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

by J. M. Hofer

  They had underestimated the enemy yet again, and he wondered how much blood it would cost them this time. He heard the Northerners engaging the enemy as cauldron-born converged on the Grove from all sides. The sight caused him to recoil. He had never seen them clearly before, having encountered them only in the darkness of the caves.

  Some walked upright wielding weapons, as Gawain had described. Some were more animal-like, moving eerily on all fours like deformed dogs at the heels of their grotesque brothers. Their pale skin blended into the white birch bark, occasionally visible against the darker trunks of the other trees.

  The figures approached with an ease that seemed to defy gravity, twisting along in ways Bran did not think a human skeleton capable of. They slid around objects in their path, at times moving across the ground like snakes. He became more alarmed as their features came into view, their cloudy eyes most disturbing of all.

  He heard arrows rain down on the cauldron-born from the trees, followed by the fierce voice of Ambisagrus leading men into the fight, but the cauldron-born were stunned for only a moment. They struck back with inhuman strength and agility.

  The older ones overcame the Northerners quickly. The younger ones scrambled up the many trees to yank or knock the archers down to the forest floor below, where they were swarmed and fed upon, one by one. Screams of agony filled the Grove, and Bran’s hatred for Aelhaearn boiled over.

  “How could you betray your people?” he cried, exhaustion and despair setting in. “Cerridwen is using you! You mean nothing to her.”

  “Yes, she is,” Aelhaearn agreed, “and I’m using her.” With that, Aelhaearn struck a blow so forceful that Bran lost his balance and toppled backward over one of the Oak’s huge roots. Aelhaearn was on top of him in seconds, pinning him helplessly against the ground with the Shield. He pointed Dyrnwyn at his throat.

  Bran knew he was beaten. From beneath the cover of the Shield, he managed to push Caledgwyn deep between the roots of the Oak, where it disappeared. I’ll not suffer him to take it.

  “What did she offer you?” he asked Aelhaearn, truly wondering at the answer.

  Aelhaearn smiled down at him. “Something I’d wager you’d do just about anything for right now—the power to refuse death.” With that, he forced Bran’s throat down against the root he had tripped over.

  Bran fought with all of his strength, panic lending him power, but it was no use. Can’t move…

  Aelhaearn raised Dyrnwyn high and brought it down swiftly on the back of his neck.

  A moment later, Bran was as shocked as Aelhaearn to find his head still attached to his body. Bewildered, Aelhaearn raised his sword again.

  “Wait!”

  Cerridwen’s returned. Bran prayed she had not succeeded in finding Gwion. He felt her hands move his hair away, and touch the brand on the back of his neck.

  “What the bloody hell is that?” Aelhaearn asked.

  “None of your concern. Tie his hands and hang him from a tree so he can no longer interfere.” She leaned down and whispered directly into Bran’s ear. “I know to whom your Death belongs, Warrior. Consider yourself twice blessed, for you shall see today something no mortal has ever seen before.”

  Aelhaearn tied Bran’s hands behind his back, dragged him beneath one of the Oak’s strongest limbs, looped a rope around his neck and hoisted him ten feet in the air. The pain was excruciating, but Bran’s heart continued to pump, demanding he stay and bear it. He had no choice but to watch what was happening below.

  Cerridwen called in the Guardians and walked the perimeter of the Grove, casting a ritual circle. She whispered something that Bran did not understand. From where he hung, he could see hundreds of cauldron-born pressing in. They paced restlessly along the edge of the circle, their cloudy eyes glowing eerily in the trees, the blood of his slaughtered brothers dripping from their lips and hands. Where are my men? Have we been so easily defeated?

  Seren! Bran prayed desperately, hoping somehow his sister could hear him.

  Just as the last of the sun’s light disappeared, Cerridwen walked to the center of the Grove and stood directly beneath the Oak. She raised her arms and the cauldron-born swarmed in like insects. They began climbing the Oak, pressing their bodies into her, guttural sounds emerging from their throats. They seemed ravenous, as if longing to feed upon her, moving up along her trunk and into her limbs, their long fingernails digging into her bark.

