Efan Headford Author

Here’s an excerpt from my current work-in-progress novel, The Son of Death. Please keep in mind that it’s only been edited by me, and I am by no means a professional editor. If you have any feedback, please do let me know!

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One: A Peaceful Journey

“Well, this is fun,” Brân mused to himself, rolling his eyes as yet another arrow whistled past, narrowly missing his cheek. The burst of wind caused by the projectile’s passing sent his crow-black hair swirling back, tickling at his ears and neck. “Not exactly how I imagined today going. Really, is a peaceful journey too much to ask?”

Turning to locate the source of the assault, Brân’s gaze settled on an archer some fifty yards away and to his left. The man, clad in a colourful gambeson, was already making to nock another arrow. “I don’t think so,” called Brân, a sly twang to his tone. The corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk as he sent out a projectile of his own. With a flick of his wrist the dagger, made of a black reflective metal glinting in the early spring sun and shaped in the fashion of a bird’s feather, soared through the air, whistling as it made its way towards its mark with deadly accuracy. Luckily for the archer, Brân didn’t feel like deadly today. He’d had his fill of death long ago, though Gods know the world wouldn’t have missed a few two-bit bandits. Instead, the dagger was destined for the man’s right-shoulder; hopefully enough to debilitate him and take him out of the fight, and to stop those pesky arrows. Not that the archer’s aim was particularly good.

With a loud squelch the dagger found its mark, catching the archer mid-draw. A spray of blood splattered out, painting the green grass red. A cry of pain rang out, filling the roadside with its shrillness. “Sorry about that,” Brân said with a smirk, offering the pained man a sarcastic salute as he side-stepped the wide, arching swing of a broad-headed axe. “You fucking bastard!” cried the archer, blood seeping out from around the blade embedded deep in his arm “you hit me!”

“Like I said, sorry,” said Brân with a slight grimace, that wound wasn’t going to heal quickly, and could well turn deadly if left too long. “Besides, you tried to hit me first! Oh, and a word of advice, keep the dagger in. If you want to live, that is” Smirking, Brân turned his attention to the more pressing matter. Regarding his remaining assailants, Brân let out a slight sigh. One foe down, two more to go.

It had been such a lovely day. The sun was shining, the leaves were beginning to return to the bare trees, the song of birds anthemed his journey, and a pleasant albeit bracing breeze that bore with it the chill of a winter not yet prepared to relinquish its embrace unto spring, spurred Brân on his way. Indeed, it had been a lovely day and a peaceful journey. That is, until he was beset by three would-be-robbers. Their plan had been a decent one, admittedly. The large, burly woman had stepped out onto the road, stationing herself in-front of him as the smaller, more lithe man had stalked to his rear, with the third member of their bandit group, the archer, positioned some way away, arrow already nocked. Truly, such a set-up would have been enough to intimidate, or overwhelm, most lone travelers. But Brân was not most travelers. 

“Really,” Brân questioned between evasive maneuvers, “do you not know who I am, or do you simply not care?”. Duck, step, dodge, twirl – for effect, duck, step, dodge. The woman’s axe swings were powerful, but they were wide and predictable, almost telegraphed, easy to evade though devastating should one land, which it wouldn’t. She clearly had plenty of experience, though little formal training, a bandit through-and-through. The man, on the other hand, was far swifter, and moved in an almost serpentine way, his eyes gleaming sharply as he quickly changed the hand in which he held his wickedly sharp dagger, seemingly in an attempt to confuse his target. It didn’t work. Recognising the way the man fought, Brân smirked; very much the close-quarters-combat style of Domarian soldiers. Ah, soldier turned bandit, a tale as old as time.

“Not that I mean to sound narcissistic” Brân added between breaths “but you’d be surprised how often I run into people that do, recognize me, that is. Really is an occupational hazard.”

 Ducking into a roll, Brân popped back up with a speed not befitting a mortal man, and with the same speed he sent his foot surging forward, catching the leg of the woman and sending her tumbling heavily to the ground. A plume of dusty-dirt rose as she impacted the muddy earth. Not wasting a moment, Bran sent another dagger flying out It cut through the air and embedded itself in the hand of the woman as she sought to make for her weapon, eliciting a cry of pain as the blade pinned her to the ground, a small pool of scarlet already beginning to form.

“Ain’t no idea who ya are, pal,” said the wiry man. A red bandana covering his mouth, obscured most of his swarthy features and caused his words to come out muffled. “But we’ll take ya money, all the same,” He added with a snarl.

“Will you now?” Brân chuckled, eyebrow raised. “You’re not doing a very good job, and may I draw your attention to your compatriot over there? I do believe he could do with some medical attention,” he said gesturing to the wounded archer, “not to mention this fine young lady. Besides, as it stands, I do believe you’re on your own.” The bandit’s eyes widened in realization. The man cast a quick glance to his downed co-conspirators, swallowing thickly, He took a hesitant step closer. Capitalizing on the moment of hesitation, Brân surged forward, his black feather cloak fluttering out behind him, and grasped the bandit’s out-stretched arm, twisting his torso with great force, to send the man spiraling over and to the ground, causing another, smaller, cloud of dirt to rise into the air.

Both bandits made for their weapons, the woman having pulled the dagger free of her hand with a grunt and spray of blood, but Brân was faster; much faster. As the dust settled, Brân stood over his would-be assailants, their weapons held together in one hand, his other wielding a feather-like dagger of his own. Peering down at the two, Brân’s unnatural purple eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light. His voice bore with it a far harder edge than it had before, echoing with power. “We’re done here,” Brân said, a note of finality in his tone. It wasn’t a question. In unison the bandits nodded, their eyes wide as they sat motionless on the ground. Several moments of tense silence passed, broken only by the sniveling of the injured archer and the blowing of the breeze. Eventually, the sly man spoke with a shiver, running a hand through his matted dusty-blond hair. “W-who are ya?”.

Sighing, Brân allowed the tension to leave his shoulders as he threw the bandits’ weapons at their feet, stretching his back and rolling his neck to either side, eliciting several audible ‘pops’, before responding. “Me,” Brân asked, the sarcastic tone having crept back into his voice, “Well, since you asked so nicely, my name’s Brân, they call me ‘The Son of Death’.”