by Hazel Hunter
She reached out to touch the claw marks on his arm, and nodded as she met his gaze again. “Jenna Cameron. I was…I am an architect.” She took in a deep breath. “Domnall, how do we get out of here?”
Jenna listened to every word as though she were hearing the tale of someone else’s life.
“I cannae recall more than that,” Domnall admitted after recounting his memory of their first meeting. “Taking you and putting you at my mercy… They wished me to use you. Another of their torments.”
He sounded almost ashamed, but she knew he wasn’t that kind of man.
“If you wanted to violate a helpless woman, you could have done that in the ash grove.” She took hold of his hands. “You didn’t then, so I’m sure you didn’t when we were Sluath slaves.”
He nodded. “How could we escape, then, thirteen centuries apart?”
“Maybe the same way they took us from different times.” Jenna frowned at the water rapidly rising over her bare feet. “I think the drains in here might be clogged.”
Domnall turned his head, and then strode over to where the cascade had been channeled through the wall.
“No, luaidh. They’ve been closed off.”
Stone grated, and the sound of the falling water swelled to a roar as another waterfall appeared beside the first. Jenna looked up at the new opening in the ceiling, and then turned around to see a stone panel descending in front of the stairs.
Domnall’s body blurred as he rushed to it. He moved impossibly fast, and gripped the edge of the panel, straining to keep it up. Jenna slogged through the rising water to help him, but by then blood had begun running through his fingers. With a bellow of pain, he snatched his hands back and the panel slammed down to seal off the chamber. He threw his shoulder at it, trying to dislodge the stone, but it remained in place.
Glancing down at the water, which was now lapping at their knees, Jenna performed some quick mental calculations. “We’ve got about ten minutes to get those drains open before we run out of air. Can you drown?”
“I’ve never tried to.” Domnall went to the nearest channel from the pool and knelt down in the water, reaching under it. “The ducts are blocked by stone. ’Twillnae move.”
“The gates in the ceiling are too high to reach, even if you could hold me on your shoulders.” She felt as frustrated as she had in the cider house, and then pressed a wet hand to her brow as she recalled how she had gotten out of it, twice. “I forgot to show you my trick. I wonder if it works with stone as well as wood.”
Domnall caught her as she started toward the stone panel. “You cannae move it, lass.”
“I’m not planning to.” Aware that something could still go terribly wrong, she reached up and kissed him. “If I don’t make it, float up to the top and try to close the gates. That may release the stones sealing the ducts.”
“What do you mean to try?” He waded over to the panel with her. “Jenna.”
She smiled up at him. “I’m glad they brought me to you, Domnall.”
Taking a deep breath, she placed her hand on the stone panel. Summoning her power took even less time than the last attempt, and the transition to ghost-form happened almost instantly. Carefully she pushed her fingers into the panel, waiting for pain but feeling only heat on her skin. Quickly she moved through it, emerging on the other side by the stairs.
A muffled shout of her name came from the other side of the panel.
“I’m all right,” she called back once she’d solidified, and then rushed up the steps.
As she’d suspected the door leading to the outer passage had closed, and now appeared like a solid stone wall on the inside. She shifted and pushed herself through it, taking on her corporeal form on the other side. She tripped over something, and saw the stone Domnall had used to wedge the door open now lay a foot from where it had been.
Her clothes steamed, and dry hair fell in her face. Passing through stone had evidently created more intense friction than doing the same through wood, but her drenched garments and hair had given her some protection. Filing that away for future reference, Jenna turned and pressed the wall stones.
“Come on,” she muttered. “Let him out of there.”
The entry opened, and from below came the sound of churning water. She hurried back down, stopping halfway to see Domnall at the bottom of the steps. Incredibly the bathing chamber behind him had emptied, and the second fall had disappeared. Along with the water, all the color had drained from his face.
“I know I should have told you about this,” Jenna said quickly. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. The first time I did it at the cider house, I thought I was going crazy. Until I did it again.”
