White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  Three days had passed since he dropped his charges into the safety of the well, three days of clouds and afternoon rain showers. ‘Tis the season, he thought.

  Resting his arm on the cool surface of the entrance stone, he blinked at the five large spirals carved into it. There were additional carvings on the face of the stone, nested arcs and smaller circles, representing the female womb. Adjusting the dagger at his waist, he looked over his bloody shoulder and scanned the flowing field of wildflowers and trees.

  The captain was too zealous in his wish to capture him alive. He had escaped the pig-nosed man’s grasp with only a minor shoulder injury from a sword. He had taken five of his enemies down before leading the rest on a merry chase, far away from the well.

  Passing through empty farmland surrounding the local village, he headed for the stray sod, the enchanted faery ground that caused many to lose their way, although, for some reason, it never misdirected him. Marked by a magical talisman, like a triple-trunked hawthorn, the stray sod most often appeared as a small field of the bluest green. He knew his pursuers would be unable to track him through it, unable to find the hallowed passage tomb beyond.

  He glanced aside at the entrance of the tomb and pulled himself up, his body heavy and slow. Forcing his legs to move, he half-walked, half-lurched under the roof stone into cool darkness, the passage sloping upward.

  Swept with sickly waves of weakness, he flung his arm out too late to catch his balance. He slammed hard into one of the standing stones along the wall and slid unceremoniously to his knees. He knew he would not make it to the cruciform chamber at the end of the shadowed path, and he shut his eyes, mildly curious at his ending. Scota, Derina, and the children were safe, he reminded himself yet again through the burning and sickly heat ravaging his body. If he had been born a true guardian, he would have died within hours of the Darkshade cut, instead of days. His mortal blood gave him the time he needed to see his will done.

  It was enough. His tribe was losing to the invaders. There would be other days to fight, he thought in a swirl of gray mist, or mayhap, their true destiny lay with their fey brethren in the Otherworld below. He experienced a twinge of regret that he would not be around to find out. He believed in living in the present. The past was gone and the future uncontrollable.

  His head lowered, cheek scraping against hard stone.

  A whisper of cold breath touched his cheek.

  He shut his eyes.

  It was her, the Gaoth Shee.

  She came to claim him in death.

  Slowly, his body crumpled, the back of his head hitting the floor with a dull thud of pain, the empty scabbard at his back jamming into his flesh. Arms flung wide, he felt a sense of sorrow sweep over his sweaty flesh. Cracking red-rimmed eyes open, he saw a reflection of Scota, a shimmering of bright light, and blinked to clear his vision.

  A black-haired creature of transparency and gems knelt beside him. It was her, the Elemental, the one who chose a form resembling his mate. Now, in this ending time, the deadly wind reveals herself, he mused in detached gloom. He heard one of the villagers call her the Sí Gaoith, the faery whirlwind, swirling and twisting, carrying a bale of hay up into the sky. He knew what the villager saw had not been her, not his deadly blast of feral air. His wind came of true darkness.

  “What do you want?” he rasped, hearing only the winnowing wind, hollow and scraping in his ears.

  The edge of his vision grayed. His eyes fluttered closed, casting him into the churning sea of nightmares and ancient realms once again.

  As before, it came …

  Darkness swirling.

  Fading into slithering black mist.

  Glittering firelight climbed up his sweating body.

  Naked and hurting, he tugged at his bindings in throaty rebellion. He was staked to the ground again, wrists bleeding, a constant weight refusing to release him.

  He flung his head back and roared in rage, feeling her within, knowing her in every pore of his being. The blood threads of his ancient ancestry throbbed mercilessly in his blood, mating with the Darkshade enchantment, leaving him open and vulnerable … to her claiming.

  The winds picked up, and he felt her presence, felt the terrible emptiness and aloneness of her.

  The Gaoth Shee.

