Across the Sea (Islands in the Mist Series Book 2)

by J. M. Hofer

  Lucia slept a few feet away. He smiled at the mess he had made of her curls the night before. As anxious as he had been, he refused to let it keep him from making love to his wife on perhaps the last night of his life.

  It was quite cold for late summer. He put another log on the fire, poked at the sleeping coals to revive them, and sat back down. He became as quiet as the world around him, watching the early morning light spread across the sky to reveal a glassy, smooth-looking sea.

  When there was enough light to see clearly, he laid Caledgwyn across his lap and began sharpening its blade. Over and over, he slid the stone down its edge, honing it until its sharpness sang.

  Once the sun had fully risen, he stood up and sheathed his sword, prepared to meet whatever fate the gods had planned for him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out in the form of a prayer.

  Arawn, help me seize victory today.

  ***

  Everyone was awake, including Lucia, who came over and put her arms around his neck. “Promise to come back to me, with our children.”

  Bran took her face in his hands, bent down, and kissed her. “I promise—and you be careful.”

  Bran prayed at least she would succeed at her mission, should he fail his own. While he fought Hraban, she would seek out their children as well as every Oak she could find and get them out of the village. Everyone would be watching the fight. It was the perfect distraction.

  Irwyn approached. “We’re ready. The captives have been moved to the Ceffyl Dŵr. Everyone knows what to do. Once the fight begins, Tegid and I will seize our ship back.”

  Bran nodded. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  A man who could speak their language was waiting for them just outside the village. “Come,” he said, motioning for them to follow. He led them to a cleared area in the middle of the village that the crowd was gathering around. He pointed to it and said, “Wait there.”

  Bran suspected Hraban planned to make him wait a long time, and he was right. Tension seemed to mount by the minute. Eyes began darting back and forth, eyeing weapons with suspicion.

  Once the crowd began to chant the name of their earl, Bran knew he needed to do something. He unsheathed Caledgwyn, and strode into the center of the ring.

  “I am here!” he bellowed, raising his arms in the air. The magnificence of Caledgwyn glinted in the early morning sun, inspiring gasps and murmurs from the crowd. “Where is your cowardly earl? Drunk on stolen wine? Fucking stolen women?” He moved around the edge of the ring, challenging the men with his eyes. “Go and get your earl, or I will choose someone to fight in his place. My sword is thirsty for Jute blood!”

  Moments later, the crowd parted. His tirade had worked. Hraban strode into the center of the ring and wasted no time drawing his sword.

  As the crowd moved to fill the wake caused by their chieftain, Bran thought he glimpsed Gareth’s face. His heart soared with hope. He made the mistake of indulging in a second glance, and Hraban quickly profited. He struck beautifully, with precise strength, driving Bran out of his thoughts and into the moment. He struck again and again, sending Bran backward until he nearly stumbled.

  The crowd went into a frenzy, crying for blood. Adrenalin pumping, Bran struck back, intent on never letting his guard down again.

  The anticipation of the morning exploded as the sound of steel hitting steel rang out into the sky and the trees, scattering the birds and driving the crowd wild.

  Swords clashed, every blow met by yet another, and any advantage quickly seized back by the other opponent. On and on the fight raged, causing all present to become angry and anxious.

  The crowd grew more violent, weary of the standstill. They were rabid for a victory and ready to turn on each other at a moment’s notice.

  Then, Hraban delivered a blow more deadly than steel.

  “Agarah, your mother,” Hraban’s blue eyes burned into his own. “Arhianna, your daughter.”

  A wave of shock stunned Bran, not only from hearing what Hraban had said, but from hearing him say it in his own tongue. The awful truth sunk in. He could not deny it. This man is my father.

  He tried to recover, but in his split second of hesitation, Hraban thrust his sword deep into his chest and yanked it out.

  Searing pain shot through him like a poker from the forge. He heard screaming and cheering as he fell to the ground. Dazed, he looked down to see blood spurting from his wound with every beat of his heart, flowing into the earth like a crimson banner.

