White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  The dagger cut into his left temple like a blazing spear of white fire and moved toward his eye, blinding him with blood.

  “Captain! Stop this at once!” The princess spoke with cold authority and outrage from somewhere to his left.

  He thought she had gone. His torturers jumped back with a hiss of surprise, and Boyden’s head sagged between his shoulders. Wetness spilled down his face, dripping onto his chest. His fists tightened convulsively. It hurt. Unseen darkness slithered into his mind. Shadows shifted in his vision. He gulped in air, his muscles turning to water. He forced himself to remain alert and not splinter into night and nothingness.

  He drew in a deep ragged breath and peered up at his rescuer.

  Princess.

  The pig nose and she were talking in low angry voices.

  CHAPTER 4

  SCOTA WAS FURIOUS. A STRANGE wind had blown inside her tent of animal skins, waking her from an uneasy sleep. She did not question how wind blew inside her tent or why she smelled blood. She had remained clothed in a white woolen shirt, brown breeches, and boots. Quickly grabbing her short sword, she flipped the tent’s entrance cloth up, and bolted out of the tent.

  “Captain Rigoberto, what do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

  “The captive refuses to answer my questions,” the captain said with a quick explanation of his actions.

  “You lied to me.”

  “I did not lie. I only changed my mind and decided to question him.”

  Scota could not see how badly the warrior was hurt. “You question him by cutting his face?” she asked tensely. An odd glimmer from the captain’s dagger reflected the light of the fire and nearly blinded her. “What is that?” she demanded.

  “A Darkshade dagger.”

  Darkshade? It was double-edged, and she saw runic symbols etched into the strange metal on both sides. It did not look bronze- or iron-worked to her.

  “No matter how you choose to explain your actions, you lied to me.”

  The man remained uncharacteristically silent, and Scota regained control of her temper. She took a deep breath. “You said the warrior would be here in the morning.” She pointed with her sword. “From the looks of him, I doubt he would be alive by then.”

  “I had no intention of killing him. I consider him too valuable.”

  “Valuable?” she burst out with anger. “This is how you demonstrate value?”

  “Look at him,” the captain said. “What do you see?”

  “Blood.”

  “I see perfection.” He smiled, turning Scota’s heart cold. Eyes of evil regarded her from a being untouched by suffering, one who thoroughly lacked empathy. Besides his tendency to humiliate the camp whores, she suspected his loyalty was to greed and self-indulgences rather than to Amergin. It terrified her to think he led men.

  “What does perfection have to do with anything?” she asked cautiously.

  “This dagger is a teller of faeries and mystical creatures called guardians.”

  “You know I do not believe in faeries.”

  “Well, I do, Princess. If you cut one of these beings with this magical dagger, it forces them to show their true form.”

  “Which is?”

  “Purple eyes and wings.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “The faeries hoard great treasures and I mean to have them.” He pointed at the bleeding warrior. “This is one of those fey creatures.”

  “Since you cut him and he appears not to have sprouted glittery wings, I believe your mystical dagger is but an idiotic notion cast on a bard’s tongue.”

  His lips thinned. “He will turn.”

  “I doubt it. You cut him. He bleeds. I see no wings and therefore claim him as mine.”

  Scota knew she pushed the captain too far. He took a step toward her, his face blotted with berry spots.

  “You dare question my authority, Amergin whore?” he snarled with fury.

  She wielded her sword in warning. “Do you challenge me, Captain Rigoberto?”

  It would make her life easier if she could kill him with a swift thrust of a sword and be rid of him once and for all.

  “The warrior belongs to me,” he said in a fury.

  “The warrior belongs to Lord Amergin,” she countered and decided to placate him. “When I am finished questioning him, you may have him for your little treasure hunt,” she soothed, with no intention of following through. She would not hand the warrior or the crone and children over to Rigoberto.

  The captain’s eyes darted between her and the silent and bloody warrior, giving her statement some thought. He nodded reluctantly, his eyes shiny with undisguised hatred of her authority.

