In the morning the little ones would be all atwitter, flitting among the trees, giggling and squabbling. Some would accompany their parents as they flew out to tend the forests that were in their care and that cared for them.
From the forests came their food, their drink. In return the Fair cared for them, clearing streams and deadfall, watching for signs of pests and disease and healing them.
She would do much – do anything and everything – to keep her people safe.
It was what she’d been born to do, her duty and her honor.
These here and the others scattered across the Kingdom in their glades and forests, looked to her, depended on her, as the people of the Kingdom did on Oryan and Morgan. And now to some extent on her as well.
It weighed on her, but not unpleasantly.
Fear clenched at her heart. What now for these, her people? These were perilous times.
She turned to look toward where Haerold sat, the false King.
Peace here but for how long?
The rumors she’d heard of Haerold didn’t hearten her. He wouldn’t be kind.
“My Kyri,” Galan said, softly.
“I’m well enough,” she said, in answer to the concern he didn’t voice.
There was no criticism in him.
She’d been born to be Queen in this time and this place. It was for her to judge, to decide and to do. That was the way of it. There was no other.
Kyri took a breath.
No more than Oryan or Morgan was she alone in this. She had them, as they had her and there was Galan as well, and Dorien. Solon. There were others. She reminded herself of that.
Taking another breath, she nodded and put it away. She would need sleep. The memories of those who’d come before her told her that. Only the gods knew when again sleep would be found often enough to be rested, if these last days were any indication of what was to come. So she had best get some while she could.
Once more Kyri looked up at the towering trees, the branches so high above her it seemed the needles and leaves would sweep the stars from the sky – eternal, endless.
Her heart eased.
For now…
Chapter Nine
The smoke ahead was too damned thick and too damned heavy to be a hearth fire and it was the wrong time of year for any other burning, Morgan knew. A fire that intense could only be a building, a barn or a house ablaze, for whatever reason. None of those who rode with him doubted as they neared that it was for the cause they suspected.
Morgan cursed softly.
He didn’t even have to signal to them, his people turned automatically toward that distant village, each of them setting spur to horse.
They’d been following this distinctive trail for a day or so since a patrol had cut across it.
It would be their first encounter with the creatures they’d learned Haerold called ‘Hunters’.
The wolf-men.
“People, sharpen up,” he said. “Take everyone and everything you thought to be fast and know these things are faster than that. As fast as wolves and meaner. Watch each other’s backs.”
The village was small. It was little more than a cluster of cottages, hovels, small barns, coops and pigsties centered amidst the fields of grain, with a small communal vegetable garden off to one side. Most of the cottages were a mix of stone pulled from the fields and wood from a small stand of trees nearby. Almost all the buildings were worn and gray from weather and age, patched onto over time and passed from parent to child. It was very like the village where Morgan had been born—until the bandits had come. He’d lost both parents and home in that raid, but had found a new place with the Marshals who’d come in answer to that raid.
With gestures, Morgan sent two of his people to circle around and come at the enemy from behind, to flank them, hopefully, if these things didn’t scent them first.
The smoke would possibly take care of that for them, but, remembering that thing by the reeking moat, he knew they also hunted by sight as men did.
He signaled the rest of his people to halt. He wouldn’t go in there blind. They had none of the Fairy with him and he wouldn’t Call to put them at risk— for multiple reasons, not least of which was that there were days like this when they wouldn’t be conveniently there unless he called them first. The trouble with relying on any tool was that sometimes it wasn’t there when you needed it. And then you were screwed. Learning from experience, learning the hard way, only worked if you had enough fingers to spare. He didn’t dare think of the ones he might lose… His people were too few to start with, he couldn’t afford to lose any of them.
With Caleb at his heels – Jacob was in Norwich, sniffing around that city to learn what he could and possibly to scare up a wizard for them – Morgan dismounted to slip through the outskirts of the village. He prayed they wouldn’t run into a barking dog that would give them away, at least not until he could see what was going on in the village.
He reached a good viewing spot, and peered between the branches of a bush.
The Hunters – six that he could see – had rounded up every reasonably healthy young person – some not gently by the look of the bruises and cuts – and chained them together. Conscripts for Haerold’s army.
In the center of the village square a wizard stood, his hand raised, fingers clenched.
A pale greenish light glowed between his fingers.
A wizard.
Two feet away a man dangled in mid-air, feet kicking…his face turning purple…
The gods couldn’t give him a break, Morgan noted grimly.
Hunters and a wizard.
One of the Hunters was hanging a notice on the message post in the center of the village.
The thing hammered it into place with metronomic precision.
Around the square some women wept while others and the men stood with hands clenched in impotent rage, helpless to intervene or risk another losing his life. With nothing more than scythes they were unable to fight the invaders.
The wizard spoke. “By order of the King. Any and all who give succor or aid to he who was once known as King Oryan, to the renegade High Marshal Morgan, or the one known as Prince Gawain, or any and all of theirs and whosoever gives aid to the rebels who even now cause havoc and terror in our Kingdom will suffer the penalty of imprisonment or death, or both. A bounty has been offered for information on any of these. Twenty Golds for Oryan or Morgan, fifteen for the boy Gawain, ten for any information on the rebels.”