  Hraban stood over him, looking down and shaking his head, as if he were both proud and disappointed.

  An eternal moment later, Arawn appeared in Hraban’s place. His red eyes peered out of his ghastly skull, and his dark cape fell like night around him, eclipsing everything from view. His hounds rushed to either side of Bran’s face, snarling and sniffing at him.

  No! Bran wanted to stand up, but he could not move. Time had stopped. The world was frozen. No. I cannot die today.

  Arawn bent over and slid his skeletal hand behind Bran’s neck, feeling his mark, and looked into his eyes. It was as if terror itself had gripped him, such as he had never known.

  Son of Agarah, I swore to allow you to choose the hour of your death. You may return to your body if you wish. Know that, if you do, you will forever bear the pain of this battle in every beat of your heart, until you call upon me to end it.

  The pain in Bran’s chest was more agonizing than any he had ever felt before. More unbearable than the pain, however, was the thought of leaving his family and clan behind—of breaking his promise to his wife.

  Great Arawn, is Hraban my father?

  Yes.

  A lifetime of wondering begged to be satisfied, but Bran knew it was not to be. I will never know him. I must kill him.

  What is your choice, Son of Agarah?

  I cannot die today.

  Arawn released him, stood tall and spread his arms, summoning the hounds back to his heels.

  So be it.

  The great god slowly disappeared, his cape rising like the curtain on a grand stage, and the pain increased. Bran stood up, Caledgwyn in hand, and cried out in rebellion against the pain—as if he might drive it away by sheer will.

  The crowd gasped, and Hraban took a step back in fear.

  This time, it was Bran who did not hesitate. With one swift move, he jumped up and drove Caledgwyn straight into Hraban’s heart, just as he had sworn to do.

  Hraban fell upon the ground as Bran had only moments before, his blood spilling out. Bran kneeled and looked into his father’s eyes, as if, somehow, within those blue pools, he might see everything he longed to know before he died. To his surprise, Hraban chuckled, blood gurgling into his throat. He grabbed Bran by the arms and pulled him down so that they were face to face. He squinted up at him, smiled a bloody, gruesome smile, and spoke many words Bran did not understand. He finished with three that he did: “I have won.” Then, Hraban the Terrible let go of his son’s arms, looked skyward, and died.

  The crowd did not cheer, uncertain of what they had just witnessed. They began dividing into sides, Oaks and Jutes, hands on their weapons, eyeing one another. Bran swallowed hard, his stomach churning from the storm of pain and emotions wrought upon him that morning, but he could allow himself to give in to it. He needed to prevent the massacre he had nearly sacrificed his life to avoid.

  At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Bran noticed someone emerge from the crowd and come to his side. He looked up, and his pained heart filled with joy. “Taliesin, thank the gods.” He pulled him close and held him tightly.

  Taliesin pointed down at Hraban. “Do you know what he said to you before he died?”

  Bran shook his head.

  Taliesin looked up at him. “He said, ‘You think you have won, but you are wrong—it is I who has won. My blood lives in you, and in my granddaughter—and my old bones shall feast in Valhalla tonight. I have won.” He looked around them at the shifting crowd. “Th
ey are whispering about you, saying you came back from the dead. They are afraid of you.”

  Though he did not understand how Taliesin had learned their language in such a short time, he did not question it. “Remind them of the oath their earl made. We want only our own people and our ship. Once our people are safely out of the village, we will return their kinsmen and their ships and leave them in peace.”

  Taliesin relayed Bran’s message to the crowd, who were staring at Bran with mixed expressions, avoiding eye contact.

  “Oaks, return to the ship immediately,” Bran commanded. The pain in his chest had grown so fierce, he could scarcely speak. “Once everyone is safe, release the captives.”

  Though he knew things could descend into chaos at any moment, he was glad to see the crowd seemed somewhat placated. He took advantage of the opportunity. He ripped his tunic apart, wadded up the fabric, gritted his teeth and belted it tightly against his wound. “Now, I need water,” he whispered to Taliesin, “and please, tell me my children are safe.”

