by Hazel Hunter
A short distance from the glen the tree-worshipper dismounted and tethered his horse before striding with purpose toward Iolar.
“You, there,” the druid said, his face dark with ire. “I seek five highlanders accompanied by a black-haired hoor. Did they pass you?”
Iolar frowned as he took in the tree-worshipper’s unusual stature. The male stood nearly as tall as Danar, and had the muscular form of a warrior. He also radiated power that held more than a tinge of darkness to it. His despair, which carried like the rankness of rot, possessed the heat of rage rather than the chill of sorrow.
“Dinnae stand there gaping at me,” the druid said, his tone sharp now. “Did you see them?”
Dropping his glamor, Iolar spread his wings. “See me, human, from your knees.”
The druid swayed, squinting against the brilliant light shed by the prince’s true form, yet remained standing. “You’re Sluath.”
“Allow me to kiss it, my lord,” Meirneal said, a lovely smile spreading across his young face as the others uncloaked as well. “I’ll persuade it to obey.”
Clamhan uttered a laugh. “You’ll chew off the tongue again, and then it will tell us nothing.”
Iolar walked up to the druid and seized him by the throat, lifting him off his feet.
“I am Iolar, Prince of all Sluath.” He waited for the druid to struggle and choke, and when he didn’t, he smiled. “Are you insane or simply a very bad druid?”
“Release me.” He choked out the words, but never took his gray eyes from the prince’s face. “Or I shall gut you.”
Iolar glanced down to see the tree-worshipper’s fist pressing a blade against his chest plate. The novelty of being threatened by a human—even one as close to damnation as this one had crept—made him laugh before he dropped him.
“I’m Galan Aedth,” the druid said, rubbing his neck before he sheathed his blade. “Headman of the Moss Dapple tribe.”
He said it with great self-importance, as if it made them equals. The gall of this pitiful being seemed to have no limits.
“I don’t care what you call yourself, human,” Iolar declared. “But the five highlanders and their hoor. Tell me of them.”
Galan’s eyes shifted left and right as if seeing the deamhanan for the first time. But instead of fear, a sly look slid into place.
“So we both seek the Pritani hunters,” the druid said as his gaze moved past him to the road leading around the glen. “Mayhap we could aid each other.”
A druid who bargained with a deamhan prince that he’d just threatened might be worth tolerating for a few more seconds.
“Please,” Iolar said pleasantly, “do enlighten me.”
“Before that hoor lured them away, the Mag Raith served me.”
Iolar exchanged a look with Seabhag, who raised his brows. So the highlanders had hid with druids.
Galan gestured at the prince’s blood-stained claws. “I neednae use force to prevail over them. I ken all their skills.”
Iolar suspected that was all the explanation he’d offer. The druid’s deviousness didn’t surprise him, as he knew the trait to be common among that kind. Still, he could prove useful, especially now that he’d revealed his utter ignorance of the Sluath’s natures. Yes, while they searched from the air, the druid could plod along on the ground.
“What do you want in return for your, ah, services?”
“My mate wasnae druid kind, but Pritani. She died in childbirth.” Old suffering burned in his eyes. “If you’ve the power to bring her back to me, I shall do anything you wish.”
That seemed to be the only whole truth that had issued from the druid’s endlessly flapping lips. Despite his contempt for the human, Iolar was somewhat intrigued.
“Your hunters stole from me before they escaped the underworld. If you wish your mate restored to you, then you must first find them and lead them to me. Only then shall I resurrect your mate.”
Galan sank to his knees. “I give you my vow, my prince.”
In that moment he felt the rush of greed pouring out of the druid, and smiled. “Very well, then, Aedth. I think we may have a bargain.”
