to leave all that behind.

She was a huntress. This was where she thrived.

She and Gwydion rode toward the Davieses’ farm. Branwen had little experience with horses, but Gwydion nudged his mare into a canter. The rolling gait made Branwen clutch at his waist for balance. She had stuffed Palug into her pack—much to his indignation—and the cat growled in protest with every step.

The horse’s strides ate up the road, and Branwen was grateful for the swift pace. The Davieses’ farm was only a short walk from Rhain’s.

That snare , she thought. That missing snare. She had thought it must have been torn free by some unruly sheep—but it had been something else. A wolf or a hound. And it had attacked her neighbor.

She heard the bleating first. Rounding a bend in a narrow path, she saw the Davieses’ small home. The goats were pressed to one side of their pen. The sheep had picked up on the panic and were calling out to one another.

Branwen did not need her magicked sight to see what had panicked the livestock. There was a splash of crimson across the hard earth, and two goats lay unmoving amid the grass.

“Stop,” she said, grabbing at Gwydion’s elbow.

The mare slowed to a trot, then a walk. Without waiting for her to halt, Branwen slid from the horse. She held out her pack to Gwydion. Palug yowled from inside.

Gwydion looked as though she were offering him a bag of black powder that might explode at any moment.

“My house is farther down the road,” she said. “Take my cat, go there. Wait for me. In exchange, I’ll hear you out.”

The confusion vanished from his expression. He took the pack. Palug’s growls grew louder, and claws appeared in the cloth, flexing threateningly.

“Be careful,” Gwydion said.

Branwen did not answer; she was striding toward the goat pen. Behind her, the sound of hoofbeats became distant.

She grimaced, took a breath, and stepped over the low fence. One goat fainted at the sight of her, flopping over with its legs stiff and eyes rolled back. The others gazed at her with terror.

“It’s all right,” Branwen said, in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The goats did not look reassured. Branwen turned her attention to the dead.

The goats had been mauled and left to die. Not wolves, then. In Branwen’s experience, wolves would take stragglers from a field, but they would never come into a pen nor attack a farmer in the middle of the day.

Which left only one option, and it was the one Branwen liked the least: that pack of escaped war hounds. She had known it was only a matter of time until they grew bold. A wolf would fear a human; a monster would fear iron. But a hound had no fear of either.

There were four sets of dog prints she could see. The prints overlapped one another, claws long enough to have torn some of the dirt as they sprinted away. They had been running—all but one, it seemed. Beside those tracks was trampled grass, as though a heavy load had been dragged.

Davies , Branwen thought, her mouth a little dry.

The trail led south into the fields. With a soft breath, she reached up and yanked her blindfold free. She wanted both eyes for this hunt, even if it was not magical in nature. She needed to find Davies and deal with those hounds before any more blood was spilled. She hastened into the long grasses of the fields, searching.

She found him. Or rather, she tripped over him.

Branwen hissed in surprise, sidestepping so quickly she nearly fell into the dead grasses.

She saw the familiar silver of his hair first. Davies lay face down, his arm outstretched as though reaching for home.

Swallowing hard, Branwen knelt beside him.

He had not died well. She could smell the sharp, acrid scent of urine, and she could see where the dogs had torn into him. Near his right hand was a small axe, the blade stained with fresh blood. Davies had wounded one of them, at the very least.

Branwen knelt beside him, reaching down to adjust his cloak so that it fell across his face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She could not have saved him; he would have been dead before his wife managed to reach the tavern. That knowledge did nothing to assuage the wave of guilt that rose up within her.

She took a step back, trying to see the man’s death as a huntress. The bite marks, the tracks—these belonged to those hounds.

She needed to find them before they killed again.

The tracks were messy and confused as though the dogs had fought among themselves. A spatter of crimson had fallen upon the dead grass; when Branwen touched it, the blood was damp beneath her fingertips. They could not be far.

As she half ran through the fields, a sense of unease tugged at her. She could not have named the reason, but with every step, her body seemed to wind tighter. Branwen took a deep breath, trying to let that unease pass through her.

The line between hunter and hunted was fear. The moment she was afraid, she would become prey.

The sounds of barking and howls hastened her steps. It was only as she reached the top of the hill that she realized what was wrong. The noises were not those of a hunting pack. They were the screams of a dog in pain.

Branwen slowed. As she crept nearer, she strained to listen. She peered through the bushes, and she saw them.

There were three hounds. One of them lay on the ground, clearly dead. The other two were pacing around the corpse, snarling to themselves. The late-autumn sunlight illuminated golden tufts of fur in the grass and nearby bushes.

Had the dogs killed one of their own? No, there was a blade wound on its abdomen. Davies must have struck true. The two other hounds sniffed at their pack mate, growling.

Branwen sucked in a breath.

