“Here,” said Pryderi, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll lift you out.”
She nodded, stepping into his hands. He boosted her as steadilyas he could, lifting her to the edge of the pit. She reached for something to heave herself to freedom, but then she jerked back.
Pryderi stumbled, off-balance, and the two of them fell a second time. He managed to catch her on the way down, keeping Branwen from slamming into the dirt. When he looked up, a face gazed down at them. There was a knife where Branwen’s hand had been.
It was a human hunter, a man with a wide grin and a scar through his mouth. He was a iarll’s son from Cedweli, Pryderi remembered. Cheerful and boisterous, as sturdy and stout as a wine barrel. “Prince,” he said cheerfully, before fitting arrow to bowstring and pulling it taut. He aimed at Branwen.
For a moment, Pryderi could not understand. This was the Wild Hunt. They were supposed to be hunting monsters and game animals, not one another.
In the Wild Hunt, all are fair game.
Pryderi moved without thinking, rolling so that he covered Branwen with his body. An arrow sank into the dirt near his thigh. Close, but it had not hit him. The archer must have flinched at the last moment.
Even he would hesitate to slay the prince of Dyfed.
Branwen squirmed beneath him, seizing her bow and an arrow. “Left,” she snarled, and he shifted left. She fired, and there was a cry from above.
Pryderi rolled off of her. His spear had fallen with them, and he picked it up. He met Branwen’s eyes.
She seemed to understand; there was a determined set to her mouth. Drawing two more arrows, she took a step toward him. He lowered the spear, keeping it horizontal with the ground. She leapt,landing on the shaft of the spear, and he heaved it up, launching her into the air. As she sailed, she fired one arrow, then landed on the ground above and vanished from sight.
There was another shout and a clash of weapons. With a grunt, Pryderi shoved the tip of his spear into the earth and used it to clamber out of the pit trap. It was ungraceful, but it worked. He scrambled up and out.
A small battle was being waged in the thicket. One hunter was trapped by brambles and trying to cut himself free. One lay upon the ground, an arrow buried in his shoulder. The last held an obsidian sword, advancing on Gwydion. Gwydion stood between the hunter and Palug, a snarl on his mouth and his left hand held out.
“Put down the sword,” said Branwen. She had her bow trained on the last man.
The hunter glanced at her. He was an older man with pale hair and gray eyes. His gaze darted from Palug to Gwydion, then to Branwen and Pryderi. Plans seemed to flash across his face, one by one, until he realized he was outnumbered. “Give up,” said Pryderi breathlessly. “And we’ll let you go.”
“Truly?” said Gwydion, jaw clenched. “They’ll follow us afterward. Since these vultures cannot hunt prey, they’ll steal rings from other hunters.”
“We are not vultures,” said the man with the arrow in his shoulder. The pain rendered him too breathless to continue.
“That’s precisely what you are,” replied Gwydion. “You likely put your own rings on the easiest game you could find, then built a trap to steal the rings from others. It’s a wonder you managed to bring down a deer for your pit.”
He was stoking their anger, Pryderi realized. Making them reckless.
“You’re not hunters at all,” said Gwydion. “Simply thieves.”
The older hunter snarled. He lunged at Gwydion, thrusting that obsidian sword forward. The attack was so swift that Pryderi reacted without thinking. He threw his spear, twisting so that all the strength of his upper body was in that throw. The spear found its mark—the old hunter’s sword.
And in the same moment, an arrow pierced the man’s heart.
The sword and spear hit the ground moments before the hunter did. There was a sucking inhalation, a look of startled bewilderment on the man’s face, and then he fell backward.
Branwen had gone as pale as her hair. Her lips were parted, as though she had begun to ask a question and faltered.
They were moving before Pryderi was truly aware of it. One moment they stood in the thicket, and the next they were running. Some part of him had remembered to retrieve the spear. Branwen darted ahead, swift and nimble as a deer. Gwydion was panting behind him, and then a streak of black fur scampered alongside them. Palug kept the pace easily, his tail held high.
There was a snarl from the thicket, the sound of undergrowth breaking and snapping. Then footsteps—hard and loud. Running.
They were being pursued.
Turn and fight, whispered an old voice from within Pryderi. It sounded ancient as the oceans.Ensure none can follow you.
It was what a monster would do; it was what a king would do.
But he was neither.
