White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  Teeth clamped shut.

  Head flung back.

  His seed spilled into her milking womb, the world shaking within him, his body a cauldron of flames and pain, a male’s tormented release.

  Arms trembling, he collapsed beside her, his face buried in a bed of green leaves and wildflowers.

  Sated, Scota held her mate close and waited for the Elemental to release her.

  “I kept my word. Leave me now,” she commanded silently.

  Nothing happened.

  Scota felt a fleeting panic and wondered if Boyden sensed it. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled forcefully, enacting the power of her will over a superior being.

  The Elemental rose in her throat, leaving behind the faint bitterness of her reluctance. All at once Scota felt herself again.

  “Did I hurt you?” her mate asked.

  She kissed him gently on the lips. “No, Boyden,” she reassured.

  He gathered her close and rolled onto his back. Scota rested her head on his shoulder. Her arm eased across his chest, and she buried her fingers in wiry chest curls. They lay in each other’s arms, hearts beating a similar rhythm, and she thought him asleep.

  “Scota, I must return to my tribe.”

  Scota barely heard him.

  The scent of mold stung the air, an announcement of arrival. Bolting upright, she glared her displeasure at the interruption materializing in the air.

  Her mate was right beside her, dagger in hand, instantly alert and ready to defend. “What …” he muttered.

  “Coming!” A green-eyed spriggan pointed, hopping on his bare toes in obvious distress. Reaching out, Scota rested her hand on Boyden’s wrist, pushing the dagger down. “Boyden, I do not think he threatens, but warns us instead,” she whispered.

  “Coming!” the rock faery said with a voice turned gravelly with urgency. He jabbed his finger toward the tomb’s entrance, his rock-encrusted coat flapping about his short frame. If she stood to her full height, the top of the creature’s head would barely reach her hips.

  “Calm yourself, Master Spriggan,” Scota said, unknowingly tapping into the olden knowledge within her. These creatures tended to slip into frenzy when overly excited.

  “Follow me.” The spriggan ran past them, heading into the tomb, gesturing impatiently and muttering, “My home. No want blood spill here. Follow.”

  When they did not move, the rock faery yanked fretfully at his black beard. “FOLLOW!”

  Scota reached for her shirt and found Boyden scrutinizing her.

  “It is a spriggan,” she explained, shrugging into her shirt.

  “I know, Scota. I have seen them in the past. I am curious as to how you know.”

  She tossed him his breeches and quickly put on her own.

  “He wants us to follow him,” she said with a rush, slipping her feet into her boots.

  “Aye, I can see that. Get dressed.” Shrugging into his breeches and boots, her mate secured the scabbard onto his back with quick grace and thrust the dagger into the waistband of his breeches.

  Outside the small tomb, the impatient bellow of Captain Rigoberto could be heard in the wind, way above the sounds of the other men.

  CHAPTER 14

  TAKING HER ARM, BOYDEN GUIDED Scota after the fretting rock faery. Though fey borns were kin to his tribe, he did not trust them, as their motives were ever a mystery until too late. As one born of the in-between, he shared neither fey nor mortal fate, but walked an unconnected path. The territorial goddesses told Derina that one of the in-between would fall from grace. He let his breath out slowly. He was not with his tribe, not defending his people, not battling the invaders. Instead, he took one to his bed, claimed her in the way of his tribe, and spewed his seed into her clenching womb. He was the one falling from grace.

  “Follow,” the spriggan said with annoyance, heading down the narrowing passage into shadowy darkness.

  He released his unbreakable hold on her arm.

  Rubbing the tender spot, she stared back at him, eyes dark with uncertainty.

  “Follow,” came the command from ahead again.

  Boyden looked around her. “Lead on, Master Spriggan,” he answered, using her address. “Go, Scota. Follow the spriggan.”

  “Are you coming?” she asked with a low voice.

  “Soon.”

  She remained as she was, an outline against sloped rock etched with circles.

  “Boyden, I …” she ended with a stifled voice, her hands fisted at her sides.