He stood watching her for another long moment before he blurred, and suddenly he was only an inch away from her.
“You haven’t explained how you can move that fast,” she pointed out, hoping to add that to her defense. “You’re like a giant hummingbird.”
“’Tis a power you possessed in your time, to become as a wraith?” he demanded.
“No. I’ve only been able to do it since I woke up here.” Jenna tried to smile. “It did save us from drowning, so it’s a good surprise, right?”
Domnall yanked her into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder. He carried her up to the steps and into the passage, and kicked the wall door back into place. Only then did he put her down and look all over her.
“You’re so hot.”
“Yes.” She pressed her lips together until she was almost sure she wouldn’t laugh. “That’s, ah, a nice compliment in my time.”
“I dinnae speak of your beauty.” He set her at arm’s length. “Doing thus, becoming a wraith, it heats you.” He ran his palm over her shoulder, her cheek, and then her hair. “You feel as if you’ve stood too close to a hearth for a long while.”
“It happens after I move through something.” In simple terms she explained how friction worked. “Wood isn’t as dense as stone, so leaving the cider house didn’t create as much heat. Being wet helped, I think.”
His eyes narrowed. “To walk through stone too often, you reckon ’twould set fire to you?”
“I’m not sure. I certainly don’t plan to find out.” She glanced back at the wall. “What I do know is that chamber isn’t a well or a bath house.”
Domnall’s jaw tightened. “’Tis a drowning trap, meant to kill whoever entered the chamber. Yet it didnae seal until after we loved.”
“I found the passage door closed and tripped over the wedge stone when I came through it,” Jenna told him, suddenly aware of what that meant. “Closing the door must be what triggers the room to seal. But maybe the door was too heavy for the stone.”
He bent down and picked up the stone, weighing it in his hand. “Or someone who wishes us dead came and moved it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
By midday Galan had come to appreciate the endurance of his hired men. They rode swiftly and silently, stopping only when signaled by their leader to rest and water their horses. Without his prompting two stood watch while the others passed a jug and shared the food they’d brought. Most said nothing but watched him closely.
“Never mind the lads,” the scarred-faced leader told Galan as he offered him the jug. “You fash them, Stranger. You come alone to us, yet you’ve enough gold to buy an army. ’Tis the kind of treasure that might make the owner a plump target.”
Galan met his shrewd gaze. “Do you reckon I’m worried?”
The other man corked the jug. “You neednae fear for your own throat. We ken you’d leave behind the gold you promised us.” The leader chuckled. “You’re an odd one, Brother.” With a sharp yell, he summoned his men to mount their horses.
It took the rest of the afternoon to navigate their way through the rocky slopes and passes to reach Wachvale. As the only village within a day’s ride of the battle site, the mercenary leader had assured Galan that his quarry would have stopped there to rest and barter. Galan expected that the curio
us villagers would have watched the Mag Raith depart, and perhaps have gleaned some idea of where the hunters intended to go.
At first sight of the cottages the mercenaries fell into two ranks, each spreading out on either side of Galan and their leader. Two young men carrying cudgels appeared on either side of the rutted cart trail leading into the center of the village. They took in the mercenaries for a moment, and then turned and ran shouting.
Galan peered at the narrow pass on the other side of the village, but all he spotted was a pasture filled with sheep. “What lay over there?”
“Grass,” the mercenary leader said, sounding bored. “Naught more from here to the midlands.”
Galan grunted and watched as the village’s headman approached them, his weathered face wary and gleaming with fresh perspiration. One of the mercenaries drew his sword, and trotted forward, ready to strike.
“We’ve naught to trade until after harvest,” the headman told them, his eyes darting along the lines of the mounted men. “Ye’re welcome to water your horses, but then ye must ride on.”
“Naught to trade? Surely no’.” The mercenary leader made a show of inspecting the village. “I see stock and tools. Your swine pens look full. I reckon you’ve even a few comely wenches cowering in those hovels.”