  Dropping his head, he stared into eyes dark with unworldly passion and frightening need. Alarm spread through him. She knelt before him, her face sculpted in the perfection of his mate, Scota. Rose-hued lips parted with soft breath, glistening with temptation.

  Torn between craving her and hating her, he attempted to turn away, but found he could not move.

  She smiled knowingly, a queen tolerant of her servant’s revolt.

  A soft white hand moved over his shoulder and slid around his nape, fingers digging into flesh, holding, dominating. Her touch sent curling warmth into his loins, a physical remembrance of a before-time when his blood flowed in a reigning king.

  She rose on her knees, a graceful creature dressed in veils of translucency, her small breasts pressing into his chest.

  He struggled against her supremacy, fought her will and endless power.

  Warm lips slid wetness along his jaw, and his heart slammed inside his chest. Fingers buried in his hair hurtfully, purposeful and directing. The other hand grasped his jaw, tilting his head. He felt like an animal, hungry for her.

  He tasted her breath before she took his mouth vigorously in fey possession. She drank of his air and his life, a forcing of submission and servicing.

  His body tightened, hardened … and he refused her, denied her, falsity and fear rising in him.

  Laboring for breath, he tore his mouth free, the ancient craving inside coiling back in pain; he slipped once more into the desolation of the Darkshade.

  She could not save him. The Gaoth Shee slipped away and became a cyclostrophic wind, rapidly rotating over the sacred passage-tomb, round and round, the cold outflow of anger and grief spilling into the air, adding pressure to an approaching thunderstorm. Never had she the power to save life, only the bursting of it, the becoming and forced ending of it. She was olden in the before-time. Newborn, when the land and waters formed, shaping her. Powerless now.

  Powerless.

  Enraged.

  The will and breath in her stilled …

  Listened.

  …to his struggling heart.

  …to the other’s straining heart.

  The one he claimed as mate had returned to the world of mortal men and was running.

  She flowed down the ridge to meet her.

  CHAPTER 10

  SOAKED TO THE BONE FROM the fast-moving rainstorm, Scota stood beside a whitethorn tree, wringing out her wet hair.

  “I should have plaited it,” she mumbled and flung the wet mass over her shoulder and out of the way. At the moment, her main concern rested with the food and healing sacks. Seeing the sudden gathering of clouds, she had ducked under a nearby tree and wrapped the sacks with bunches of green leaves for protection. She inspected them and found the contents of both dry. She blew out a relieved breath. Tucking the healing sack back under her shirt, she looked up at the sky. Above her head, the booming sounds of thunder dissipated as quickly as the storm had roared in. It had been a sudden drenching and departing without even a crack of lightning. A strange storm, she thought.

  Lavender afterglows seeped across the rolling hills now, a new foreboding in the day’s ending light. She rubbed her arms and studied the radiant blades of blue green grass dipping their heads to the breezes. The scent of the whitethorn tree behind her was rich and fragrant in her lungs.

  She stood before an open field and glanced back at the triple-trunk tree. Long, sharp thorns, the size of a man’s finger, sprouted between snow-white petals and green leaves. She sighed deeply. This was her third time passing it.

  The sound of men carried in the air, too, and she scanned the land.

  The voices were angry at being as misdirected on this enchanted patch of grass
y sod as she. Scota moved behind the thorny tree. A high-pitched bellow of rage followed. She recognized that voice. It was the captain, wayward, too. The narrow-minded man had no idea of the truth of what he sought. She did, however. Having seen a mere glimpse of it, she wanted more. The unexplained fascinated her, as Boyden fascinated her. He was like the wind to her, elusive, indefinable, and compelling.

  When he regarded her in those moments of stillness, she felt spellbound, a mass of quivering flesh with womanly desires. Now his seed rooted within her womb, an unexpected joy. Foolish tears welled in her eyes, and she brushed them impatiently away.

  While greed continued to dictate the captain’s wants, her life’s path veered toward another journey. This beautiful land of blowing winds, rugged hills, and crystal lochs called to her spirit. Boyden called to her spirit. Deep down inside, she knew not all the people in this land could have been responsible for the death of Lord Íth. She vowed to find the murderers and end the bloodletting of innocents.