  He sensed dread in her and fought to keep from gathering her in his arms. He turned away and doubled back to check the progress of their pursuers. Men shadows were cast over the entranceway. His mouth flattened. They had run out of time.

  For a moment, he thought about attacking their pursuers, then decided against it. He bolted back into the dimness on silent feet.

  Rounding a narrow bend, he pushed himself between a protruding rock shaped like a dog and the craggy surface of the stone wall. These underground passages were not meant for males built to his size.

  Up ahead he saw the rock faery pause between two, midnight-gray standing stones. As he came closer, he noticed the edges were carved with notches in ancient writings. The fey creature looked up at Scota. He patted the inscriptions fondly, stepped through the trickle of running water between the stones and … disappeared.

  Water, whether a puddle, raindrop, or stream, allowed passage to the Otherworld of the fey realm.

  “Follow,” a gravelly voice called from the beyond.

  Water provided a gateway to the fey borns of the land and to those born of the in-between, although he never traveled through water.

  He looked at Scota. His warrior mate was mortal born and would be unable to follow. He would not leave her behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he realized the only way out would be to attack their pursuers and hope the element of surprise would give them an edge.

  “Boyden.”

  He looked back.

  His mate gave him one of those rare and uncertain smiles, a spreading darkness sinking into her eyes. He tilted his head. “Scota?”

  “This way.” She stepped through the trickle of water to the unknown beyond.

  “By the winds,” he muttered with a quick look over his shoulder. Behind them, the excited voices of men on the hunt were closing in for the kill.

  He bolted toward the trickle, ducked, and stepped through a cold stream of water. A strong sense of dislocation and air disruption swirled around him. His next step brought him into a small chamber of stolen treasures, and he hit his head on the edge of a low ceiling rock.

  “Ouch,” he snarled, grabbing his temple, and nearly tumbling backward into a pond.

  Scota grabbed her mate by the arm and yanked him down into the cool shallows of an underground pool where she crouched. The gray rock ceiling, sparkling with pinpricks of starry white light, hung low even for her, but the magical luminance provided enough light to see by.

  “Are you injured?” she asked and received a low growl of displeasure in response.

  “Follow. Not stay here.” The spriggan stood in the middle of his chamber cave, waving wildly.

  “He wants us to follow,” she whispered and received a withering glare from her mate. She gave him a cautious smile and faced the low chamber—and her fear of small places. Alarm entered her bloodstream, a feeling of panic washing over her. As long as she saw a way out into the light and air, the dread was contained. This chamber, however, existed in the deep shadows of the below. She blew air out of her lungs and bit her bottom lip.

  “Scota?” he asked, no doubt picking up on her distress.

  “I do not like the below,” she offered a quick explanation and swallowed bile in her throat. Never had she felt the dread so intensely as at this moment, and she wondered briefly if the child growing in her womb magnified it. Not that she meant to lay blame on an innocent, but she heard breeding women remark of teary emotions for no apparent reason.

  “If y
ou doona like the below, then let us leave the cave as quickly as possible,” Boyden said, and she could not agree more. Stepping around a white stone pillar, they climbed out of the crystal-black pool onto slabs of flowing rock. Limestone icicles, frozen in time, sprouted from the floor, rocky tables made ready for the piles of stolen neck rings and bracelets, a spriggan’s horde. Struggling for composure, her legs cold and dripping wet from the pool, Scota turned to Boyden for direction.

  Boyden adjusted his bronze torc, making sure it remained on his neck. The neck ring had belonged to his older brother, who died from an unfortunate tumble off a horse. He would not part with it willingly. He took Scota’s arm and guided her forward.

  “I think it might be a wee bit easier on our backs if we crawl rather than try to crouch,” he advised.

  She dropped to her knees, pale and trembling, worrying him.

  “Scota, are you ill?”

  “No, Boyden. I care not for this place and wish only to return to the light of the land.”

  The spriggan approached, and Boyden rose on his knees to meet the creature’s level gaze.

  “All mine,” the fey born said.

  Boyden pointed to Scota. “That mine,” he replied in kind to the challenge.

