White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  In the pens, a large black warhorse snorted and pawed the ground, sensing the disturbance.

  The horse senses the strangeness of the air, too, she thought, scanning the land and finding nothing. She resheathed her dagger with annoyance.

  “Foolishness,” she muttered to herself.

  “Your destiny comes.” The echo of the crone’s words entered a sudden beat in her heart.

  She shook her head. She was a Milesian warrior princess who made her own destiny, a destiny claimed with bow and arrow and her own resourcefulness.

  “Your destiny comes.” She rubbed her temple. The crone’s voice would not leave her mind. She wondered if the other distant and forgotten relatives of their great King Mil had such difficulty in trying to forget what another said.

  “Your destiny comes.”

  She refused to acknowledge it.

  “Your destiny comes.”

  She muttered an oath. There was no help for it. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger at her waist while her legs carried her toward the sea.

  She rounded the pen of horses and headed down the uneven path toward the rocky shore. A few horse lengths down to the sea, she skittered to a halt in a foamy puddle of retreating waves.

  In the shallows, four guards struggled with the captive warrior, as if trying to tame a wild stallion. The light winds suddenly kicked up, creating long pronounced sea waves and spraying her with cool water.

  “Captain, what are you doing?” she demanded, holding the hair out of her eyes.

  The captain stood in the shallow waves, hands on his hips, feet spread apart in authority. “None of your concern, Princess.”

  “Be this a new form of torture? Drowning a male for information?”

  “As I said before, this is none of your concern.”

  “It is my concern,” she said forcefully.

  He looked over his shoulder, his face set with contempt. “Your concern?”

  “I speak for Lord Amergin.”

  “How do you speak for Lord Amergin?” His tone indicated his strong irritation. “By walking away from a prisoner?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You said males tend to fight harder when in the presence of a female and asked me to leave. I agreed.”

  She could feel his eyes roaming her face, seeking flaw and something she could not define.

  “I am not finished with him,” he said.

  “You are now. Bring the warrior ashore, Captain.”

  The captain turned away.

  “I said now, Captain. I wish to question him.”

  “About what?”

  “Lord Amergin wishes to know more about the noble tribe.”

  “Noble tribe,” he repeated sarcastically.

  “Yes, the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  “How do you know that warrior belongs to the tribe?”

  She huffed with exasperation. “Warriors who enter battle painted in blue plant dye belong to the Tuatha. I was there, when Lord Amergin told you this.”

  “I forgot,” he said after a pause.

  Self-indulgent and witless man, she thought and rested her fingers around the hilt of her dagger. “Bring him ashore, Captain.”

  His gaze turned to ice.

  “Now.”

  “As you wish.” Raising a reluctant hand, he called out to his men. “Bring the warrior to shore. We gave him enough taste of the sea.”

  She was not going to admit it, but she was furious. The four guards, struggling with their coughing captive, made their way back. Battling the outgoing currents, they carried him facedown, each holding an arm or a leg.

  As they approached, she noticed he wore only the bronze torc. The guards had relieved him of all else.

  Ropes.

  Paint.

  Clothes.

  Not that he wore much initially, only a bronze neck ring, low-hung brown breeches, and scuffed boots.

  The warrior lifted his head and looked at her from beneath wet lashes.

  Heat leaped into her while she held his gaze.

  Her body went quiet.

  Silence and yearning welled up inside her and she looked away.

  “Where do you want him, Princess?” the captain growled with barely contained rage.

  “Bring him to the fire circle,” she replied viciously in turn and walked away.

  “As you wish.”

  A confrontation was brewing between her and the pig-nosed officer.

  She must keep her wits about her. Spying the warrior’s discarded breeches and boots near a grouping of rocks, she picked them up and continued walking up the path. Why did she feel compelled to help this enemy? She was not some young maiden taken in by muscle and brawn. She was a female full grown. Looking over her shoulder, she made sure the guards followed with their shivering burden. Being nearly drowned could steal one’s strength, but when healthy, recovery came soon after and this warrior definitely appeared healthy. She headed for the far side of the fire circle, away from the smug and curious interest of both warriors and camp whores.

  “Bind his wrists and stake them to the ground over there.” She pointed where she wanted him placed.

  “His legs?” one of the guards prompted, holding onto a strong ankle.

  “No need, the water robbed him of strength, just his wrists for now.”

  They forced him to kneel and tied his wrists.

  When they finished their task, Scota motioned for them to leave. “Go rest and dry yourselves off. Extra mead all around.”

  The men nodded their thanks and left, leaving her alone with the naked Tuatha warrior. It was disconcerting to see him this way, an untamable male, tied and bound. She dropped the warrior’s clothes near him and waited.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Boyden saw his boots and breeches tumble to the grass. He lowered his head in exhaustion and took a moment of reprieve to recover some of his strength. He felt weak as a babe and his lungs hurt. One of the guards had taken great pleasure in holding his head under water. He vowed to take great pleasure in removing the man’s head from his neck.

