Islands in the Mist (Islands in the Mist Series Book 1)

by J. M. Hofer

  His uneasiness waxed as he passed through. He felt the birds’ eyes on his back, like fingers pressing into his flesh.

  Just when he thought he might have been permitted to pass through, the sky filled with black wings and an ear-splitting cacophony of shrill cries, and a cloud of darkness moved overhead.

  “I believe we have just been announced,” he muttered to Gethen. He continued up the steep mountain trail toward the fortress.

  Soon, a much more disturbing sound filled the air.

  The hounds of Arawn. Bran felt fear wrap around him, as if he were being smothered by a thick blanket. If I slay those hounds, I’ll surely incur the wrath of Arawn, but I refuse to let them tear me apart—or Gethen. Think! But there was no time to think. The huge white hounds soon had them surrounded, baying and bellowing up into the sky, red ears and eyes menacing in the night.

  Neither he nor Gethen moved. He attempted to protect them by thinking of armor for their bodies, food to subdue the hounds, or even the two of them taking flight above the jaws that snapped at them, but nothing changed—no matter how desperately he willed it. It was as if he now stood within another’s dream, not his own, where his will had no dominion. He closed his eyes, preparing for the inevitable.

  “Name yourself and why you’ve come,” a woman’s voice said abruptly.

  His eyes shot open to behold a beautiful woman who had appeared on the road. She quieted the hounds that went to her side and sat obediently on either side of her.

  Bran dismounted and knelt down in front of her, bowing his head. He noticed the palm of his hand. The cauldron his mother had drawn for him was still there, reminding him of his purpose. “I am Bran, son of Agarah, and I seek audience with the great Lord Arawn. I wish to offer myself in service to him.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “As slayer of the cauldron-born.” He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, not daring to look up without her bidding. He could feel her gaze upon him, considering his words.

  “Rise and follow me, Bran of Agarah.”

  He was not surprised to learn she knew his name. She seemed strangely familiar to him. He stood and did as she commanded, Gethen walking closely behind him. She was obviously no slave. They floated along the lonely road, winding up toward the sharp-looking fortress, until they reached a vast chasm of darkness. Nothing could be seen within its depths, but strange and disturbing sounds drifted up from far below, hinting at what lay beneath.

  A great bridge appeared the moment Arawn’s queen stepped off the edge of the chasm. Bran followed her out upon it, but Gethen refused. “That’s fine, friend.” He stroked his muzzle and patted his side. “Wait here for me.”

  The queen was already half-way across the chasm, the hounds ever at her thighs. He feared that when she reached the other side, the bridge might disappear again, so he ran to close the gap between them.

  With her back turned, he could look at her more closely without fear of reproach. She was nearly as tall as he was, her long legs striding swiftly across the bridge. The wind blowing up from the chasm lifted the light fabric of her gossamer dress, causing it to float all around her, revealing different parts of her body as she walked. Her dark hair was twisted and piled on the top of her head, revealing a long, slender neck and graceful shoulders. He noticed a strange, pearlescent object on the back of her neck, but could not make it out.

  They reached the other side and passed under yet another archway. The ravens were perched upon it, looking down on him with their cold, black eyes.

  He followed her into the dark maw of the fortress and down a long, high corridor carved out of rock. Skeletons of a thousand men held torches down both sides, lighting their way. The hounds left her side, rushing toward the end of the corridor, eager to return to their master.

  Bran’s heart quickened in anticipation of meeting the powerful being who lay beyond the corridor stretching in front of him. Everything he had prepared to say seemed like folly and insolence to him. He beat down the beast of panic that burst in his chest, forcing it back into its cage. Say what you came to say. It’s too late to turn back now.

  The corridor led to a vaulted chamber. A sea of fire burned in the center of its floor within a brazier the size of his clan’s motherhouse. It burned without wood and without smoke, but sent heat and light in all directions.

  Above the flames, a giant figure sat upon a throne built of bones. The hounds lay at his feet, looking as docile as such frightening creatures could.