  She took a step forward.

  All of a sudden a nipping breeze tugged harshly on her wet hair, pinching her scalp.

  Scota yanked the tresses back, her gaze probing a shimmering of empty air.

  She felt a wintry presence of something magical.

  “FOLLOW ME,” a voice sounded within her mind, the hushed tones of urgency ringing in her ears.

  “Who are you?” she demanded with a rush of breath, poised for attack. Yet, no enemy showed.

  The chilly wind grew slashing, gusts pushing her toward the grove of oak and yew trees at her left. It blew around her only, a singular purpose. The slender branches of the whitethorn tree were unmoving in response.

  Planting her feet, she pressed her lips together, feeling a twinge of apprehension. The magical had found her once again.

  “You know where Boyden is?” she cautiously guessed aloud, her voice carried away in the blasts of air. Hair whipped hurtfully across her cheeks and nose. Whatever this windy enchantment, it insisted she follow it.

  “Show me,” she whispered, “my unseen companion.”

  Pulling the wet hair out of her eyes, Scota followed the cold wind into the grove of tall trees. Urgency beat at her, and she picked up the pace.

  “Doona fear the wind,” the druidess had warned and so she chose not to. Legs pumping under her, she ran at a steady pace with the howling wind, a strong propelling force at her back. Storm clouds grayed overhead, casting shadows upon the large circle of pillar stones she intruded upon. She felt a momentary panic, her eyes stinging from the insistence of the chilly wind. The loud roaring of a river sounded near and she ran onward. Up a green ridge she climbed, her lungs near bursting, to the sweeping presence of a stone dwelling of white quartz. She entered a forecourt of dirt and stone. Here there was nothing but the feeling of long-ago death and sacrifice, a tomb of the unidentified. Scrambling around an entrance stone carved with spirals, she entered the tomb. “Boyden?” she called, intruding into unfamiliar darkness. She stumbled over a prone leg and landed atop him.

  “Boyden,” she rasped, untangling herself and pushing up from an expansive chest. Her left hand slid into caked blood on his right shoulder. “Boyden.” She grew frightened at his lack of response.

  His handsome face was turned away, his breathing sounding labored. He mumbled incoherently about banshees, those wailing, red-eyed creatures who presage a coming death.

  She retreated off him. “I will not allow banshees here,” she reassured, knowing all about those creatures of myth. Some of her people believed in them, too.

  Laying the food sack near her hip, she bent over him. Pushing strands of tawny hair aside, she inspected the Darkshade wound. He felt hot.

  “It festers,” she whispered and pulled the healing sack out from around her neck. Placing it in her lap, she carefully opened it … and froze.

  White mist curled in circles near Boyden’s head, and a banshee suddenly emerged in a glimmer of air. The creature appeared nearly transparent. Scota gazed calmly into a face etched in grief. Long, flowing hair swirled in a tempest around the waif form.

  She did not ponder how she could see this fey born creature. Did not ponder the magic of the unborn babe altering her blood to the knowing of magical beings. Instead, she narrowed her eyes with warning. “You can not have him. Go away.”

  The female wraith tossed her head back and wailed loudly.

  “Screaming will not change my mind. Go away, I said.”

  She leaned over Boyden, a destined and dying king. “This is special healing from the druidess,” she explained, just in case he understood. Cupping her fingers, she scooped out some of the cool green paste, nearly gagging at the bitter stink.

  She thought to clean the wound before smearing the healing mixture on his heated flesh, but this was an illness of enchantment and she did not think cleaning would make much of a difference.

  The banshee continued to wail loudly, and Scota thought about punching the wraith in the jaw to shut her up.

  “Boyden, you must hold still for me.”

  Fists clenched at his sides, he arched his back, tossing his head from side to side.