Chapter Eight
Never had Broden felt more alive than when he and his mount had taken to the air. To ride across the sky, as if they’d both sprouted feathers and wings, had broken all the unseen chains binding his spirit. The utter exhilaration of it had poured such raw power through him he’d expected his body might burst apart in the way that a dropped pot shattered. He craved it again, to give chase and hunt down those hoor-faced skegs. This time they’d taste his blade with their pretty necks before their pretty heads plummeted to thump in the dirt.
Yet Domnall had issued the order for a stand hunt. That meant they would need to find a concealed place to provide cover, and that duty fell to Broden. Flying to hunt the demons would have to wait.
Pushing back a surge of resentment, Broden took in their surroundings, turning slowly as he inspected every possible route away from the battlefield. The passage of time had altered the look of the highlands both subtly and greatly. Beneath that changed surface he knew the rocky terrain to be as it ever had been: a warren of stone.
The skeg bastarts would expect them to flee, so no place could be safer than exactly where they had fought them.
Broden shifted his gaze to the slopes, noting the patterns of weathered stone and brush growth. There between two rough outcroppings he saw a patch of promising darkness.
He regarded the overseer. “We stay, and climb.” He pointed at what he’d spotted. “’Twill be a cave there.”
“See if ’tis suitable,” Domnall said, and glanced at the unconscious lass in Edane’s arms. “Quickly.”
Broden left his mount behind with the others as he ascended to scout the site. The incline proved wide and level enough for the horses, and the entry to the cave passable. Before stepping inside, he tossed in a rock and then listened to its clatter. Nothing came out, but the echo suggested a chamber large enough to hide them all. He started to turn, and then looked down to see the overseer hovering beside the archer, both of them studying the lass’s still features.
Domnall willnae take her in without certainty.
After making a quick torch from a pine cone impaled on a green branch, Broden lit the end and entered the cave. He moved the flame from side to side, inspecting the rubble-strewn floor, glistening walls and toothy ceiling. Water dripped from an unseen crevice into a rain pool off to the side. A breach in the back wall made it plain that a second chamber lay beyond the first.
“Flee or die,” he called out, and the wretched rasp of his own voice mocked him twice more.
Then another did, twisting his words: From this ye cannae flee.
Broden turned around, but the softly malicious voice had come from within his head. They had been the final words his sire’s mate, Sileas, had spoken to him. She had come the night before he’d gone on his last hunt to tell him that his sire had been killed in battle. Thanks to her, his tribe finally had found a use for Broden.
The Carac shall make war upon us unless we appease their headman and his particular desire for strong, handsome lads. She walked around him like a stockman inspecting a young bull, prodding him here and there to test the bulk of his muscle. Aye, ye shall well please him. Strong as an ox, alluring as a prince. I reckon he’ll use ye nightly.
Unable to fathom such a fate, Broden stared at her. Ye cannae do this. I’m the headman’s son.
I birthed his son. Her hand slammed into his cheek with a loud crack. Ye’re my slave, now of some worth. Dinnae reckon the Mag Raith shall offer ye protection. From this ye cannae flee.
The torch’s flame began to sputter as the cone glowed orange-red to its core. Broden strode back to the gap and looked through it to see another, larger cave that would hold a dozen horses with ease. It, too, stood empty, like everything inside Broden since Sileas had declared him a slave, and the vow he’d made himself after she’d left him.
&nbs
p; Broden had gone on that hunt to have one last day with his friends. When they returned, he had planned to pack his few belongings and leave the Mag Raith, just as Sileas had ordered. She believed she’d stolen his freedom, and sent him to a wretched fate, but in truth she had made him an instrument of his own vengeance.
Broden had never returned from the hunt, so what he would have done had never come to pass.
Sileas, the tribes, and most of the trapper’s hatred of them had long since rotted away. Now and then Broden would wake in the night, awash in sweat and trembling with fear. He never knew what caused his terror, but he always reached for a dagger, feeling such self-loathing that death seemed a mercy. Yet each time the blade had fallen unused from his grasp. For that he blamed Domnall and the others, who gave him reason and purpose, and brotherhood he would never have otherwise known.