  The heat of the fire god performed magic, removing the raking chills consuming him. He took full note that the druidess and the children were unharmed. Derina sat with her back against the tree, the children clinging to her lap in sleep. She nodded once to him, her head tilting slightly and he turned to see a pair of small booted feet.

  He looked up at the slender, black-haired woman who rescued him from drowning and ordered him staked to the land.

  “So, you still can breathe,” she said indifferently with the smooth tones of night and danger.

  Pushing back aching shoulders, he readied himself for the next battle. Waiting for her next move, he studied her as he would any other enemy.

  Scota studied him in turn, as well. He was beautiful and dangerous in the ways of a captured predator, kneeling before her in feigned submission.

  Shivers raked over him, though he fought hard not to show it.

  Tiny bumps of chill from the night sea dunking and the insistence of the sea breeze covered his pale skin.

  Wet hair, freed from its plaits, clung to his shoulders, back, and chest. Her gaze lowered to a slightly furred chest and followed the gold stream down his lean belly, to a darker nest between muscular thighs.

  She considered him large, having seen many naked male slaves among her father’s holdings. If his proud will could be made to submit, he would be worth much— after she achieved what she needed for Amergin.

  Her turquoise gaze met silvery gray fury.

  “Good eve,” she said with a purr of seduction. “Shall I tell you why you are here?” Shall I tell you why I rescued you when I cannot explain it even to myself? she thought.

  The warrior said not a word, his lips drawn in a thin line.

  “What are you named?” She expected him to offer up his name with gratitude but instead he stared defiantly back at her, his right hand clenching and unclenching.

  Scota looked down at the knots digging into the f
lesh of his wrist. “Would you like me to loosen those knots for you?”

  His gaze lowered to his wrist and she saw him stiffen as if remembering a terrible dream.

  “There will be no loosening of bindings on him,” a voice ordered from behind her. Scota turned to the captain and the guard accompanying him. The captain rarely traveled without the protection of men loyal to greed.

  “Do you not think I know how to handle prisoners?”

  “I do not know what you know, Princess,” the captain sneered. “All I know is that this warrior is dangerous and your actions place us in peril if he escapes. You may choose to endanger your life because of your lust for him, but as long as I make the military decisions in this camp there will be no loosening of the bindings.”

  “I had no intention of loosening his bindings,” she said, battling her temper.

  “Ah, then I must have misunderstood when you asked, ‘Would you like me to loosen those knots for you?’” He locked his hands behind him. “Look, Princess, the night grows late and I am weary. The prisoner will be here in the morning, and we can discuss this matter then.”

  Scota was reluctant to leave the Tuatha warrior alone with the captain’s men. “I want him unharmed, Captain.”

  The captain gave a curt nod. “So do I, Princess.”

  “Then why did you nearly drown him?”

  He smiled gently. “I found the blue paint offensive and merely wished him cleaned up. I disciplined the men. There will be no further attempt to do him harm. He is safe, I can assure you. We both serve Lord Amergin, do we not? Perhaps this warrior has information to help us find the murderers of Lord Íth. I want the bloodshed of innocents to end as much as you do.”

  His sudden charm raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Not only did he not care about the bloodshed of innocents, it seemed to her that he actually enjoyed it. Scota did not move, distrust and weariness warring inside her.

  “I have your word he will not be harmed?” she asked, battling indecision.

  “You have my word as a captain.” He turned to his guard. “Secure the prisoner’s bindings and post a two-man guard here for the night.”

  He motioned her to accompany him around the fire circle. “It has been a long day, Princess.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, walking beside him.

  Her small tent was on the other side of the fire and he brought her to the entrance.

  “Do you want company?” he asked.

  She glared at him.

  He held up his hands and chuckled, stepping back. “You can not blame me for continuing to try.”

  “Captain, I gave you my answer.”

  “So you did, but I am a patient man.”

  She had the impression he sought to get her off guard.

  “My answers remains no.” With one last look at the offensive officer, Scota retreated to the inside of her tent. Maybe tomorrow she could think more clearly.

  Boyden was not fooled by the falsity spilling out of the captain’s mouth and suspected he would return sometime in the night.

  When footfalls sounded, he was ready.

  The captain motioned away the two guarding him and kept his own man close.

  “You like the princess, do you not?” the captain taunted, coming to stand in front of him. “A fine and highly spirited mare, she is. Give a warrior like you a superior ride. If you tell me what I need to know, maybe I will give her to you.”

  Boyden remained mute, his gaze narrowing at the captain’s promise of reward. He doubted the princess even knew she was a prize.

  “Get me some mead,” the captain ordered, motioning his man away. “It is going to be a long night.”

  Boyden allowed his gaze to sweep over the camp. With the children sleeping in her lap, Derina continued to remain alert, several paces to his left. The fire circle was at his back, turning wet chill to heat and sweat. The ropes were tight on his wrists and the light winds from the sea ruffled his hair. He could feel the invisible presence of the Gaoth Shee, the blood threads of her flowing in his body. She waited his summons to do death.

  With one mind call, he knew the lethal wind would blow into the camp, paralyze and kill indiscriminately, the druidess and children, the men, whores, horses, dogs, and one enemy princess.

  His fists clenched.