  Then, Bran thought he felt the Oak herself began to move; the limb he hung upon had shifted. He squinted in the faint light, wondering if perhaps the movement he felt could have come from the parasites that leeched upon her. Soon, there was no doubt.

  Oh, Great Mother…he thought in horror, not believing what he saw.

  The Oak shuddered in labor pains, pushing her roots up and spreading them apart, straining out of the forest floor that held her. The cauldron-born became frenzied in anticipation of what was about to happen.

  Some of them fell from her limbs down between her roots and were crushed as her enormous trunk began to split, cracking in the center, but the rest rushed toward the opening, their fingers invading it, squealing fervently trying to pull her apart. Again she twisted, her roots moving outward, her branches shaking, and the crack opened wider. They writhed and screamed in delight, as the gap was now nearly large enough for a body to fit through…

  Then, the Oak suddenly split wide open, with a crack as loud as a thunderclap. The cauldron-born trampled over each other, scrambling and falling over the hundreds of acorns that blanketed the ground in their desperation to get near the opening.

  With the cauldron-born preoccupied, Bran tried to use the opportunity to call for help, but he could not speak. The rope was too tight around his throat. He held on as long as he could, until the blackness claimed his consciousness.

  ***

  Bran felt the rope from which he hung being sawed upon from above. He tried to see who labored to cut him down, but he could neither lift nor turn his head.

  The rope snapped and he fell from the tree limb down into the chaos below. He struggled to his knees and got himself to the cover of the undergrowth as fast as he could.

  “My lord,” he heard someone whisper urgently to him in the dark. He looked up to see Gwion kneeling at his side.

  “The South has arrived. Even your sister has come to fight.” He cut the rope from his hands.

  Hope returned to Bran’s heart as he worked blood back into his wrists and sat up to drank the water Gwion had brought. Once he could feel his hands again he stood up, encouraged by the familiar sound of his clan’s battle cries. He retrieved his sword from where he had hidden it. “Go and hide while we finish this!” he commanded, and then ran into where the battle was thickest. “Surround the tree!” he called to his clansmen, his voice finally returned. “They can’t be allowed to cross over—slay them all!”

  The warriors belted forth mighty battle cries, encouraged by Bran’s appearance.

  Not far from where he fought, Bran noticed fire bursts. Aelhaearn. He ran swiftly toward his enemy. Upon reaching him, he was shocked to discover the fire came not from the hands of Aelhaearn, but from the hands of a boy, engulfing cauldron-born in flames.

  How could this be? Another male Firebrand?

  He ran to the boy’s side and began decapitating the burned victims. A familiar voice greeted him.

  “Brother!”

  Stunned, Bran realized it was his sister fighting by his side. “Seren!”

  Cadoc had indeed taught her to fight well, far better than Bran had assumed. She had shaved off her hair like the ancient Firebrand warrioresses of old, and had bound her clothing tightly to her body, leaving nothing for her flames to ignite but their enemies.

  As the battle waged on, Bran watched intently for any sign of Aelhaearn or Cerridwen, until finally they appeared within the opening of the Oak which now had gotten much wider.

  “Slay the witch!” Ambisagrus cried from across the Grove.

  Bran looke
d over to see the old warrior surging toward Cerridwen.“Stay here!” he called to his sister.

  “Like hell I will!” she cried, moving ahead and burning a trail for them through the cauldron-born. Bran delivered repeated executions as he moved toward where Cerridwen stood, Aelhaearn defending her as she worked to open the doorway to the Otherworld for her dark children.

  Ambisagrus attacked Aelhaearn, but like Bran, was easily driven back.

  Seeing the traitor blaspheming the relics of their clans while he slaughtered his own brothers drove Bran into a fury beyond that which he had ever felt before. He launched himself like a terrible warship across the sea of writhing flesh which separated them, Caledgwyn culling waves of cauldron-born like wheat as he hacked his way toward Aelhaearn, heads rolling into the rifts in the earth opened up by the Oak’s shifting roots.

  Tragically, before Bran could reach him, Aelhaearn dealt Ambisagrus a death blow, sending the great warrior deep beneath the sea of clamoring bodies.