  “Approach, Son of Agarah.”

  Bran walked apprehensively around the fire to the other side, unsure of whether he should look up, but he could not help his curiosity.

  The god Arawn was three times the size of an ordinary man, massive and broad-chested with a mane of dark hair. His skull could be seen through frighteningly translucent skin. His clothing was dark and fine, a great fur cloak fastened about his neck over a long, red cape. He sat widely, feet planted firmly on the ground, and elbows resting upon his giant throne. He had terrible eyes, the milky color of the blue ice that lay at the heart of the glaciers in the North, and they peered down on Bran. As the god wore no discernible expression, Bran had no indication of what his disposition might be toward him.

  He kneeled, summoning all of his courage to find his voice. “Lord Arawn, I am Bran, son of Agarah. I’ve come to submit myself to you.”

  “Submission to me is not a choice.”

  The entire chamber shook with his voice, setting Bran’s heart to pound harder.

  “Know I have heard well your oath to serve me, son of Agarah, and you shall fulfill it, either among the living, or here among the dead, as I see fit to command.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bran trembled at the second possibility. “There is a sorceress among the living known as Cerridwen who steals the dead from their graves and grants them life through the Sacred Cauldron. Her cauldron-born roam among us, feeding upon the young and weak…”

  “All predators feed upon the weak. This is the way of things.”

  “My lord,” Bran continued carefully. If I can’t convince him to send me back, I’ll spend eternity here. “You surely know then that Cerridwen seeks to rule the Crossroads and the doorway to the Summerlands, setting herself above you, usurping your right to end life, and the Great Mother’s to grant it. Could you not use a faithful servant among the living?”

  There was a long silence.

  Bran dared to glance up. He saw Arawn stroking the head of one of his hounds. He hoped he had finally managed to say something the god found of interest.

  “Cerridwen is indeed blessed beyond her sisters.” Arawn looked toward his queen, who gazed back at him with a strange knowing. “She is a favored child among the Gods. She breaks the rules, but we cannot help but smile at her cleverness.”

  Bran grew anxious again over the tolerance Arawn bore Cerridwen.

  “However, she shall not be indulged. She will be made to answer for her misdeeds. As for the souls she has stolen from me, it is true that I need the assistance of a mortal. They are beyond my reach, trapped in the in-between.”

  A flicker of hope ignited in Bran’s heart.

  “Behold me, son of Agarah,” the terrible voice commanded.

  Bran looked up to see Arawn had leaned forward, his horrible form arching over him like a great mountain. His red cape flowed from his shoulders down over his gruesome throne of bones like a sheet of blood.

  “Though all men dread my coming, if they knew what lurked in the in-between, they would welcome me with open arms,” the ghastly skull said. “For the souls who suffer there unfairly, you may serve me among the living and reap them in my name.”

  A wave of immense relief washed over Bran, and he almost laughed with joy, knowing he would again see the blessed light of day.

  “However, I will require a few things of you, to ensure your loyalty.”

  His relief was instantly replaced with dread as he pondered what Arawn would require of him.

 
; “Those who have my blessing wear my mark. I will know you in the world of the living by it. Serve me well, and you may live among your people for as long as you desire. This is my gift to you, in return for your service.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Arawn’s queen descended the dais and went to the fire. In her hand, she held a long delicate wand with a circular amulet forged upon its end. She placed it into the strange fire until it glowed white-hot.

  She gave Bran a firm look. “Bow your head.”

  He did as she bid, and she gave him a cruel smile. She walked behind him and pressed the brand upon the back of his neck, right where he had seen her own mark, searing the symbol of Arawn into his flesh.

  The pain was unbearable. He could not help crying out in agony, for it went far beyond pain of the flesh. It was as if his soul had been branded. Great Mother, what have I done?

  Arawn’s queen leaned down and kissed the mark. Miraculously, the pain disappeared. She whispered in his ear, “That is my parting gift to you, Warrior.” She returned to her lord’s side.

  “Go, son of Agarah.” Arawn waved at him dismissively.

