That man wore rough-spun trousers and a tunic. And he was barefoot, his feet bleeding as he ran.
“Who is that?” asked Branwen. In the tight confines of their hiding place, there was no room for her to draw her bow. Gwydion saw her fingers twitch toward her afanc-fang dagger, settling on the hilt.
The man scrambled down the mountainside, tripping over roots and splashing across the stream.
Panic, Gwydion realized. That was why the young man appeared so out of place. Every other mortal in this land had chosen to be here, but this man ran as though all the hounds of Annwvyn were at his heels.
Even the trees could taste the man’s terror.
Hunted.The man was being hunted.
“We have to help him,” whispered Pryderi. He shifted, as though to rise. Gwydion seized his arm.
“No,” hissed Gwydion. He knew the many flavors of fear—he had been the youngest, smallest child in a family that played cruel games. This man was not afraid of something trifling. His eyes were white and rolling like those of a cornered animal. Every breath was a pained gasp, and the stench rolling off him meant he had pissedhimself as he fled. Whatever chased this man… Gwydion knew it would be a nightmare.
Pryderi tried to pull his arm free, but Gwydion held on, ignoring the pain. Pryderi looked at Gwydion in betrayal and confusion. He was the kind of person who would run toward danger to help another. Selfless, kind. He would be a good king.
But Gwydion would not allow the prince to rush free of the brambles. That would put both him and Branwen in danger. Perhaps that was selfish, but Gwydion did not care.
The man stumbled over a loose rock and fell to his knees. He pushed himself upright, a whimper emerging from his throat. “We have to,” Pryderi began to say.
The stranger managed to take a single step—and then an arrow slammed into his knee.
It happened so quickly that Gwydion had to stifle a gasp. Branwen flinched beside him, and even Pryderi recoiled. The man screamed and desperately tried to pry the arrow free, fingers slick with blood as he pawed at the wound. When that failed, he began to crawl.
It was no use.
The branches rustled, the undergrowth shifting to allow for something to pass. Gwydion held his breath, waiting. He needed to see what kind of creature inspired such terror.
A woman walked from the shadows.
She was short, and her figure was one of shapely curves. Even among the tylwyth teg, she was strikingly beautiful. Her dark hair was bound into a knot, and she walked with a comfortable grace. Her ears came to delicate points, and she wore scale armor. Notarmored scales but scalehide. It gleamed iridescent in the sunlight. A cloak of feathers was knotted at her throat.
It was Arawn’s champion, Gwydion realized. He had seen her by the Otherking’s side at the revel.
Pryderi went still. His jaw clenched so hard Gwydion saw a muscle jump in his cheek.
“Cigfa,” he breathed.
“Friend of yours?” asked Gwydion.
“Yes.” Pryderi’s gaze raked over the woman as though he could not believe what he was seeing.
“What is it?” asked Branwen softly.
“That is the hide of an afanc,” whispered Pryderi. “Only cold iron can pierce it.”
Gwydion swallowed. If Cigfa had slain an afanc and taken its hide for armor, she was a far more dangerous hunter than any they had encountered.
But that was not the most frightening thing about her.
Hanging from her belt were—
Gwydion closed and opened his eyes.
—four human hands.
They had been severed at the wrist. A cord had been tied around each, and their fingertips were dark with pooled blood.