  Grabbing his chin, she held him immobile and smeared the paste over the thin, ugly wound slicing his temple to his brow.

  He hissed with pain, teeth bared, and tried to push her hand away.

  “Boyden,” she commanded, holding his chin tightly. “It must be done. Stop fighting me.” She smeared the paste liberally while cursing the captain under her breath. Boyden continued to toss, his body arching and fighting some unseen force.

  Still holding him by the chin, she closed the sack of healing mixture with her free hand.

  “All right, Boyden. I am here now and will take care of you.” She kept talking. “Derina’s healing will draw the Darkshade out of you. You are not alone.”

  Carefully laying the sack aside, she lifted his head to her lap and forced the banshee to step back. That seemed to ease his turmoil.

  “You can rest. Take ease, my brooding one. I am here and will protect you.” Burying her hands in silken hair, she held him, her hands gently massaging. Shadows lived under his eyes, and his lips were cracked. The bronze torc gleamed dully on his collarbone, and she watched the shaky rise and fall of his chest. “That is better,” she said to him. “Ignore the banshee and breathe for me.”

  Behind her, the wailing abruptly ended, and Scota glanced over her shoulder.

  The banshee shimmered and was gone, a good sign.

  She returned her attention to Boyden.

  If he had only blood threads to the magical guardians, maybe the enchanted healing would be faster. She hoped so and sat thinking about what else she needed to do to aid his recovery. She dared not think about the other path, the path of death. Reaching for the silver dagger at his waist, she sliced the hem of her woolen shirt and quietly wrapped his head, protecting the wound and covering one eye. Next, she removed the scabbard from his back and examined his injured shoulder. It appeared to have been a slashing flesh wound, not deep, not infected, and she reached for the healing sack. Smearing the stinky paste on the shoulder wound, as well, she once again closed the sack and placed it carefully aside.

  “Boyden, can you hear me?”

  She caressed his bristled cheek, and he groaned, his right hand clenching.

  “You need to fight this. Can you wake up and talk to me? The banshee is gone, and your guardian wind nearly battered me into finding you. Wake up for me.”

  He did not respond, caught with unconscious agitation once again.

  Scota looked outside the passageway. The storm had returned with a fierce torrent of rain and thunder. Whatever tracks existed were being washed away, and she was thankful for it. When the captain eventually found a way out of the stray sod, there would be no trail to follow. Shifting with Boyden’s head in her lap, she rested her back against the stone wall and closed her eyes “Do not die on me, you oaf.”

  Suddenly a hand gripped her wrist so hard, i
t hurt.

  Her eyes flung open.

  “I willna submit to you,” he slurred, eyes fiercely shut.

  She gulped in a relieved breath. “Boyden.”

  His eyes fluttered open, and he tilted his head back to look at her.

  She looked into eyes glazed with fever.

  “What—are you doing—here?” his voice broke.

  “Saving you.” He was trembling under her hands.

  “Why? I be nothing like you,” he snarled. “Leave me be.”

  “Boyden.”

  “I willna submit to you ever,” he said with anger. “Do you hear me?”

  Submit? She had no idea what he was talking about. “Boyden, you are hurting me.”

  He released her wrist and clutched at his head, trying to roll off her lap. “Her mouth eternal licks at mine.”

  Whose mouth? She felt a wave of jealousy for the woman in his dreams. “Derina’s healing paste should help you. I smeared it on the Darkshade wound.”

  “It stinks,” he moaned in objection, eyes closing.

  “It does,” she agreed, the pungent stench of garlic staining her lungs. She pushed his hands down. “Lie still. Boyden, stay on your back.”

  “I doona want you near me anymore,” he said with a low voice.

  She held tightly to his shoulders, hurt by his words, and relieved at his strong showing of spirit. “I do not want you near me, either. Now fight this Darkshade poison,” she commanded firmly. “You are a warrior of the Tuatha Dé Danann. They be strong and courageous and a stubborn, brooding, baffling people.”