  Bran kept his head lowered to the ground and left the throne room, stealing one last glance at Arawn’s queen on his way out.

  He could move with much more speed and power after leaving Arawn’s fortress. When he reached the chasm, the bridge stretched out in front of him, as it had for Arawn’s queen. He ran across it in long strides and called out to Gethen, who was soon at his side.

  They galloped down the road, underneath the first archway, along the lake and through the valley and forests, never stopping until they arrived at the cave through which he had entered Arawn’s world.

  “Farewell, good friend,” he said to Gethen, dismounting. “I’ll see you again on the other side.”

  He went back into the grotto, and waited.

  ***

  Daylight crept into the grotto, illuminating the green moss and intricate symbols in the temple around him.

  I’m back. He rose and walked outside where the light of dawn greeted him, reflecting upon the surface of the pool. He gazed into it, filled with peace.

  The figure of a woman came swimming toward him, her silver hair floating around her face and dancing about her breasts. She held out a sword, lifted delicately upon her fingertips.

  Bran did not hesitate. He reached toward it, wondering if his hands would actually touch metal, or if the vision would disappear.

  It did not. It was cold and solid. Caledgwyn. He lifted it out of the water, stood up, and gripped the hilt in his hand, squeezing it in reverence. The woman in the water swam away, disappearing into the watery depths.

  He held the sword up toward the sun, tilting it back and forth in the light.

  Thank you, Great Mother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Lost Daughters

  Lucia was weaving when Gwion came to her.

  “He’s done it! Lord Bran wields Caledgwyn.”

  “What?” It had been a week since Bran had gone to the glade. Gethen had returned to the village without him, and Lucia had feared the worst. “Where is he?”

  “In the courtyard. He asked for you.”

  Lucia dropped her work and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “How long has he been there? Has he eaten?”

  “No. He looked weak.”

  “Does Grandmother know?”

  “Yes, I told her first. After speaking with him, she left for the glade, saying she didn’t want to be disturbed. She sent me back to take him food and water.”

  “Let’s go.” Lucia grabbed a basket and took the blanket from her bed.

  “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll be there shortly.”

  Lucia smiled. She filled the basket with food and ale, and set out for the old courtyard, thinking of what Bran’s accomplishment meant to the war they were fighting.

  Bran’s back was turned to her when she entered. He was stoking a fire in the hearth. He turned around when he heard her approach, looking pale and thin, but wearing a wide grin.

  She felt no trace of the awkwardness that she had experienced before. She bent down and set the basket at his feet. When she stood back up, he wrapped his great arms around her, pulling her into his chest.

  She took a deep, long breath—relaxing into him. I don’t want to speak or move—I just want to stay here, forever.

  He did not pull away until she did.

  “You’ve done it,” she said, eyeing the jeweled hilt at his side. “I knew you would—it’s your destiny, Bran.”

  “I’m glad you believed so. I wasn’t quite as confident.” He glanced down at the basket and smiled. “I’m hungry. Very.”

  She sat down, reached into the basket she had brought, and pulled out a round loaf of bread and a flask of ale.

  He sat down beside her. “Gods, that smells good.” He took the bread, sunk his teeth into it, and uncorked the ale. Both were gone in a matter of minutes.

  Lucia glanced at the sword hilt hanging at his side. “May I see it?”

  “Of course.” He stood up, unsheathed Caledgwyn, and held it up for her to examine.

  Great Mother, it’s magnificent. Its hilt was inlaid with intricate patterns made from ivory, amber, and gold, but its beauty lay within its blade, which gleamed as if reflecting the moonlight even though it was the sun shining in the sky above them.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “It was not to be found, but rather to be given.” He raised his eyebrows. “It took me some time to figure that out.”

  She chuckled. She almost patted him on the back when she noticed dried blood on his tunic and knit her brows. “Are you injured?” She stood up to look.

  “Not badly. I needed Lord Arawn’s blessing before the Great Mother would grant me the sword. To obtain it, I made an oath with him. I wear his mark now.”