  “They are.” Taliesin motioned to someone, who pushed through the crowd into the ring.

  Gareth! Bran grabbed his son and buried his face in his hair. “Oh, thank the gods…thank the gods—“

  When Bran finally let go of him, Gareth looked up at him and nodded with pride. “I knew you’d come. Never doubted you.”

  Bran smiled. He was surprised to see he looked well, aside from his nose, which had clearly been broken. “Where’s your sister?”

  “Here!” Arhianna ran into the ring and threw her arms around him. He winced, but let her squeeze him. “Oh, Father! You were so brave! We arrived just in time to see it.”

  She pulled away and Bran took a good look at her. She was rosy-cheeked and finely-dressed, and her hair was braided elaborately around her head. She wore beautiful cuffs and rings on both wrists and hands, long leather boots and a warm sheepskin cloak. Bran felt a surge of gratitude so overwhelming it brought tears to his eyes. All three of them were safe.

  Now, we have to get out of here, he thought, looking around uneasily. He was about to lead them away, when an older woman stepped into the ring, her eyes looking between Hraban’s body, Bran and his children. A tall, formidable warrior stood behind her.

  Bran gripped his dagger beneath his cloak as he and the children moved back to let them through. “What’s happening?” he whispered to Taliesin.

  “That’s Ragna, wise-woman to the clan. And the warrior is her grandson, Jørren.”

  First, Ragna attended to Hraban’s body. She kneeled down beside it and sang blessings over it. Then, Jørren and three other men carried it away. Ragna then gave an impassioned speech to the crowd, motioning toward Bran and his children, and the faces around them changed considerably.

  “Now, what’s happening?”

  “She says, not only are you clearly the son of Hraban, which gives you blood rights within the clan, but you’ve also earned earldom by combat—the honorable way. She warns them that anyone who harms you or your children, or violates the terms of the oath between you and Hraban, will be punished by the gods who clearly favor you and your family.”

  Bran released his grip on his dagger as Saxon captives began returning to the village. He knew that meant his own people were safe.

  Reunions bubbled up all through the crowd as the captives found their families. Gasps and cries of relief and happiness could be heard all over the village. No one seemed to care about the Oaks anymore.

  “Come.” Bran ushered the children out of the village. “Let’s get you to your mother.”

  They arrived on shore to find all of the Oaks gathered together, engaged in the same kind of reunions that they had just seen in the village. The Twin Sisters were reunited as well, next to one another along the long dock. Irwyn waved from the deck of the one closest to them, and Elffin from the dock.

  They did it, the wily bastards. Bran grinned and waved back. They now had three ships in their possession—the Twin Sisters and the Ceffyl Dŵr—and more than enough room for everyone to sail home comfortably.

  Bran smiled and announced, “We sail tomorrow!”

  “Seachild!” Ula cried, noticing Taliesin. He turned and looked at her as if she had just walked out of his dreams. She ran and wrapped her arms around him, like the night cradling the moon. Taliesin smiled widely, beaming more brightly than usual, clutching his mother’s long black hair as he embraced her. Elffin was there in a moment, and the three of them clutched each other in a huddle.

  It took Lucia only a few moments before she spied Bran and her children. “Gareth! Arhianna!”

  “Mother!” Arhianna cried, reaching her first. They came together in a burst of red curls.

  Lucia clutched her and rocked her back and forth. “Oh, thank the gods, thank the gods.” Thank you, Great Mother, for protecting my children. She came and grabbed Gareth next, and Bran breathed a deep sigh of relief. The oath he had made his wife was fulfilled.

  ***

  Toward late afternoon, Bran noticed a woman approaching from the village, and a man driving a wagon behind her.

  “Who’s that?” Bran muttered under his breath.

  Gareth was beside him. “Ragna and her son, I think.” He turned and yelled at his sister. “Arhianna! Come here!”

  Arhianna turned around and came running. Gareth pointed. “Is that Ragna and Jørren?”

  “Yes!” she said with a smile.

  Bran was unnerved at how pleased his daughter was to see them. “Why are they here?”