She would need to do this before the dogs realized they were under attack. She drew her bow, heaved the string into place, and plucked two arrows free. She had only a few arrows left; she would need to craft more. She pulled back the bowstring, until the arrow fletching brushed the corner of her mouth. It took strength to hold the bowstring taut and unwavering, and she was glad she had spent years honing her body. She felt the air move around, smelled the scents of the harvested fields. The tension of the bow was a familiar one, almost a comfort, and she held it, aiming at the first dog’s throat. It lifted its head, sniffing at the air.

Branwen let the first arrow fly.

It cut through the air with a near-silent hiss, striking true. There was a startled yelp and a thump, but before the second hound could react, Branwen fired again.

The dog whirled.

She was not so lucky this time. The arrow hit the hound in the side, and the creature fell, crying and whimpering. A sympathetic ache swelled in Branwen’s chest—she hated the sound of anything in pain—but she forced it back down. If she could have saved these animals, she would have. But these dogs had been mistreated and let loose. They would kill others. A swift death was the best kindness she could offer.

The third arrow slammed home. All went quiet.

With a soft exhale, Branwen sat back on her heels. She had not saved Davies, but she had avenged him. Perhaps her neighbors would find some small comfort in that.

But if she had been victorious, then why was her heart still pounding? Why was her every sense still straining? Why did she see gold flecks in that clearing, like motes of dust?

She blinked. Once, twice, then she remembered. There had been four sets of tracks.

And there were only three dogs in that field.

Oh.

Branwen’s eyes flashed wide. She swallowed down a startled little noise, because that was when she heard it: the unearthly baying of a hound that had scented prey.

It felt as though someone had dripped ice water down her back. Biting back a curse, Branwen looked wildly about the fields. There was no place to hide, nowhere to run. There was a short stone wall that separated the divide between Davies’s and Rhain’s farms. An old sycamore grew there. Heart hammering, Branwen sprinted toward the tree and heaved herself up into the branches. She just needed to be off the ground to get a good vantage point. She drew another arrow—her last.

She licked her dry lips, trying to force her breaths to steady. She had been in far worse situations than this. One last hound and this hunt would be ended.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, everything changed.

The heartbeat in her ears softened, then vanished altogether.

Everything was quiet. No, not quiet. Utterly soundless . It was as though someone had stuffed her ears with cloth. Panicked, she reached up and snapped her fingers next to her left ear. Had she lost her hearing?

She opened her mouth to make a sound, any sound, when it hit her: This was unnatural. This was magical.

And it had only happened once before.

She gritted her jaw, clenching every fearful noise behind her teeth, and waited. It felt as though an eternity passed with every heartbeat, but she remained still.

Then she saw it.

The monster slunk out of the tall grasses. It was lean, almost skeletal, with sleek white fur and red-tipped ears.

One of the c?n annwn.

It was said that they were portents of death. To hear the baying of a ci annwn was to know that one’s time had come.

Branwen knew better. A ci annwn did not foretell a death—it was death. The c?n annwn could crack bone with their jaws, could scent blood across forests and fields, and could run as swiftly as a horse. They were the Otherking’s hunting hounds. She had been seven the first time she’d seen one stalking a traveler. It was whispered that the closer a ci annwn came to its prey, the softer its howls grew. When death came, it did so quietly.

Of all the monsters she had encountered, only a few inspired nightmares.

The hound paused beneath the tree, its nose lifted to the wind. It drew in a long breath, taking a step forward. Branwen saw the flash of iron at its leg.

The snare. Her snare. The hound had been snagged in her snare and torn it free. Even now, the hound dragged the iron stake behind it. The iron must have driven it to join the mortal hounds and begin a hunt.

This was her fault. She had set those snares. If she hadn’t, perhaps the creature would not have gone mad. Perhaps Davies would still be alive.

Her fingers twitched toward her bow. If she could fire an arrow into the monster’s heart, at least she would end its suffering. Surely that would be a mercy.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her fingers grasped the bowstring.

The monster sniffed, then sniffed again, its attention caught by an unheard breeze.

The wind was against Branwen’s back. Blowing toward the creature.

She went cold.

I’m not here , she thought, hoping against hope. I am not here, you do not smell me, I—

The ci annwn lifted its head and sniffed. It circled the place in the grass where Branwen had knelt. As it came nearer, she could see the bristle of fur running down its back and the glitter of iron tangled around its leg; she could smell the fetid stench. It smelled of decaying meat.

She drew the bowstring and sighted down the arrow. She needed a moment of stillness. A single moment—and she would end this monster.

But as though it sensed the movement, the ci annwn looked up and met her gaze.

For a heartbeat, the world froze. She saw the monster, and the monster saw her. Its lips peeled away from bloodstained teeth.

Branwen loosed the arrow. But even as it cut through the air, the ci annwn lunged to one side. The arrow sliced a line along its flank, staining its fur crimson. The hound snarled soundlessly, biting at its own flesh as though it could attack the pain. It whirled around once, twice, then stared up at Branwen. Bloodied foam flecked at the corners of its mouth.

Fallen kings. She was out of arrows and trapped in a tree. She still had her afanc-fang knife, but that would require her to fight at close quarters.