  “What?” An oath to Arawn, God of Death? She pulled his shirt down gently. There was a brand between his shoulders that shone like silver in the light, the skin around it raw and red. She gasped at its intricacy, amazed by how it shimmered like metal, though it rested on skin.

  “I have given my oath to Arawn that I will not rest until I’ve hunted down all of the cauldron-born, releasing them from the in-between and into his hands. My work won’t be done until they walk the earth no more, and the Cauldron has been returned to where it belongs.”

  Gwion entered the courtyard, grinning. “I knew you could do it, my lord.”

  Bran smiled back, holding out the sword to him. “Take it!”

  Gwion, too, was mesmerized by the blade’s beauty. “It’s perfect,” he whispered, moving it from one hand to the other.

  “I must ride south tomorrow,” Bran announced after a moment, “and after presenting Aelhaearn with Dyrnwyn, I’ll raise a company to ride north with me to find the Cauldron. Returning it here is the first step. Without it, Cerridwen cannot resurrect her warriors, or create new ones. It’s a helpless battle as long as she still possesses it.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Gwion stated, handing back the sword.

  Bran smiled. “I expected so.”

  “I’ll meet you on the dock. I’m going to spend the rest of the day with my mother.”

  Lucia was glad to hear this. Aveta had missed Gwion so terribly while he was away. She stood up and looked Bran in the eye. “I want to come as well.”

  Bran shook his head. “No, Lucia. Stay here with Aveta and your grandmother.”

  His rejection of her request stung. “But I can be of service!” she cried indignantly. How dare he dismiss me like a child! Can’t he see the value of me coming? “Ask your sister! I was of great service to the warriors in the camp. I know when the cauldron-born are near. I can help you!”

  “No. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Oh, come now! I can take care of myself!”

  “Oh, can you now?” he exclaimed in frustration. “You faint on the first night’s watch, and nearly die from fever. Then, y
ou get kidnapped by your husband, attacked by a wolf, and nearly die trying to get here. Gods, woman! Why are you so eager to put yourself in harm’s way again?”

  Lucia’s anger melted somewhat as she realized the truth of why he wanted her to stay behind. She took a deep breath. He does have a point. “Let me travel with you as far as your village, then,” she said in a softer tone. “Let me help your people, as I did before. You must understand, I can’t stay here knowing the rest of you are fighting a war. I couldn’t bear it.”

  Bran was silent for a moment. Lucia took heart, knowing he was considering her request. “So be it,” he finally said. “You can come south with us if you give me your word not to leave the safety of the camp or try to follow me north.”

  She smiled at her victory. “I swear it!”

  He shook his head. “Gods, but you’re stubborn!” Though there was genuine frustration in his voice, there was also the hint of a smile on his face.

  “Lucia, there’s something I want you to know,” he said after a moment, his tone growing serious.

  “What?” Her stomach dropped. What is it this time?

  Before he could tell her, Gwion called out from the trees. “Lord Bran! Ula has returned!”

  Gwion entered the courtyard accompanied by a naked woman with wet hair. The moment the girl saw Bran she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.

  Who the hell is she? Lucia could not help staring at her nakedness.

  “Ula!” Bran held out his arms with a grin on his face.

  As if a she were a puppy running to him, rather than a naked woman! Lucia felt eclipsed, her heart sinking at how overjoyed Bran was by this strange woman’s arrival. Gods. Was she what Bran wanted to tell her about? Her stomach churned with emotions, none of them good.

  Bran found a blanket, wrapped it around the woman, and turned to Lucia. “This is Ula. She led me to Gwion and Islwyn, who healed my wounds. I owe her my life.”

  Ula stared at Lucia, smiling like a young child. Lucia could manage nothing more than a civil nod in her direction.

  Gwion turned to Bran. “Within the lake are creatures that travel the rivers that flow through it, and even out to sea and back. There is nothing that happens in or around the waters of this land that they do not know. I bid her speak to them, and they have told her the Cauldron no longer rests within the grotto.”