  Enraged, Seren burned her way toward Aelhaearn and attacked him, but he tossed her aside into the swarm of cauldron-born. Bran ran to her rescue, pulling her up before she could be trampled or ripped apart. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Seren! You must leave this fight!”

  Before he could see her to safety, Aelhaearn attacked him. Their swords met with a deafening clash. “She’s never been obedient,” Aelhaearn said, “but she will be. As will everyone when this is done.”

  Bran fought with all the strength and skill he had, but could gain no ground, all the while watching as cauldron-born took down dozens of his fellow clansmen.

  “We must retreat!” he heard Neirin call to him from across the Grove.

  Bran knew this was their only chance to defeat their enemies. It’s now, or never. “We can’t give up!” he cried back, even though he had been in enough battles to know a loss when he saw one.

  Then, suddenly, the cauldron-born stopped attacking. They all turned toward the opening in the tree which was now big enough for a man to walk through, and swarmed toward it more desperately than ever.

  We’ve lost, Bran lamented. The cauldron-born outnumbered the warriors three to one, and the doorway would soon be wide enough for them to pass through. She’s done it. Cerridwen has opened the door to the Otherworld.

  He was momentarily stunned, unable to think. In his stupor, Caledgwyn was struck from his hand. Instinctively, he reached for his spear and drove it through his attacker, and, to his shock, its body turned to ash. “Take up your spears!” he bellowed to the warriors around him. He finished three or four more cauldron-born, turning them to ashes.

  Soon his warriors realized what was happening. They traded steel for their wooden spears and gained a slight advantage in the fight.

  Bran hoped they might recover the ground they had lost, but as the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, the cauldron-born gained strength and fought more fiercely. One by one, the warriors of the Great Circle disappeared beneath the enemy swarm, and Bran finally choked out the command he knew he must give. “Retreat!” he yelled.

  What few warriors remained attempted to fight their way out of the Grove, but it was no use. They were now completely surrounded. Bran knew none of them would make it out alive. He said a silent prayer to Arawn on their behalf, asking that they all be swiftly guided to the Summerlands for their bravery.

  Then, something happened that no one but the gods took notice of, until a lone child’s screams of agony rose above every sound in the Grove.

  “Bran!” Seren yelled. “The boy jumped into the Cauldron!”

  Bran ran toward the heart-wrenching sound in a panic. Just before he could peer over its dark lip, the Cauldron split in two with a thunderous clap that seemed to shatter the sky. Its dark halves fell apart to reveal Gwion’s broken body.

  The cauldron-born who had not managed to cross over collapsed to the ground like empty sacks, and a deathly quiet descended upon the Grove. Even the river seemed to be holding its breath.

  Bran ran to where the Cauldron lay split open and knelt down to pick up Gwion’s crushed body. He cradled him like a baby, and soon sobs burst forth from his chest as violent as if he had lost his own son.

  Nothing moved but the breeze through the trees until, out of the corner of his eye, Bran spied something huge and dark emerging from the doorway of the Oak into the Grove. He looked up and recognized a terrible sight he had seen once before.

  The ominous figure of Arawn moved into the Grove, towering above them all some fifteen feet high, clutching cauldron-born in his huge skeletal hands as easily as if he had pulled up a patch of weeds. He dashed them to the ground where his white hounds soon had them ripped to pieces.

  Bran saw Aelhaearn leap to stand protectively in front of Cerridwen, foolishly challenging the God of Death, but neither fire nor the weapons of men could harm the Lord of Annwn. The black giant struck him but once, easily throwing him off his feet, knocking both Shield and Sword from his hands and the Helmet from his head. “Firebrand no more, you shall henceforth wander the earth in exile, stripped of your gift, unable to speak or make love to a woman. Life will yield no pleasure to you. Though you will beg me to come for you, like a disemboweled warrior begs for me upon the battlefield, I will not come.”

  Aelhaearn quivered, bleeding at the feet of the great god, eyes cast down in fear.