  “You should have shared my bed, Princess. I might be more lenient with you then.” It was a warning and she took it as such. Signaling the other man to follow, he walked stiffly away, heading for the whore tent.

  Scota exhaled a sigh of relief.

  These little battles with the captain were growing wearisome. The man’s sickly fixation on her was unreasonable, and his obsession for riches would lead them all to ruin instead of conquest. She forced the greedy captain from her mind and turned her attention to the bleeding warrior.

  The crone and children were on their feet behind her with the single guard keeping them in place. The strain on their faces showed their concern for the injured warrior. She hoped she had not been too late to save his left eye, and she knelt in front of him without thinking. Wet crimson stained the left side of his face, and she laid the sword on the ground between them.

  Heat radiated from his body into hers. “I will not hurt you,” she said gently. Pushing silky-smooth hair aside, she examined the wound. It was not deep, but looked hurtful. Features drawn with pain, nostrils flaring, his eyes were fiercely shut, keeping the world out. The cut traveled in length from his temple to the center hairs of his light brown brow. Scota felt thankful that the cut did not reach the eye.

  He exhaled, a murmur of breath leaving parted lips.

  Compassion fought against the cold warrior inside her. She should not be seething with rage for what he suffered. She should not feel, not for him.

  Long lashes lifted, one brown laced, one red stained.

  Her stomach somersaulted into oblivion.

  A new violent heat licked over her face …

  Hooded eyes no longer the silvery gray of a windstorm swirled with irritated shades of amethyst twilight. Magnificent with intensity, they were sprinkled with flecks of sun-kissed gold, markers of a faery kin. Before embarking with his men inland, Amergin spoke of the faeries. He believed some of the tales real and spoke of a strange fey marker in the eyes, an amethyst hue with shards of gold.

  Scota stared at a hard angular face, stared at a— male faery.

  Immediately, she reached down for her sword and found a large hand gripping the hilt.

  In the next instant, the tip of the blade pressed into the tender flesh under her chin. She was captor no longer. The way they knelt facing each other, Scota knew the guard did not see the swift change of authority.

  “Doona move.” His voice was low and darkly caressing, yet no less commanding.

  Spreading muscular thighs wider, he shifted closer to her, shielding the weapon between their bodies, hers clothed, his most definitely not. A knuckle brushed the tip of her breast sending awareness through her. Level with her eyes was his bronze torc, the rounded tips ending in tiny loops. The sharp blade pricked her skin, and she struggled to remain calm and in control.

  “I said doona move.”

  Up close, his features were merciless, perfect in shape and form. She sensed great power in him and waited while his eyes drifted over her face again, stealing her air, her breath, as if he claimed it for his own.

  Boyden stared into a pair of contemplative greenish-blue eyes surrounded by long black lashes. He expected fear from her, certainly shock, but not curiosity. In fascination, he watched as she gathered her courage to combat him, the scent of w
ildflowers drifting in the air he breathed.

  “Where are your wings?” she asked softly.

  His head tilted with puzzlement. What wings? He was not faery bred.

  “What is your name? Can you tell me your name?”

  He stared at her with sullen silence, reluctantly admiring her boldness, especially with a blade pressed to her neck. Out of the corner of his eye, the druidess and children watched, waited. He nodded ever so slightly. The ancient pulled the children to her and they settled back down against the trunk of the tree, pretending a return to sleep. His gaze slid to the red-haired guard, a man with bushy eyebrows and a scarred face. It was obvious to Boyden the man was bored by his duty. He settled back down, as well, no doubt thinking the princess planned to enjoy herself with the naked and bound captive, and he took another slug of mead from his leather pouch, settling in for a nap.

  “I asked you your name,” she said with a hushed tone of false impatience.

  He gave her his full attention.

  “Your name, golden one,” she prompted with an arched brow.

