The Gantlet

by Linda L. Dunlap

  “I should have done something,” he said.

  “No, they would have killed you without waiting,” Tom whispered. “It’s the witches so close caused this. They’ve poisoned the air with malice.”

  “Lie still, Tom,” Breanna begged. “Let me see what I can do. I’m elven, remember?” she said with a smile, her eyes wet with love for her friend.

  “Aye, lass, if it can be done, you can do it,” he whispered before falling into the deep sleep caused by great pain.

  “Breanna, can he be fixed?” Rand asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know. I will do my best,” she answered, looking the old man over. Tom not only had broken bones, he had bright red blood gushing from his stomach where a part of the cart’s seat had splintered and torn his flesh away, exposing vulnerable organs. With her eyes blinded by tears, Breanna dug into the broken cart for what supplies were still available.

  A woman moved from across the roadway, bound for them.

  “Stop, you can’t hurt him anymore,” Sean yelled.

  “No, I…I have some balm that might help. Here,” she said, dropping the salve and running away, her face white from fear.

  “Rand,” Breanna said, “hold him. No matter how hard he struggles, don’t let him go.”

  “A’right, I can hold him,” he said, reaching around Tom, hugging his body close. “Done. I have him.” The sight of the old man shocked him, for he had all the signs of someone about to die. In the captain’s experience, men didn’t long survive with such injuries.

  Breanna looked past Rand and the crowd, back into time, back when she was a babe in the sleeping cradle, and someone who loved her whispered secrets in her tiny elven ears. Winona, you battle demons; you have taught me how to send them flying. Teach me to how to send this pain and brokenness flying, teach me how to heal my friend.

  Child, he is dying, it is beyond me. You must heal him yourself. The ghostly words came from the past.

  “No, Tom, don’t go,” Breanna begged when his labored breathing slowed.

  Winona, help me, help me, she thought, her heart breaking, the love she had for the man filling her, expanding throughout her body and soul.

  Child, life from death is not my gift. You have the power. Winona faded, her voice easing out of Breanna’s consciousness.

  “Please, live, Tom, don’t die. Take my spirit and let it heal you. Hold, Tom, hold,” she pleaded.

  You must heal him yourself. Winona’s words came back, true and strong.

  Breanna moved into her center, into the place where the memories lived, where the source of the ancients’ power lay waiting. She rubbed her hands together and placed them upon Tom’s chest, projecting her spirit and energy into his being. Great heat from her fingers penetrated the old, broken man, and he arched his body upward, away from Rand’s arms. Words came to Breanna, old words, the whispered, healing words of ancient elves who lived in treetops and ruled their world. Power heard her call and sorted the reams of old wisdom. It found the arcs of healing and hummed, vibrating against bone and blood, surging through the hands of the chosen.

  The bones inside Tom’s body began knitting, and old joints cracked as they came together renewed. Then came the sound Breanna had known since her fifteenth birthday—the sound of new skin growing, sliding across, and against, as healing began in Tom’s torn stomach and lower body. Bit by bit, his body repaired itself, covering the exposed organs as they had been before. Only this time it was better, because mortal Tom Simpkin had been elf-magicked, and stolen away from death’s door.

  They sat on the grass for a while, using the cover of the ruined cart to protect their friend. For a while, no one spoke. Each waited to see if Tom survived. At best, they thought he would be alive, but broken, and unable to walk.

  Breanna’s headache was worse than ever before. The pain behind her eyes was so deep that she felt as though her skull would split.

  “Here, these are salts for your pain. Take them. They will help,” Rand said, reaching into his shirt with one hand and extracting a package. “I got them from the apothecary.”

  “When did you get them?” she asked, surprised and pleased by the captain’s kindness.

  “When Sean and I went searching for my mates,” he replied hesitantly. “I know you suffer some after doing whatever it is you do.”

  She thanked him and swallowed part of the potion with water from the bottom of the broken barrel.