The torch flared a final time before it died, leaving the trapper standing alone in a black void.
’Tis what Jenna feels.
Though she’d said little, Broden recognized something of himself in her. It was as if she, too, had once faced the unimaginable, and nothing since could unsettle her. He also wondered if she ever reached for a dagger in the night.
He glanced over at the faint glimmer from the front cave. As he had every day since awaking in the ash grove, Broden turned away from the darkness and went toward the light.
Chapter Nine
Jenna woke to the coppery taste of blood in her mouth, and feeling as if she’d swallowed a bucket of sand. She lay flat on her back inside a shadowy place. A dull headache hammered at her temples with a slow, painful beat. She’d also bitten the inside of her cheek, judging by how sore it felt.
“Sip a wee bit, lass,” Edane said as he appeared above her, and held the edge of a wooden cup to her mouth. “You’ve had a fearsome time of it.”
She took a swallow of the water, which eased the dryness in her throat, and looked at the dark space around them. Some reed-thin stems thrust into a cracked boulder a few feet away burned like candles. Their scant light made the rough stone walls sparkle here and there. Above her she saw the tips of what resembled dull gray icicles.
They’d taken refuge inside a cave.
Thanks to the lights she could just make out the silhouettes of the other hunters, who stood several yards away. Two of the men held a wall of leafy branches on either side while Domnall stuffed handfuls of grass or moss into its gaps. Mael stood peering through one hole, watching for something.
“’Tis a blind they build,” the archer told her. “’Twill prevent those bastarts from seeing us while we keep watch for them.”
Recalling how the glowing, winged creatures had spiraled down from the sky made her shudder. As beautiful as they’d looked, everything about them had made her skin feel too tight and her heart thunder. She swallowed some bile.
“They’re Sluath,” she said.
Edane coaxed her into taking another drink before he set aside the cup, not meeting her gaze.
She pushed herself upright. “Don’t you believe me?”
“My tribe warned of such demons to keep the younglings from roaming at night,” the archer admitted. “Mayhap yours spun the same tales.”
“I can’t be Pritani. If I were, then I’d talk like you and the others. I don’t. I’m not from here. I’m not a druid.” Saying the last word made her feel even more confident in her claims. She didn’t even pronounce it the way the Mag Raith did. “The Sluath are not scary stories. They’re real.”
Edane frowned. “You remember the winged demons from your past?”
“I’ve seen them before tonight.” Of that much she was sure. She rose to her feet. “Domnall recognized them too.”
As she tottered a little Edane braced her with a hand on her back. “Turn your back to the light, lass.”
She did as he asked, and felt air coming through holes in the back of the borrowed tunic. He went and took one of the reed lights from the rock.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“One of the creatures clawed Domnall’s back,” Edane said as he held the flaming reed closer. “You’ve tears in the tunic as if ’twas done to you the same, but I cannae see wounds.”
“It probably happened when I fell.” Though Edane looked as if he were going to ask her a question, thinking of the Sluath touching her made her feel nauseated and shaky. “I need to do something before I throw up.”
He hesitated a moment but nodded toward the back of the cave. “We should see to the horses.”
Jenna followed him into a larger chamber lit by a single torch. All six mounts stood where they had been hobbled, and still wore their saddles.
“Leave on the bridles,” the archer told her as he went to the biggest horse. “We may ride without saddles, but we’ll want the reins.”
Jenna watched how Edane unstrapped and removed the saddle before she did the same for the mare she’d ridden. The horse felt cold, and she found bits of frost clinging to her hide in various spots.
The shining Sluath that had come at her had done that. She’d felt the stinging scratch of the snowflakes on her face just before she’d passed out. How could a thing that looked so mesmerizing and lovely make her tremble with so much fear and rage, when nothing else in this place had?
Edane gave her a cloth to use to rub down the mare. “We cannae graze them until the morrow, but…” He pointed to a depression in the stone floor that ran long and deep enough for all six horses. “We can manage a trough.”