  “Rest mine.”

  “I doona want your treasures,” Boyden remarked firmly, adjusting the dagger at his waist.

  The spriggan looked at Scota, the menace leaving his eyes and replaced by a fey born’s appreciation for beauty.

  “I have no need of your treasures, Master Spriggan,” she reassured, and Boyden was once again reminded of her highborn heritage. He took an enemy princess as mate. His tribe would not be pleased.

  The spriggan walked away and demanded loudly, “Follow.”

  “If he says that word one more time, I will swat him like an insect.”

  Beside him, his warrior mate laughed shakily.

  “Spriggans can be annoying,” she murmured, automatically tapping into olden blood memories.

  “He wants something,” Boyden countered, wondering how she knew a spriggan’s foremost trait.

  “Maybe,” she replied, anxious to leave the chamber.

  He felt anxious, too, but for other reasons. Spriggan tales, like many of the fey borns, were passed down from father and mother to son and daughter. Scota was not of this land, not of the Tuatha Dé Danann, yet she demonstrated knowledge of their ways. He shifted the leather straps across his shoulders. How did she pass through the trickle of water? he wondered. She was blooded, not fey. Who was this warrior he claimed as mate?

  He touched her elbow to get her moving. “Let us follow the rock faery before he throws a fit.”

  She crawled forward in the murky light, remaining close to his side, a kind of nervous laughter bursting out of her. “Talk to me, Boyden.” It sounded like a plea for help, her voice tense and low. “What is your favorite food?” she asked.

  “Mead.”

  “Female?” she asked, her shoulder brushing his.

  “Dark-haired and stubborn.”

  She laughed unevenly. “Weapon?”

  “Sword.” He crouched lower so the sword hilt at his back would not catch on a wedge of rock.

  “I prefer the bow and arrow,” she replied. “It makes males and females equal. We do not have the strength and quickness of males.”

  “Females are definitely weaker and slower,” he agreed.

  “In some things,” she countered. “In others, we are better.”

  “Aye,” he said, continuing to crawl over slabs of rock and packed soil. “Are you any good with the arrow?”

  “Better than you.”

  He arched a brow. “Do you challenge me, Scota?”

  “Do I?” She looked at him through wayward strands of black hair, their banter, for the moment at least, replacing her fears.

  “At times,” he admitted, enjoying her swift mind.

  “I think you have it too easy, my tawny one.”

  He gave her a wicked smile. “How easy do you want me, Scota? Methinks a female like you needs dispute and challenge in a male.”

  Her eyes glimmered in memory of their mating a few hours before. “Next time, we see who dominates.”

  His stomach clenched at her seductive implication, and he hit his head on a protruding rock. “Ouch.” He pulled back, rubbing the tender spot.

  “You need to pay closer attention to the encroaching ceiling, my love.”

  Boyden caught the endearment and was unable to acknowledge it. “Well said,” he mumbled.

  “FOLLOW!” In the ragged darkness ahead, the rock faery stomped his foot. He stood beneath clusters of yellow crystals that looked ready to drop and impale him at any moment. The spriggan pointed to a dark-purple crystal embedded in the wall several paces from him. It was nearly man-sized and shaped as a half-moon rock. Shafts of blue light spilled to the floor in a magical and living radiance.

  Though he had never traveled one, Boyden knew a feypath’s signature when he saw one.

  Scota recognized the faceted marker, too, from the olden blood memories. Feypaths were dark tunnels sprawling under the land and lochs. Tremors of fear added to the anxiety already clutching at her. She forced herself to crawl into the shafts of cool light, tingles of ancient magic pulsing against her skin, a feypath’s signature of deception and promises waiting beyond.

  “Go,” the spriggan commanded, reaching for the hidden indentation beneath. The crystal half-moon rock slid open in silence.

  “Where does this feypath lead?” Boyden asked.

  “Outside soon,” the spriggan answered.

  “Good enough. If you deceive me, Master Spriggan, I will come back and remove your head from your body.”