A single gold would feed a family for nearly a month. There were many who would be tempted and there was always the venal and greedy.
With a jerk of his empty hand, the wizard pulled the hapless, terrified man he held captive closer.
“Perhaps you need an example of what happens to those who defy their King.”
Everywhere Morgan turned it seemed he found something like this. He was like the proverbial child at the dam, with not enough fingers to stop the damn thing from leaking.
Yet he had to fight, as each time they did the villagers knew it was Morgan and Oryan who defended them, who protected them from men like these. Haerold’s men. That was his job, and he did it well. These were Oryan’s people, people Morgan had sworn to protect. His responsibility. In time he would have had more Marshals trained, would teach them to be autonomous, to roam the countryside at will so that even such as these would fear them.
That time was not yet here, though.
Until now it had only been Haerold’s regular soldiers Morgan and his people had had to contend with. This was the first time they faced the Hunters and now a wizard as well. They couldn’t walk away, though.
Nor would he even consider it.
If not he and his to fight these, then who? Who would fight for and defend those who couldn’t defend themselves but he and his Marshals? It wasn’t just what he was it was who he was.
Morgan had seen enough. A hand signal sent Caleb on light feet back to the horses with Morgan close behind, both of
them keeping low. Morgan curled his fingers around Kyri’s gift. The crystalline feather seemed to warm in his hand. It seemed that now he would find out if it worked or not, and how well.
“We hit them hard and fast,” Morgan said as he swung up into the saddle, his voice low. “There’s a wizard, so keep your eyes open and your heads down. I’ll take him, though, the rest of you concentrate on the Hunters.”
There the odds were a little more than even. Against the unknown… that made him uneasy. Surprise would be on their side, though. They weren’t expected.
Steeling himself, Morgan set heels to horse and it leaped forward.
They burst into the square.
Startled, the Hunters spun on their heels. They scattered before the sudden rush and fury of the attack, instinctively fanning out in classic pack formation as they reached for their swords and leaped away from the oncoming riders.
The wizard quickly tossed away his victim and gestured. Something hot and fluid like molten lead suddenly flew Morgan’s way as he rode in the fore.
Morgan ducked automatically, knowing even then that it would miss but he was more than gratified when it appeared to hit an invisible wall only feet from his face and blew away to smoke.
Eyes widening, alarmed, the wizard suddenly backed away.
Morgan sensed the attack more than saw it from the corner of his eye. Twisting sideways, he slashed with his sword as the Hunter turned desperately in mid-air to avoid his strike. Blood splattered him from a slash across the Hunter’s ribs, but the thing gave as good as it got as its claws lashed out to slash Morgan’s shoulder and he’d successfully drawn Morgan away from the wizard, trying to protect him.
Morgan ground his teeth grimly as he wrenched the horse back toward his target.
The wizard scrambled away from Morgan’s on-rushing horse, throwing himself to one side as he gestured.
Heat blasted past Morgan, the spell splattered in front of his eyes, but didn’t deter him an inch from his intended target.
A slash of his sword opened up the man’s arm, cutting off the next spell in mid-cast.
It flashed back, incinerating the wizard on the spot.
Shouts and oaths echoed as Morgan’s people fought.
Turning the horse saved Morgan from a worse wound as claws raked across his arm, but the Hunter itself missed, bowling across his horse’s haunches. Even as Morgan’s horse spun to face the attack, the Hunter leaped again and Morgan took off its head.
Norris screamed, a bloodcurdling shriek, as he was taken off his horse by the impact of another Hunter. Norris lay on the ground with the arm he’d thrust in its maw the only thing keeping the jaws from his vulnerable throat. The Hunter’s muzzle clamped down on the arm. It shook its head violently. Norris shrieked again. One of the others Marshals chopped down at the Hunter. It turned on her, snarling, and she struck it again, backhanded, severing its head from its neck.
Around Morgan an eerie silence had fallen, a breathless moment as everyone realized that it might be over. From the corners of his eye Morgan had seen at least one of the Hunters flee, the one he’d caught in the ribs. The other five were dead or dying.
Looking around, Morgan examined the wreckage of the village and his people.
Besides Norris, almost all of them bore either claw or teeth marks, but Norris was the most seriously hurt. They’d lost a horse, but no people.
For that Morgan could only be grateful.
He rode over to the proclamation, ripped it down and held it up for the villagers to see.
“For any of you who don’t know me, my name is Morgan, High Marshal to King Oryan. If you have any more visitors tell them that Morgan and the King’s Marshals send their regards.”
Parents rushed to their children to set them free. Some of the women wept with relief as did one or two of the men, even while they searched the bodies of the dead Hunters for the keys to the shackles.
Now Morgan remembered why he did this.
With a gesture, he and the Marshals rode out, Norris put up before the unhorsed Tyrell.
He knew the villagers would have been grateful enough to feed them but they had little enough to spare. He wouldn’t add to their burden, not with Haerold’s new taxes taking what little they extra they had, if any, as well as trying to take their children.
There were deer, wild boar, and plenty of wild fowl, so they wouldn’t starve.