  After a moment or two, they heard a faint voice, first whispering, and then growing louder: “Turn me loose, captain. Are you trying to kill me? I can’t draw a breath.”

  Rand stared at Breanna, his face registering amazement and awe, unbelieving, but aware Tom was talking to him, where a brief time before he had been as good as dead.

  “D’you hear me, captain? You’re squeezing me to death,” Tom said, his good humor back with his health.

  “Aye, here you go, Tom, and are you a’right?” Rand asked.

  “And why shouldn’t I be? An old man I am, but a little bruising I can take with the best of them.”

  Breanna gazed at Rand with a deep stare that said, “Don’t ask.” She knew that all she felt for him was in her eyes. He looked back at her helplessly, for the world he had known had been changed by an emotion theretofore denied him. Trying to get control of his feelings, the captain put on the face of normalcy, of being just an ordinary ship’s captain, and not a witness to the revival of a dead man by the young woman who held his own heart in her hands.

  “Are you two going to sit and stare at each other all the blessed day or will you help old Tom up and get this cart turned back over?”

  Breanna shook herself, a movement that seemed to awaken her from a long sleep. She jumped up and lent a hand to Tom, who suddenly discovered he really didn’t need the help, for his legs were working better than they had in years. Sean was asleep on the grass. He had tried to stay awake after Breanna acknowledged that Tom would survive, but he was unable to keep his eyes open.

  The dead ox was left where those who wanted the meat could butcher it. Bess was barely able to walk, but followed along behind the people who had saved her. They gathered their equipment and goods and distributed the load, giving Tom and Breanna the lightest packs. She walked with her quiver on her back. Kit peeked over the top, but his red ears blended with her hair and he was hard to see. Tom led the group with a lively step. The healing of his wounds had revived some of his youthful ways.

  Rand was silent, casting glances at the innocent girl beside him. He could have easily mistaken her for a boy, as he did on the ship. Her britches were loose, and the head cover she wore disguised the luxury of her red curls. The young ship’s captain was overwhelmed by the experiences of the previous days, for he had seen more magic in the last hour than all his mates had ever dreamed about, magic that came from the girl walking quietly beside him on the dung-covered road.

  He had moments of fear, for the deeds she performed were out of the known world, harkening back to another time and place, long before they were born. His feelings for her were a mix of admiration and awe, a combination that pushed him away, for how could he ever be good enough for her?

  Breanna noticed Rand was careful to avoid brushing against her, making her believe he cared little for her, and possibly thought her odd and disgusting when she delved into elven magic. Her thoughts ran wild.

  I have so few true friends; I couldn’t bear it if I lost Rand’s affection.

  Sean no longer wondered about the source of magical happenings Brianna performed, but sometimes, as with Tom’s healing, the boy had to express himself.

  “Bree, I don’t know what you did to Tom, but he’s walking faster than me. Will it last?”

  She smiled at Sean and shrugged, her way of acknowledging the question, but at the same time explaining her own puzzlement.

  “I don’t know, Sean. I never considered; I only wanted to keep him alive,” she said. “It is wonderful to see, isn’t it?”

  “It is, a
nd I hope it lasts,” he agreed.

  The boy’s attention was suddenly diverted by three men holding war axes aloft as they danced toe to toe inside a circle. The grace of their movements was exciting to watch. The soldiers’ treatment of Tom, and their cruelty to the oxen, had spoiled Sean’s admiration for the king’s men, but he was awed by the sport, and the handling of the gleaming axes.

  “I’ve never seen men dancing with other men.”

  “It’s a battle dance,” Rand said, staring steadily at the axes held above the men’s heads. “When the dance is over, the battle begins, with only one leaving the circle. Brave or stupid, they’ll finish it, when it’s the real thing. The tourney will have them slicing each other to pieces, with the last winner taking home the silver.”

  “I don’t think I want to see it,” the boy muttered, his admiration for the games disintegrating.

  “Nay, such sport is not for me either, boy,” Tom said.