  He would not summon her.

  It was the same as before.

  The same as seven days past when he refused to summon the wind, refused when his tribe first spotted the enemy ships heading toward their shores.

  He had no control over the deadly, land-born wind. Anything the Gaoth Shee touched became paralyzed and often died. He would not risk his people, would not risk the deadly wind sweeping across the land on her way to destroying the ships at sea. Instead, the tribal druids called up a thick fog to stay the enemy ships, hoping they would turn back. The attempt proved worthless.

  At the camp’s edge, a strong wind picked up in response to his disquiet. Small tree branches began to sway in motion, leaves whistling in dread.

  The druidess’s head lifted toward the trees, noting the disturbance in the air, and he forced calmness upon himself. Only in anger did the winds of the land respond to the turbulence inside him. Only in anger.

  His hands clenched.

  The leaves shimmered into silence.

  “You are one of them, the faery creatures,” the captain said with flushed excitement, noting the abrupt arrival and departure of the winds. “I knew it.” He took the silver cup of mead from the returning guard and motioned the man to give him privacy with the captive. The captain emptied the cup with several loud gulps, tossed it away, and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “You want the princess? I give her to you. You want the crone and children? I give them to you.” The man’s black eyes gleamed with a kind of red fever. “Tell me where I can find the faery treasures.”

  What treasures? Boyden mused darkly. The only treasures the faeries guarded were the magical talismans, and those they would never part with.

  The first talisman was the Stone of Fal, which would scream whenever a true king placed his foot upon it. The next talisman was known as the Answerer, the magical sword of the dead faery king Nuada. When drawn, it would inflict only mortal wounds. There were also hushed whispers of a spirit sword of dark enchantment, but he did not know if those whispers were true and so discarded it from his tally. The third talisman was the Spear of the faeries’ new High King Lugh. It was said that it never missed its target. The final talisman was the Cauldron of Dagda, from which an inexhaustible supply of food came forth. Those were the only treasures he knew of, and he would never betray their location at Tara.

  “Tell me right now and I will have the princess brought here for you. I know you want her. Your eyes burn with lust for her.”

  Boyden did not move.

  “Tell me what I need to know.” He watched the captain pace with a bouncing gait, becoming more agitated with his wants. “Or I will hurt the crone and children.”

  “You hurt them and I will kill you,” Boyden snarled in warning.

  The captain stopped in mid-stride, eyebrows shooting up. “So, you can speak.”

  “I can speak.”

  “Tell me where to find the faery treasures.” His captor came closer. “In a bog? Among the trees? Near a rowan? I heard those trees are magical. In a thornbush? Where?” Boyden said not a word.

  “I must know.”

  “Know what?”

  His captor’s fist shot out, clipping him on the jaw.

  Boyden’s head flew back, blood spilling into his mouth. He glared his hatred and spat on the ground. His bottom lip cracked in seeping crimson, and his jaw ached, but these were minor inconveniences compared to what he planned to inflict on the captain once he got his hands on him. Like the faeries, never did he forget or forgive.

  “I can see this is going to take all night with you. Maybe we can move things along with my dagger. It is an extraordinary weapon. Are you familiar with it?”
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  The captain pulled a small glittering dagger from his tunic and Boyden grew very still inside. One of the mystical blades. Where did this enemy get his hands on one of the ancient Darkshade daggers? he wondered. The faeries held two of them, the few remaining were buried in places not known. Crafted in the long-ago time, the daggers varied in form, yet each could kill a powerful fey born guardian by infesting them with fever and madness. They were the only weapons that could. A nip to the flesh was all that was needed.

  “I see from your expression you know this dagger. An old villager gave it to me while begging for his life. He told me the inscription names it Darkshade, feller of faeries and guardians.”

  The pig nose got some of the legend right, Boyden thought. The dagger works on guardians alone, and aye, I recognize it well enough. The threads of ancient winds and primordial guardians diluted his mortal heritage, fashioning him of a varied bloodline. It was a taint he fought hard against. Yet it was those guardian blood threads pulsing within him now, a warning of threat.

  Because of his unusual bloodline, Derina told him he might be susceptible to the black enchantment of the ancient Darkshade. He guessed he was going to find out if that were true.

  The captain turned the dagger over and wrapped stubby fingers around the hilt. “Shall I cut the crone and children?” he taunted.

  With a snarl of rage, Boyden lunged forward and nearly pulled the wooden stakes out of the ground. He felt the left one give more than the right and concentrated his efforts there.

  The captain jumped backward, caught off guard by his ferocity, and gestured impatiently for his man’s help. “Come and hold him! I want to cut him and see what I have here.”

  The guard came up behind him and locked a thick arm around Boyden’s neck, blocking his air.

  The captain came in close. “Show me your wings and purple-tinted eyes, faery.”

  Boyden fought, trying to get his legs out from under him, but he was off balance.

  He saw the gleam of the dagger from the corner of his eye, and his blood began to boil.

  “Where is the faery treasure? If you remain stubborn, I will cut you, then I will cut the crone.”

  “You cut her and you are dead.”

  “Let’s see how defiant you are.”