The headman swallowed hard and his face paled. “Naught until after harvest.”
“We come seeking five hunters and a female,” Galan said flatly. “They’d be traveling light and swift. The men call themselves Mag Raith.”
The headman scowled. “Then ye’ve come on a fool’s chase after the long-dead, stranger.” He made a circling gesture over his chest. “Begone with ye.”
“We’ll speak to your people first,” the mercenary leader told him. “Summon them to the green, now.”
Folding his arms to hide his shaking hands, the headman spat on the ground.
At a signal from the leader, the sword-wielding mercenary shot forward, slashing his blade. A moment later the defiant man’s head tumbled to the ground, followed by his body. As screams came from the cottages the remaining mercenaries followed the first, chasing every villager they saw. Their blades ran red with blood as they hacked and skewered away.
“I need to question them,” Galan told the leader, who sat watching the carnage with a faint sneer.
“You’ll have your chance, after we’ve had ours. If any survive.”
The leader rode after his men, shouting for them to drag out the females.
As the senseless violence went on, Galan considered trying to stop it. But riding into the fray meant courting injury or even death at the hands of his own hirelings. The villagers likely knew nothing, but whatever they had seen of the Mag Raith would go with them to their graves.
One of the cudgel-wielding young men also held a torch and tried to strike a mercenary with it. But the mounted man snatched it from his grip before he beheaded him. The torch went flying onto one of the thatched roofs, setting it alight and driving out those hiding inside. Inspired by this, the rest of the mercenaries began setting fire to the other hovels.
It was time he left them to it, Galan decided, completely disgusted now. Yet as he turned his mount away from the killing a brute rode around him to block his escape.
“You’ll no’ leave until we’re done,” the mercenary said, grinning through the blood spattered on his face as he lifted his sword. “Then you’ll take us to our gold, and what more you’ve hidden.” He jabbed toward the village. “Ride in, then.”
Galan turned his mount around and urged him forward, guiding the nervous horse around the corpses already littering the green. Deliberately he stopped before a burning cottage, dismounting and taking the Sluath’s feather from his belt. He held it up, releasing it on a gust of smoky wind, and watched it land in the flames.
“Here’s one for you, Stranger.”
The leader dragged an older woman along, dropping her to collapse at Galan’s feet before riding off after a younger female. The crone covered her head with her arms and wailed.
Galan reached down, taking her by the arm and hoisting her upright. Soot stained her face and crooked nose.
“I seek five hunters and a wench, traveling by mount,” he told her, but he had to shake her to get her attention. “The hunters are strong and say little. The lass, she’s young, with dark hair and eyes like gems.” The woman uttered a shrill sound and struggled against his grasp. “Did any strangers stop here in the last twoday, or ride past? Ken you the direction they took?” He drew his dagger and held it to her throat. “Answer, and I’ll spare you.”
“No, ye willnae.” Tears made tracks through the filth on her cheeks. “Be ye forever cursed for what ye’ve done this day.”
“I’ve done naught, Crone.” He leaned closer. “But a word from me, and the others shall see to it you ken suffering beyond all imagining. You’ll beg them to end you. Tell me.”
Suddenly she calmed, and nodded as if at last she understood him. But as her gaze shifted past him, her eyes widened. Without another word she surged forward, cutting her own throat on his dagger.
Galan dropped her and turned to see glittering light filling the narrow pass on the other side of the village. From it strode Prince Iolar, his gleaming wings spread wide. Without a cloud in the sky, the Sluath had ridden no storm. Had Galan summoned him from an underworld gateway, as the legends told?
Huge flurries of ice and snow billowed out from Iolar’s gilded feathers. All of the mercenaries stopped where they stood, their mouths agape and their swords lowering. Snowflakes whitened their shoulders and heads as the Sluath landed, and the flames of the burning cottages slowly died. Frost raced across the blood-soaked green, creeping up the legs of the brutes who tried to run, freezing them in place.