  The rock faery squealed and grabbed at his short neck. “No appreciate you.”

  “Oh, I appreciate your help well enough. Stay away from the passage tombs for a few days.”

  “Can you not wink us out to the land?” Scota asked quietly, desperately.

  The spriggan looked appalled. “Nay, him too big. Flatten me.”

  “He is a youngling, Scota.”

  “Youngling?” She looked from Boyden to the spriggan and his straggly beard.

  “An adult might be able to wink us out of here, but I doubt it. I am too big for them.”

  “Give payment now.” The rock faery held out a small hand with dirty fingernails. “Pretty bronze torc.”

  Her formidable mate leaned into the short creature, his teeth gleaming in a menacing smile. “Think again, youngling.”

  The rock faery, sensing confrontation and danger, quickly winked out, and Boyden turned to her with bemusement. “Methinks he shows exceedingly good judgment for a spriggan.”

  His smile quickly faded.

  Scota could only imagine how dread and alarm strained her features.

  His warm hand took her cold one with reassurance.

  “I know you dislike this place, Scota. We must continue in the below for a wee bit longer.”

  Panic rose, nearly choking her. “I want to go back,” she said, battling revulsion, and gripped his hand tightly.

  “Walk with me,” he coaxed in a voice changing to gentleness and pulled her through the half-moon opening into purple smears.

  The temperature immediately dipped, and he helped her to her feet in the moving shadows.

  The passage was narrow but high. She heard the half-moon crystal rock close behind them in a thump of finality. Her throat closed, and Scota covered her mouth and gagged. It would be easier not to breathe.

  “It smells of rotting crops in here,” Boyden snorted. “Faery spitefulness, a provoking scent.” He coughed, scanning the path ahead.

  Scota stood transfixed. Carved out of rock and stone, the feypaths were not meant for mortal passage. A tangled canopy of brown vines and silver thorns climbed the walls to the ceiling. In the distant reaches of her mind, she knew the vines to be faery cursed, needing no sunlight for the growing.

  “Come, Scota. Let us
find our way out of this.”

  She could not make her legs move, a primordial howling rising within her bloodstream.

  “Scota?”

  “I can not sense the above,” she croaked, nearly sobbing.

  Boyden had never seen her so pale. He caught her wrist, his hand slipping down to hers. “Scota,” he said, calm and low. “I willna let anything here hurt you.”

  She looked vulnerable, a whirlwind of fears reflected back at him.

  He moved closer and stroked her hair. “Come, walk with me.” His hand drifted purposely down her back, soothing and propelling her forward into the eerie dim. Drawing her trembling body nearer to his, he whispered encouragements.

  She obeyed him, silent and tense, nails digging into his arm.

  They walked on, a bit of force here and there keeping her moving forward. She allowed it, and he continued, her breathing rapid and loud in the silence. The absence of day and night unnerved him, but he kept going.

  “I wish to go back,” she said on the edge of panic, giving him a firm tug of rebellion.

  He held on to her hand. “Nay, we keep going. There is no back. Walk with me. Put one foot in front of the other. Good. Keep moving.”

  Thick vines soon gave way to gray walls draped with folding rocks, the walls closing in.

  “I want to go back, Boyden.”

  “I am sure Master Spriggan would not welcome our return to his home. The only way is this way. Think of the wind in the trees. Fill your mind with open fields and running streams. Walk, Scota. You are doing fine.”

  “There is no ending to it,” she mumbled, trembling.

  “There are always endings. See? Look ahead.”

  A few steps beyond and a bend in the passage led to two white pillars of tapering stalactite, hanging from the roof. Embedded in the wall between them, a crystal half-moon rock sparkled dully, a return to the living world.

  “I see it.” She covered her mouth and coughed.

  He released her and stepped between the pillars. Running his hands down sharp facets, he searched for the release of the magical half-moon rock. “If I remember what Derina told me, there is a …” His fingers caught the indentation on the smooth underside, and he pushed the surface in. The rock slid back from his hands in a burst of cool air, and a feeling of dislocation flowed over him.