A covey of quail that burst out of the high grass to startle them provided their dinner. They made a nice meal when cooked stuffed with wild onions and carrots.
Far too far away in her aerie in the deep forests of the south, Kyri felt the magic strike Morgan’s amulet and her breath caught as she leaped up to stare out over the trees. A beat or two of her heart… She waited. He was alive. She let her breath go. Even if she flew at speed, had taken to the thermals, she couldn’t have reached him in time.
Still.
If there was anything the Fair feared, it was fire, but the lightning that had caused fires that had brought her here had passed. The fires were out, although they had come close. It was safe now for her to leave.
She felt another sharp sting…
Morgan. The talisman.
Almost without conscious thought, her wings opened, spread and beat.
Morgan was tired, but there had been Norris’s arm to set and bandage. It had been a bloody mess. That arm wasn’t going to do him much good for a while, it had been badly savaged. He wasn’t even sure it would ever be usable. So they might have lost a man after all. At least Norris hadn’t lost his life, however little consolation that might be if he were that badly crippled. Morgan couldn’t do anything for the pain, either. They didn’t even have whiskey on them.
There were other wounds to bandage as well, and his own, such as they were.
He’d sent out the call to the Fairy, he needed to get word to Oryan.
Now all he could do was wait.
It wasn’t always Kyri who answered and, to a disappointment he pretended not to feel, it wasn’t now. Somehow he knew that even as he heard the whisper of wings in the night. Some of the Fairy flew as silent as owls.
“You’ve seen better days, I think, Morgan,” Dorien said, eyeing him as he settled to the earth, his wings folding against his back.
Dressed little different from any Fairy, Dorien wore loose trousers underneath the tunic/shift that all others of his folk wore.
Morgan couldn’t help but like the wry Fairy.
As with most of his folk, Dorien was slender, but strongly muscled across the chest and shoulders. He was tall for a Fairy, standing nearly eye to eye with Morgan himself. His hair was a longish brown, blowing lightly in the breeze, the feathers of his nearly translucent wings a light bronze.
Morgan smiled, a little tightly. “You’d be right, but you should see the other side.”
Dorien grinned at the thin jest, but he was as empathic as any of his race, he sensed the pain in Morgan. Someone else nearby was even more badly hurt.
Empath he might be, but he was no Healer. He sent out a call and was surprised to be answered from far closer than he’d expected. Kyri had been in the south the last he had heard.
“I need a message to go to Oryan, if you would, Dorien,” Morgan said. “Tell him the Hunters aren’t invincible. Formidable, but not invincible.”
Even the thought of those things as Kyriay described them made Dorien’s stomach tighten. He knew he was good enough with a sword, better with a bow and quicker than most men, but still…
“That is good news,” Dorien said.
Morgan handed him the broadside. “And take him this.”
Dorien glanced over it and all humor fled. He knew how some men valued their coin and how much silk, how many herbs, each piece of gold could buy.
That was a great deal of gold.
Looking at Morgan, Dorien was glad such broad shoulders were there to carry such a weight, for Kyri, for the Kingdom, for all of them…
He nodded. “I’ll d
o that. How many of you are hurt?”
Sighing, Morgan shrugged. “It’s the price we pay for what we do.”
With a shake of his head, Dorien rolled his eyes and snorted. “Do you not know that some among us are Healers? One comes. I go.”
Wings fluttered, a sharp crack as they caught air. Morgan looked up, some part of him already sensing who it was.
Kyri.
Something in Morgan lightened just at the sight of her and not simply for the pleasure of looking at her lovely face or her shapely body. Although that was also true. As always, his body stirred… and so did his heart, a little, to see her.
Those beautiful wings spread around her, reflecting the firelight, to catch the air and allow her to drop to the earth lightly.
She gave him a look from those pretty eyes, before shaking a finger at him.
Kyri could see the pain in Morgan’s strong handsome face, the shadows in his light eyes.
“You wouldn’t ask, would you?” she chided. “Just for that, you are last.”
She knew well he would prefer it that way.
Their eyes met in understanding and Morgan nodded, smiling a little, already relaxing as she smiled in return.
The truth was he simply hadn’t thought of it.
“Thank you, Dorien,” Kyri said, dismissing him gently.
“My Kyri,” he said, with a small bow.
Flashing her a grin, Dorien nodded and took off.
Kyriay would handle it.
“Now, who is hurt?” Kyri said, her wings folding neatly beneath her shift with a quick flicker to settle the feathers beneath the cloth. “Morgan, how many times do I have to say it? We are here to help. Use it. The Fair are also skilled with bow and sword. This fight is ours as well.”
She could sense the pain and weariness in him.
“Healers too, Morgan. Your people don’t have to suffer. Neither,” she scolded softly, her fingers brushing lightly down his arm, his pain vanishing in their wake, “do you.”
Chapter Ten
It was charitable to call the place a tavern - it was a stinking hole in the wall that reeked of cheap beer, ale and whiskey, piss and sweaty men. With practiced ease, a busty barmaid made her way through the crowd, her ample hips twitching away from the men that grabbed at her bottom out of long habit. Not a drop spilled from the mugs on her tray.
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