The ci annwn circled the sycamore, eyes never leaving its prey. Branwen bit down on her lip. There was no use in screaming; no one would hear her. Not with this blanket of silence pressing down on her.

The hound snuffled at the grass, then lifted its head. It drew in another long breath, its chest expanding. It was scenting her.

Branwen bared her own teeth in a snarl of challenge.

To her shock, the hound did not lunge for the tree. Rather, it turned and ran, leaping over the stone wall and—

Terror sparked within her, sending fire along her veins.

The hound had caught her scent. And now, it was following that scent back to the source.

The ci annwn was headed toward home.

She did not climb down; rather, she threw herself from the tree and landed hard on her feet. Pain jolted up through her ankles, but she ignored it. She ran as fast as she could. Faster than she had run in years. As the hound gained distance, the silence vanished from her ears.

Perhaps it should have been a comfort to hear again. But it only meant she could hear her own panicked heartbeat.

Mam.

Branwen would not let mortal nor monster harm her mother. She would tear Annwvyn apart if that was what it took. She would hunt down every ci annwn in those mountains. She pushed herself faster, lungs on fire as she rounded a bend in the trail. She would warn Rhain and Mam, get them into her house, and then hunt that monster. It would regret stepping out of the otherlands.

She darted through the fields, cutting across farmland until Rhain’s home came into view. Her throat felt raw with every ragged breath, but she did not slow. Her feet slammed into the ground as she rushed past the small flock of sheep.

The quiet bloomed into silence.

And that was when she saw the attack.

The ci annwn had Rhain by the leg. The old hunter had a trowel in hand and slammed the cold iron into the creature’s skull again and again, blindly trying to defend himself. Mam was perhaps ten strides away, frozen in terror. She could not see the creature, but she must have known something was there. Gwydion was in front of Mam, trying to put himself between her and the unseen danger. There was a knife in his hand. When he saw Branwen, he opened his mouth—but she never heard what he said.

Rhain kicked out, dislodging the monster’s teeth through sheer luck. The hound snarled soundlessly, its fangs stained crimson. Branwen yanked the iron charm from around her neck and flung it at the hound.

The ci annwn seemed to sense the iron. It threw itself away, darting around the charm before plowing into Rhain. It tore into his side, and Rhain was screaming, screaming so loud and yet Branwen could not hear a thing.

She kicked the hound as hard as she could. Ribs snapped beneath her heel.

The ci annwn lunged at her. Its lips peeled back, eyes flashing—

Branwen slashed out with her knife. She felt the blow connect, felt the startled cry of pain as the afanc fang kissed flesh.

Branwen sank into a defensive crouch, knife held at the ready. The dog was limping badly, mouth foamy and red. It sprang at her.

There was no room for fear—she was pure fury.

Branwen screamed. And she drove the afanc knife through the hound’s ribs and into its heart.

The hound twitched, then went limp.

Abruptly, Branwen could hear again. Her breaths were loud, a jagged gasp on every exhale. Behind her, Mam was sobbing and Rhain was making quiet sounds of pain.

“What in the otherlands,” Gwydion gasped, his gaze on the ci annwn. Now that death had claimed it, its illusion was gone, Branwen realized. They could all see the hound crumpled and bleeding into the dirt.

“Rhain,” said Branwen, rushing to his side. The older man was trembling, unable to stand.

Gwydion hastened to Rhain’s other side. The young noble was pale, but his hands were steady as he tore off his cloak and bound it around Rhain’s leg wound. Within moments, the wool was soaked through. She could see the throb and beat of his pulse.

“The bite must have nicked an artery,” said Gwydion.

There was a terrible understanding in his face—a sympathy that made Branwen’s stomach clench. She looked away; she couldn’t meet his eyes while he looked at her like that. It made everything far too real.

Rhain’s shaking hand reached for hers, and Branwen took it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—I’m so sorry.”

She should have been here.

Rhain shook his head. “None of that,” he said. “Come here, girl.”

Grief burned hot at the back of her throat. Everything about this was wrong—the way his hair was rumpled, the pallor in his face, the flecks of blood against his cheek. It felt as though she should have been able to set things aright if she just knew the right words to say.

“You’ve always been a good girl,” he said. “Got no one to take the farm. You’ll have to look after the chickens, the goat—”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”

His knuckles brushed her cheek. They were rough and too cold, but steady. “Good girl.” He blinked, and each time it seemed to take more effort to reopen his eyes. “Always meant it, when I called you that. Wasn’t just so I’d forget and use the wrong name.”

“I know,” whispered Branwen. “You—you were always—” But she did not know what to say. All the words dried up in her mouth. He had taught her how to hunt, how to track, how to craft and use a bow. He’d brought meals after her cousin lost his home and daughter. He had watched over Mam, fed Palug scraps, and treated Branwen with a gruff fondness.

Rhain may not have been of her blood, but he was family.

“I know, girl,” he said. “I know.”

And those were the last words to pass between them.