  “I warn you, should you take your own life, you will enter a hell far worse than the one you suffer here, for you will never find the Summerlands until you have redeemed your injustice here. Be gone.”

  Aelhaearn dared not turn his back upon Arawn, and so backed himself away, crawling into the trees.

  Then Arawn turned toward Bran. Terrified, Bran kept his eyes on the ground in front of him and Gwion close to his chest, making his submission clear.

  The great god came and extended his massive hand over the boy that lay in Bran’s lap, his fingers spread over him like the limbs of a tree. Golden light began to emanate forth from Gwion’s body toward the center of Arawn’s great palm, until it formed a point so small and brilliant that Bran could not bear to look at it. Suddenly, Bran no longer felt the weight of Gwion in his arms, and looked down to see his body was gone.

  Then, with the golden seed of Gwion’s soul within his hand, Arawn turned to the Cerridwen. Her face and hands were on the ground, and to Bran’s shock he realized why he had found her so familiar to him. There, upon the back of her neck, he saw the same unmistakable silver mark he himself bore. The one she herself had given him; the Mark of Arawn.

  The Lord Arawn stood over her, as solid and silent as a great black statue except for his red cloak, which floated eerily around him on the invisible breeze of the Otherworld. He looked down upon her for a long time. She did not lift her head nor speak, her upturned hands shaking with supplication and surrender.

  Bran could not hear the words he spoke to her, but Cerridwen shook her head against them in refusal, crying, “No, I won’t!”

  Arawn picked her up from the ground as if she were a small child, and placed his golden palm that held the soul of Gwion upon her belly.

  “No!” she protested.

  But she would. Arawn set her back down in the Grove and then disappeared back through the Oak he had come through, carrying in each hand a broken half of the Cauldron. His hounds took the other relics up in their massive jaws and followed their master through the doorway. After they disappeared into the blackness, the tree twisted and turned, her trunk closing behind them and her roots reaching forth and grasping all of the dead, pulling them into their final resting place deep down in the earth beneath her.

  When all was as it had been before, Bran heard the deep and terrible voice of Arawn thundering within him.

  Consider your oath fulfilled, Son of Agarah.

  ***

  What few warriors remained built a mass pyre for their dead in the Grove. There, Seren burned them in a fire so hot, it seemed summer had returned. They sang songs of the Summerlands to their f
allen brothers through the night until the dawn broke, and then left Bran and Seren behind, eager to return to their families.

  As they made their way back to the Fortress, Bran pondered the bittersweet victory they had won—a victory that had finally set them free from the terrors of the night, but had been bought with the steep price of many lives.

  “Our people wait for you at the Fortress,” Seren said after some time.

  “All of them?” Bran asked in surprise.

  “All that are now left,” Seren replied sadly. “Lucia dreamt of a hawk with wings of fire, bearing a message from you insisting we journey to the Crossroads and leave none behind. She has never been wrong before, so I heeded her warning. We met Neirin along the way, who said he had come seeking the warriors. We sent the women to the Fortress and bid them barricade themselves inside. Lucia is there with them. I came along with the men to fight.”

  Bran’s heart leapt at the mention of Lucia, but then was as quickly overcome with shame as he realized how many warriors would not be returning to lie in the arms of their lovers that night.

  “Our people,” Bran murmured softly. “Our people are now mostly women and children robbed of husbands and fathers.”

  “Yes. It seems you are a Chieftain of Women twice-over.” She gave him a sad smile.

  “So it would seem.” He thought deeply about the Crossroads and how it now stood without a guardian, and the loss of life all the clans had suffered.

  “I fear returning home and finding it in ruins.” Seren gave him an anxious glance.

  “We won’t be returning home.” The words surprised Bran as they came out, as if some unseen force had uttered them. “The North sits without a chieftain, and Neirin is still very young without Ambisagrus to advise him any longer. Both clans have lost most of their warriors, and amount to little more than small villages now. I plan to unite us as one tribe, here at the Crossroads.”

  Seren said nothing for awhile, considering her brother’s words. “You mean to lead us all, then?”

  “Uniting our clans is what we must do to survive—I believe I can do that.”