  He felt no desire to share his name and continued his examination of her face. “Why would you want to know my name?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “I would like to know who bleeds on me.”

  For a moment, she shimmered in front of him, a vague outline of dim light, a falsity of reckoning from the Darkshade enchantment flowing in his blood. Queasiness settled in the pit of his stomach.

  He looked into the fiery depths of her eyes, concentrating on her, and only on her, and dropped his voice in answer. “I am Boyden.”

  “Well, Boyden, I am Princess Scota, and I suggest you release me or I will call for help.”

  “You willna call,” he replied, feeling a small break in the mounting shadows crawling within. Though mortal, it seemed he was not immune to the enchantment of the Darkshade dagger after all. The threads of his guardian ancestry were making it so.

  She arched a delicate black brow at him, one of decided scorn. “You are mistaken.”

  “Nay, I doona think so. You would have called out by now. Besides, you plan to subdue me on your own, do you not?”

  He saw the truth of it in her eyes. A strange thrill of excitement pushed through the dimness within him at the thought of her attempting it.

  “Release my right hand, Scota.”

  “Release it yourself,” she hissed decisively. “You freed your left hand. Free your right.”

  They were practically nose to nose, he looking down and she looking up, breathing each other’s air. Her breath was sweetened with mead and his, no doubt, smelled of coppery blood and bitter sweat. The violent pain in his head receded to pounding and a new, cruel heat stirred in his blood. He felt it burrowing into his bones and shifted uncomfortably.

  “You do not look so good to me, golden one. Give me the sword and allow me to tend to your wound. I promise I will not hurt you.” A soft hand rested on his arm. “Let me help you, Boyden.”

  He looked down at her hand, coolness seeping into his flesh from long, white, delicately shaped fingers. He was going to regret this and lifted his gaze to hers.

  “Free my right hand, Princess,” he demanded with quiet authority, “and I will consider your offer.”

  “Give me the sword, Boyden,” she countered, fingertips grazing the inside of his forearm. “Let me help you.”

  He gave her a sour grimace. “Scota, doona make me hurt you.”

  “Would you?”

  He looked at her. “Aye, I would.”

  Her eyes widened slightly with surprise.

  “Free me,” he said.

  “I must lean down to reach your hand.”

  He nodded, keeping the tip of the blade touching her throat. Black hair fell away from her shoulder, exposing a slender white nape and delicate jaw. Blood pounded in his temples while white fingers went to work on the knots digging into his right wrist.

  “This is too tight.” She gave a weighty sigh. “I do not think I can loosen it.”

  “Try.”

  She straightened and looked him squarely in the eye. “I said, I can not loosen it.”

  “Try again.”

  “You must cut it with the sword.”

  Testing the ropes binding his right hand to the stake, he found it as tight as before. He stared at her, anger and attraction brewing below the surface.

  “Untie me,” he growled.

  “Untie yourself.”

  Threads of his magical heritage swirled inside him, ones of menace and intolerance. He could feel the dark amending him from within; feel the fey marker of his blooded kin staying the amethyst hue in his once-gray eyes.

  “You are one of them,” she said.

  He did not bother to deny her assumption, but took advantage of it. “Do you see the amethyst twilight in my eyes, Scota? Know that I am nothing like you have ever encountered before. Untie the rope.”

  “Or what?” Scota heard herself say in rebellion. Although he appeared young, she felt as if she stared into the long-ago past, into mesmerizing twilight and into dangerous enchantment. He was a warrior of hard arrogance and secrets, and, indeed, nothing like she had ever encountered before in her life. To her profound puzzlement, she found herself intrigued.

  He tilted his head, a sinister presence watching her. It was as if the world gave pause and all the creatures waited in watchful terror for something terrible to be unleashed.

  “Untie me,” he commanded with a voice of smooth darkness.

  Her left hand reached out of its own accord, feeling the straining muscle and flesh of his arm. She could not read the intentions of this one; his emotions were kept carefully hidden.