“Do we have enough water for them?”
The archer nodded. “’Tis a rain pool in the front chamber with fresh water.”
She and Edane spent the next half-hour filling waterskins there and emptying them into the makeshift trough. By the time they finished, the other hunters had the blind completed.
“Eat and rest. I’ll stand the rise watch,” Domnall told the men before he regarded Jenna. “You’ve recovered?”
He sounded polite, as if they were strangers, but he watched her face with such intensity that it all but announced she was the only thing in the world that mattered. She decided that she wouldn’t give him more to worry about.
“My head hurts, and my shirt’s torn, but otherwise I’m all right.” As he gestured to her, she followed him over to the blind. She looked out through the only gap left in the branches to scan outside. “Can the Sluath find us here?”
“They wouldnae reckon to look where they left us, and Mael scattered our tracks.” He glanced at her for a moment, as if unsure of what to say. “You named these creatures. What more do you ken of them?”
“They’re evil.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “And that one that glowed white and gold, the way he was staring and smiling at me, he knew me. He wanted me, and I couldn’t…” She pulled in her bottom lip until the sob that threatened to come out went away. “I thought I’d die if he touched me.”
“Aye. I saw your terror.” Domnall touched her shoulder, his fingertips moving in a subtle, reassuring caress. “He’ll no’ have you again.”
Which meant he suspected, just as she did, that the Sluath had gotten her before tonight. “Do you remember your tribe’s stories about them?”
“My sire didnae indulge in such, but others spoke of them by the night fires.” His hand slipped down over her arm before he drew it away. “’Twas said the Sluath once lived as men do, but their wickedness blackened and then shriveled their souls. When their lives ended, they became cursed nomads, ever wandering the land seeking mortals left lost or hurt and alone. Those never missed ’twere their favorite prey. They’d steal them and enslave them for eternity.”
“In the underworld?” Jenna asked.
He moved his shoulders. “’Twas told to me that they dwelled in storms. Travelers never went out in the night unless ’twas clear skies, for fear the Sluath would fall upon them.”
Jenna took in a quick breath. “Like they did to us tonight.”
The overseer shook his head. “
’Twas but a story, lass. If the Sluath had taken you, you’d no’ be here.”
“Or they did, and I escaped,” she countered, and then made the next leap. “Like you and your men.”
Chapter Ten
As Domnall watched the moon rise, he welcomed the deep stillness of the night. Much had happened in a short time. They had escaped Galan’s yoke of lies only to find that the truth might yet be worse. His hand tightened on the pommel of his sword. They had escaped the Sluath.
Even without seeing him and his men rise into the sky to do battle with the vile creatures, the lass had conjured up the notion. In his bones, Domnall felt the rightness of it. He thanked the comradeship of centuries that had kept his brothers from speaking of the battle in front of her. He knew that they, like him, would want to mull over every strange detail—but not in front of the lass for fear of revealing much else.
Domnall gazed up at the milky face of the moon. He already knew that the answers to his men’s unspoken questions wouldn’t come from talk. There was only one place where they might finally get to the truth.
As the moon reached its peak, Mael came to stand watch. He spoke softly to avoid disturbing the others.
“I’ll wake you at dawn,” the tracker said. He nodded at the slumbering forms of the other hunters, and the one person still sitting up and watching the last of the rush lights burn low. “She’s no’ ate nor slept, poor lass. She’ll no’ ask for solace but ’tis what she’s sore needing.”
Domnall nodded and retreated into the cave, where he drank some water and collected a pear and some bread. Treading silently to where Jenna sat, he eased down beside her.
“Share food with me,” he murmured as he drew his dagger. When she didn’t reply he cut a portion of the fruit and held it in front of her mouth. “Eat, or I’ll wake Broden to hand-feed you.”
Jenna took a quick bite, but she didn’t chew as if hungered.