  A small herd of cattle grazed in a section of the waiting area, and Bess edged her way toward the grass and the other bovines, turning once to stare at Tom.

  “Go on with you, girl. You’ve been faithful and true,” he said to the injured ox. “I wish you a happier life than this day has promised. You’re in a sight better place than your partner, for sure.”

  The archery field was near the farm’s outer boundaries, and tree trunks on the border made good target hangers for the final event. A few green-and-yellow-shirted soldiers had cordoned off the area, and set up entry gates for contestants. The area was maintained by a few men bullying bystanders who got too close to the gate.

  Rand carried Breanna’s bow and Sean’s arrow quiver, and found a place at the end of the line. They were late to the event, causing the captain some distress as he looked at the men ahead of him. Archery was always the most popular event in tournaments, for many could enter and lose without suffering bloodshed, while the winner walked away with a sizable purse.

  The king and his ladies sat on a traveling dais, higher than the field and surrounded by soldiers. King Arne Wallace, monarch of the North Sea Lands, was a bloody king who had conquered all the territories of the Qadra and the North Sea a decade before. He put his own father to the noose when the old man got in his way. A verified heartless bully, Arne ruled the sea lands with an iron fist, and claimed a large portion of gold from every trade ship sailing the Qadra and the North Seas, as well as the Beltick Seaway. In addition to being a despot, King Arne was exceedingly wealthy.

  While they waited in line, Rand told his three friends of an incident in which he had had personal knowledge of King Arne’s murderous behavior. Beginning the tale quietly, the captain grew boisterous as he told the story of a man he had known well.

  “Over a half-year before,” he began, “one of my mates, a youngish sort called Isak Olfare, was noticed by the princess. The girl had thought him comely when the king’s caravan came abreast of the ship in port, and she saw the crew disembarking from the Mede Truheart. Isak was a westerner, with flashing eyes and yellow hair. His smile was said to have thrilled many a heart, and most of the lasses in port took a shine to him.

  “Young Princess Fielda was watched closely by her father, for he intended to sell her to King Jael of the Vladts, an old man who had piles of gold and silver in his castle, but no wife. King Arne was determined to make a profitable trade, and cared not what thoughts his daughter had about the match.

  “Unbeknown to the king, Princess Fielda paid two of her father’s guards handsomely to escort Isak quietly to her rooms. The guards, however, were frightened their sire would hear of the deception, and make them pay with their lives.

  “To keep from a too-long tale,” Rand said, “here is the way it went. When King Arne was told by his men about the girl’s plan, he made them find Isak and kill him. On his orders, they dumped the young man’s body into the waste channels running from the castle to the sea. Those soldiers of the guard who knew of the incident were first given silver for their betrayal of the princess, and then thrown into the king’s bear pit to assure their silence.

  “It was the end of the sailor who had done nothing amiss except catch the eye of the king’s daughter. This is a vicious man who wears the crown. King Arne is not merciful, and he isn’t fair-minded. Watch him closely.”

  While keeping an eye on the archers gathered in large groups, Breanna grew fearfully excited about the contest. She believed Captain Rand’s abilities with the bow must be excellent. He said his poppa had been an archer who believed in teaching his small son to love the art of shooting, and how to treat the wood as though it were an extension of his body. For years the boy practiced until he was the best in his village, even better at target shooting than his poppa.

  The tourney would have many excellent bowmen with the best equipment available. Her bow, though made smaller than many of the true longbows, was tempered by the streams of blue fire from her fingers, and would resist breakage when stressed. Elven magic had filled the pores of the wood, creating a weapon of extreme balance, resistance, and flexibility.

  The men in the contest were numbered in shooting order by the time of day they arrived. All of them, that is, except the favorites of the king, who were allowed to go first before their courage wilted. Rand was near the end of the shooting line, and his patience was worn thin after waiting for archers both good and bad before him.

  “Bree, you’re staring at me. Is something wrong?” Rand asked worriedly as he caught her eye. “Are you afraid I will shame you?”