  “I need both my hands,” she said.

  He nodded, leaning down with her. Strands of gold mingled with her black tresses. A droplet of blood splattered on her hand.

  “I need more room,” she whispered breathlessly.

  “I doona think so.”

  A peculiar sensation settled in the pit of her stomach. Warm breath caressed her neck and ear, sending shivers down her spine despite the warmth shedding from the fire circle. Angered at her response to his closeness, she purposely elbowed him in the stomach and found it rock hard.

  Air left his lungs with a hiss. “Doona do that again. I doona like being poked.”

  “Neither do I,” said Scota, indicating where the man part of him prodded her thigh.

  “It canna be helped. Being a warrior, you must know this happens to males in battle.”

  “Are we in battle?” She jerked at the knots.

  “A different kind of battle, methinks, and I wish you to loosen the loops, not tighten them.”

  “I am attempting to do so,” she said through her teeth.

  “Do it faster.”

  She turned to respond, her temper getting the better of her, and her nose collided with his.

  He did not pull back.

  Up close, his unblinking eyes appeared even more startling … and mysterious, a gateway into the twilight flames and ancient wisdom within him. His fist and the sword’s hilt pressed low between her breasts, creating heat and awareness.

  “If you continue to give me your air, Princess, I am going to have to claim you here and now.”

  She faced away from him and yanked at the confounded ropes.

  “Pull the left loop,” he suggested.

  “I know which loop to pull.”

  “Then do it; you are stopping the blood flow in my arm.”

  With jerky movements, she managed to free his wrist and straightened abruptly. He was right there with her, the tip of the sword a constant source of irritation against the underside of her chin.

  Scota could hear her own breath loud in her ears.

  It felt like they were all alone in the camp, despite the sleeping men and numerous warhorses. On the other side of the fire, probably at some distance, one of the soldiers grunted loudly while finding his pleasure in the sheath of a willing whore.


  The blond warrior heard the sound, too, unmistakable and richly animal in the night air.

  She locked gazes with those fey eyes.

  His brow arched.

  All around the camp, the winds rose in ominous voices calling in clouds, mist, and storm.

  He was linked to the land somehow, she surmised.

  “Are you one of the fey creatures of this land?” she voiced her question aloud, not knowing what to expect. She had never seen a faery, and until moments before did not believe in them, but this tawny-maned warrior seemed to embody the magical. He must be.

  “Do you believe in the fey of this land, Scota?” he countered softly.

  Unconsciously wetting her lips, she answered honestly. “I do not know.”

  His lashes lowered slightly.

  She had him, she thought triumphantly.

  Hardness jabbed her in the stomach, instantly recognizable.

  Without looking, and with a single fingertip, she traced the veins pulsing beneath hard flesh, the bulbous tip large.

  His eyes darkened in storm.

  Maybe she could use his lust to an advantage, she reasoned. Looking at him coyly, she moistened her lips with her tongue again, a smooth slow glide of wetness meant to entice, a whore’s tease.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw.

  The thumb of his sword hand brushed her taut nipple and she sucked in a shaky breath.

  “ ‘Tis dangerous to tease me in this state, Princess.”

  Her jaw set, refusing to acknowledge the attraction heating between them. “Do not presume …”

  He smiled darkly with understanding and her body went queer inside.

  Head tilting with a predator’s scrutiny, he murmured, “Forgive me.”

  “Do you plan to kill me?” She was surprised to see a flicker of regret pass over his features. “Be done with it then,” she said boldly. “I grow weary of the wait.” The air stirred around her in threat and chill, his hard gaze the last thing she saw.

  Boyden clipped her in the jaw with his fist, knocking her unconscious. He did not want to do it, but she gave him little choice with her teasing. He did not need grinding lust joining with the Darkscape enchantment spreading in his blood.

  In the next instant, he bolted toward the sleeping guard and took him out, laying the still body down in silence. The druidess and children were on their feet, silent and immediately alert.