“Ah.” The Sluath’s golden eyes searched the mercenaries’ faces. “So many to harvest.”
When the prince reached the one nearest him, he plunged his hand into the man’s chest. Power surged into the helpless mortal before Iolar wrenched from him a heart formed of black mist. Unhinging his jaw until it dropped down to his chest, the prince stuffed the ghastly apparition into his mouth and devoured it whole.
The victim toppled backward, his dead eyes filling with snow.
One by one the other mercenaries shared the same fate, until the prince reached the leader of the brutes. The mortal fell to his knees, begging for mercy. His voice died as Iolar shoved his claws into his face and pulled from it a pulsing sphere of blood-colored mist. The leader’s body collapsed as the prince tucked the strange orb under his wing.
Galan stood his ground as the Sluath approached him, revolted and yet fascinated by the demon’s gruesome feasting. It seemed all the old legends about the demons devouring mortal souls had been true. Yet the sphere he’d taken from the last brute seemed something else.
When Iolar stopped before him he quickly bowed. “The hired men turned on me in the end. My thanks for your aid, my prince.”
The Sluath’s wings bristled, showering cutting ice crystals over him. “Do you think I came to rescue you from your own idiocy? Had you not provided me with such tempting morsels, you fool, I’d have swallowed your soul.”
He’d have to offer Iolar something more to satisfy his fiendish appetite.
“’Twas folly to put my trust in these wicked mortals,” Galan said evenly. “Yet I did learn something. The Mag Raith werenae seen by the villagers. I reckon they rode through the night to cross the valley.”
Iolar glanced around at the dead and wounded. “Why would they need to hide their passage?”
“They strive to elude your wrath, my prince. They willnae have gone far, for the horses and the wench shall need rest.” He made a sweeping gesture. “They’d seek shelter near here, mayhap within five leagues.”
“You’re not keeping your part of our bargain, Aedth.” Although he sounded annoyed, Iolar’s gaze moved to the horizon. “Still, I smell a coming storm. I shall send my scouts when it arrives.”
&n
bsp; “I shall ride west to the midlands,” Galan promised.
He waited until the prince stalked across the green toward the pass before he wiped the melting ice from his face. His hand came away stained a watery red and flecked with soot. It reminded him of the tears winding down the crone’s filthy face, and what she had said.
Be ye forever cursed for what ye’ve done this day.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When they emerged from the castle Domnall summoned the men with a whistle, and asked them to join him around the fire. Each one now wore one of the tartans they had traded for, and to see them garbed like proper Scotsmen made him feel a little odd. They were Pritani, and yet the tribes were no more.
“We saved one for you,” Mael said and tossed a red and black plaid to him.
“My thanks,” Domnall replied but draped it around Jenna’s shoulders. “We’ve much to tell you, brothers.”
The tracker grinned broadly. “Aye, but ’tis already written on your faces. We wish you both joy in each other.”
“It’s not about that,” Jenna said, her tone somber. “Domnall told me everything about what’s happened to you five, but…” She paused and glanced at him. “I think for it all to make sense I’d better start with what happened to me in my time.”
Domnall sat beside his lover as she told the Mag Raith of her life in the distant future, and the grim fashion in which it had ended. He noted that she used simple words to describe her strange world, but even so the men fell silent and watched her with open astonishment.
“I was alone, helpless and dying when the Sluath appeared. It seems like that part of the Pritani legends is true. Since I was transported back seven centuries, it’s also obvious that they can travel through time.” Her lips twisted. “What we think happened next is what came back to Domnall.”
Mael drew back a little, his expression alarmed. “’Tis more?”
Domnall nodded, and then recounted his recollection of his lavish prison, and Jenna being brought to him and marked by the Sluath. He also described the drowning trap beneath the ruins, and how Jenna had escaped and freed him. When he finished speaking the only sound for a time came from wood cracking in the flames.