  “I could never be ashamed of you for doing a noble thing,” she replied. He reminded her of her poppa. A nobler Qay than Lyman Ascroft could never be found. He would like the captain, even if he thought she was much too young to be infatuated with such an older man. Smiling a little, Breanna tucked her head, hiding her feelings.

  “I hope you are given a fair chance,” Sean said. “Either they have some real strong archers out there, or someone is eyeing the targets wrong. There are three that have made almost the same score. All king’s men. Doesn’t sound like everything’s even up.”

  “The king is known to stand by his men,” Tom interjected. His previous experience with the soldiers was not forgotten, but the tinker knew not all men were cut from the same cloth. Many were a decent sort.

  “My task will be more difficult because the king has favorites,” Rand said, squaring his shoulders.

  “You will do well,” Breanna said confidently. “But if you wish, I can use my magic to make you more accurate.”

  “Nay, no magic. It’s on my own, or not at all.”

  She nodded, acknowledging his wish would be granted. Rand Winter would win or lose by himself.

  The sun was sinking with the evening upon them, and nothing had been done to secure Elida’s release. Breanna was worried, and wanted to speak to the girl, to assure her, to keep her believing all would be well, to tell her they were coming to release her from Yahmara’s clutches. She closed her eyes and searched her mind for the dark passage that led to her young friend. The doorway stood just next to the path leading to sleep; to pass it by was to begin dreaming, and miss the way to the frightened child.

  She forgot the tournament, forgot her friends and the heat and discomfort of the day, and stepped through the door, onto the dark path. Her feet touched, then flew, and the land around her disappeared as she moved toward a tiny light far, far, away. The way was barren, and Breanna felt a change in her reactions. Her heart grew heavy with an overwhelming feeling of doom, hopelessness, and crippling despair. She saw mind pictures of Willum and Alane, their headless bodies lying on the grass, and then an early memory of the two filled her mind as they smiled at small Elida, smiled at her. Breanna was there, in the consciousness of the nine-year-old girl, and she felt the child’s sickness and her fear. For a moment Breanna was afraid, and her insides twisted with the horrid thoughts of the women in black and what they might do next.

  “Elida, I’m here, Breanna said, her voice ringing in the dar
k tunnel of space.

  The little girl was unresponsive. Terrible dreams racked her body as she slept restlessly, tossing on the hard bed.

  “Elida, wake up. It’s Bree. I’m here. We love you; we’re coming to save you.”

  “Bree,” the child said, awakening quickly. “Don’t leave me here. I’m not strong like you. Don’t go. They know I’m just a little girl. She wants me.”

  “I know she is evil. Resist her, Elida. Be strong for a short time. We are coming.”

  “Don’t leave me here,” Elida screamed. “Don’t leave me. I’ll hate you if you don’t take me with you.”

  “Shh. I have to go, but I’ll be back. Please understand, I have no way to take you back. Be strong…”

  “Bree, Bree, wake up. Bree, wake up. Rand shoots next,” Sean said, his hands on her shoulders.

  She was jerked back to the present, to the fields beyond Tick, to the arena where Rand would either win the help they needed or lose the contest, and they would begin again. Thoughts of Elida filled her head, the last words she had screamed, the despair within the girl greater than all her fears. Yahmara wanted the child for one of her followers. Elida would be a prize to display, and the destruction of her innocence would be the witch’s bonus.

  24.

  Rand stood with his back against a tree to hide his nervousness. The short time he’d had to practice hadn’t helped his self-confidence. The man in front of him stood ready, the tip of his longbow taller than the man himself. Great strength was needed for such a weapon, Rand knew, for he had one himself, back on the ship. It was badly in need of restringing, for it had been his poppa’s, and it was passed on to Rand as the older man grew weaker in his arms. The young captain waited for his turn and saw the dozen men who had scored within the same point range standing together near the king’s box, and the appraising eyes of the princess followed their movements.