  “They’ve brought supplies and food,” Arhianna said. It was clear she knew they were coming, but had not shared this with him. Bran knit his brows, staring at the wagon.

  “Father…are you alright?” she asked, looking down at his wound with concern. It was bleeding through his bandages again.

  No, I’m not alright. I sail to the land of my bitter enemies, learn they are led by my father, whom I have longed to know of my entire life, and within hours, I slay him. Now, his people want to send me away with gifts—as if I came here to celebrate a wedding. He felt as if someone were taking his heart in their hands and wringing it, like a wet piece of cloth. He nearly cried out in agony.

  Arhianna was unaware of his growing inner turmoil, and carried on explaining. “Ragna believes we are blessed by their gods. She insists we take it.”

  It did not take Lucia long to notice something was going on. She came over, a look of concern on her face. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bran said, watching as Arhianna ran to greet Ragna. He felt a deep uneasiness creep into his mind.

  ***

  “Father, Mother,” Arhianna said. “This is Ragna, and her son, Jørren. Ragna’s sister was married to Earl Hraban. She died in childbirth.”

  Lucia eyed their visitors. “And they’ve been good to you?”

  “Yes. Ragna took me to Freya’s temple—their Great Mother.” Arhianna looked at her mother intently. “She spoke to me, Mother. I heard her as clearly as I can hear you speaking to me now—more clearly than I’ve ever heard our own Great Mother speak to me.”

  “And what did she say?” Lucia asked warily, narrowing her eyes on Ragna.

  “She told me that she has been watching over the women of our bloodline for three generations—that it was she who gave Grandmother Agarah her pendant and helped her escape—and that it was she who helped Seren become a Firebrand.”

  Arhianna said. “And look!” She looked toward the nearest campfire and caused its flames to stretch hot and high toward the sky. Arhianna smiled, glancing over at her brother. “I’m a Firebrand.”

  “What?” Lucia looked at her daughter in shock.

  “Yes,” Arhianna answered with pride. “Aren’t you pleased?”

  Lucia looked up at Bran, who seemed dumbfounded.

  “They tried to sacrifice me to their gods, but I wasn’t afraid—I knew I wouldn’t burn. I heard the voice of Freya, their goddess, the way the Great Mother speaks to you.” />
  “Don’t ever compare the gods of these people to the Great Mother,” Lucia cautioned, pulling her daughter close. She did not know the gods of these people, and she did not want to know them—and she certainly did not want her daughter to have anything to do with them. “Bran, say something!”

  Bran smiled and pulled his daughter close, though it was obvious it pained him to do it. “Seren will be thrilled. You can start your training with her once we get home.”

  Arhianna paused and looked over at Ragna and Jørren, and then looked back at her parents. “That is the other reason they are here. I’m not going with you. I’m going to stay here.”

  “What?” Lucia swung perilously back and forth between anger and disbelief. She grabbed her daughter and yelled in her face. “Are you mad? Do you know what we’ve been through?”

  Arhianna remained calm, but her face began to twist into a painful expression. “I’m sorry, Mother—I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve made my decision—I want to stay.”

  Lucia felt a wave of rage come over her, and could do nothing to stop it. She lashed out like a winter storm at her daughter. “You ungrateful wretch! I’ve suffered with the knowledge that you and your brother would be taken from me since before you were even born! Every night that I kissed you and laid you down to sleep, and every morning when you and your brother would look up at me, I suffered! Every day, Arhianna—every single day.”

  “I know, Mother.” Arhianna had tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Lucia felt Bran’s hand on her shoulder, and felt torn between gripping it for strength and jerking herself away from it. Why is he not saying anything?

  She looked at her daughter and pictured her as an infant, and then as a little girl, thinking of the countless sleepless nights she had suffered over the years.

  Why? Why is this happening, Great Mother? Now, when I finally know my children are safe and I can breathe again—be truly happy again—I am asked to bear this?

  She anguished over returning to her now familiar prison cell of helplessness. She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. “Please don’t do this to me—please—don’t make me leave you here!”