by Hazel Hunter
“Aye, but had she, why would Rowan no’ lead the famhairean here?” Cadeyrn said, sounding unconvinced. “’Twould take them naught but a few moments to cross the distance and invade Dun Mor.” He glanced at Brennus. “Lily once feigned an alliance with Hendry to enlist my aid for their escape from the mill farm, and I called her traitor. I’ll no’ think the same of Rowan until we’ve proof.”
“My wife’s visions arenae enough?” Kanyth demanded. “We’d likely be dead, all of us and the McAra, if no’ for Perrin’s foresight.”
With his horse master missing and possibly captured by the mad druids Brennus couldn’t waste time judging the dark lass’s intentions.
“Cadeyrn, gather the best of our hunters and trackers for a search. Kanyth, you and Ruadri shall prepare the stronghold against an attack. Bid Althea and our ladies to aid you.”
As the men scattered to carry out his orders, the clan’s shaman entered the great hall with the limping figure of Bhaltair Flen. Brennus strode over to them, intent on sending the old druid back through the portal to safety.
“’Tis troubling,” Bhaltair said once the chieftain had tersely described the situation. “Yet I dinnae reckon ’twas by chance that Hendry and his giants found your clanmaster and the lass. Mayhap he’s been watching the Great Wood for any sign of the Skaraven.”
In the past Brennus would have dismissed the old man’s theories, but he had learned from experience that Flen had a canny understanding of their enemy.
“Then once seeing Tran and Rowan, why would he no’ follow them back to the stronghold for the rest of us?”
“Mayhap the two first found him and his creatures,” Bhaltair suggested. “’Twould explain why he released their horses. ’Tis my thinking that Hendry sets another snare for the Skaraven—with your clanmaster and the lass as lures.”
Bhaltair gratefully accepted a seat at the Skaraven’s long hall table, but declined the food and drink Althea offered.
“’Twill no’ appease what curdles my belly presently, my lady.” He saw how her mouth tightened and reached to touch her slim hand. “Never fear, now. We shall see the lady and the Skaraven returned safely.”
“Not if we walk into another of Hendry’s traps,” Althea said and met her husband’s glowering gaze across the table. “Master Flen is right. Hendry knows you’re going to respond to this by coming after him and the famhairean. It’s exactly what you did when the McAra were in danger. He’s manipulating you and the clan again to come for him.”
“No druid decides my mind for me,” the chieftain said flatly. “Nor my wife.”
“I’m not trying to,” Althea said and made a frustrated sound. “Hendry’s always one step ahead of us because he plans ahead. He knows what pushes your buttons…ah, what makes you do the things you do.” She sighed. “Now that he and the giants also know how to kill you, I’m just afraid that more of our men are going to die.”
Bhaltair thought the lady brave for risking her husband’s displeasure, and considered deflecting it with an offering of his own advice. Brennus’s fierce expression instead persuaded him to hold his tongue.
“I’ve been reminded that I dinnae ken all.” The chieftain turned to regard his second. “War Master, counsel.”
“I agree with your lady and the tree-knower,” Cadeyrn said. “We shall do better to match Hendry’s intent, and turn it to our advantage.” His gaze settled on Bhaltair. “Mayhap you may provide some counsel as well. ’Tis common for your kind to scheme in such ways.”
Reminded of his debt to the clan, the old druid hunched his shoulders. “I’ll aid you however I may.”
“Why should we plot thus? We ken what shall happen,” Kanyth put in before Bhaltair could continue. “Perrin saw Rowan betray us.”
Ruadri frowned. “No’ all your lady’s visions come to pass, Brother.”
“What Rowan intends shall have no weight if we strike before the druids,” Cadeyrn told him, and then quickly said to Brennus, “We set a trap of our own, but no’ simply to ambush or counter or imprison. We find the means to end them once they’re caught.”
“I may have that now,” Bhaltair said, silencing them all. When the chieftain gave him a curt nod he told them of the letter in the scroll box Gwyn had left behind for him. “What my old friend begged me do with Barra Omey’s soul made me think of the grove of stars. Cast there, her spirit would be there trapped forever. ’Tis why she’s gone to such lengths to possess other druids. She may remain in the mortal realm only through–”
“Enough of the bone conjurer,” Brennus said. “Explain to me this grove.”
The conclave would have disapproved of Bhaltair revealing what had only been known to their elders, but he owed the Skaraven the truth.
“After death we ken that souls pass through the grove of stars. For most ’tis a waiting and meeting place, where those who wish to journey on together to the afterlife reunite. But those among druid kind like Barra who’ve turned to dark magic dinnae go to the well of stars from there. For them the grove is their final destination.”
“You ken the quislings and their famhairean couldnae escape this grove?” Cadeyrn asked.
“Aye, War Master. ’Tis ever night in the grove, thus no sun storm could release them. As immortals they cannae reopen the portal. Only the worthy ascend.” Bhaltair spread his hands. “’Twould be the only prison certain to hold them for eternity.”
Brennus and his clanmasters fell silent, exchanging odd looks. The chieftain’s lady, however, glowered at Bhaltair directly.
“Why didn’t you send them there in the first place?” Althea demanded. When her husband touched her shoulder, she glanced up at him. “I don’t regret coming here, Bren, or meeting you. You’re the love of my life. But a lot of innocent people have died because the druids and the famhairean escaped.”
“We cannae change the past, my heart. We may only fight for our future.” The chieftain caressed her cheek before he said to Bhaltair, “You and Cadeyrn shall plot this together. Hold naught back from my war master, Druid, or I shall put you in the grove myself.”
“Aye, you’ve my word.” Bhaltair regarded Althea. “My lady, we will need your aid in this as well.”
She frowned at him. “Of course, I’ll help, but I’m no warrior. All I can do is…” She stopped as understanding lit up her eyes. “You can’t use a wood henge to send them to the grove of stars.”
“No, my lady,” he said, smiling wanly. “To see this done, we shall need your ice power.”
Chapter Eleven
SHAFTS OF COLORLESS sunlight pierced the well of shadows around Taran. The filth caking him from being dragged through the furrow now fell in small clots to the dirt floor. The listless air had no smell, as if it had filled a chamber that had been sealed for centuries. Something unseen pressed on him from within, a weight he’d never before felt.
Unless he freed himself and found water Taran suspected that he would rot here.
He hadn’t resisted being dragged into the crude timbered barn by the big famhair that had captured him. Left shackled and chained to a massive stake, he awaited his new enslavement. Instead of horses or livestock he saw work tables and tools. A wad of woolen blankets and garments had been left on a mound of hay, suggesting someone used the barn as shelter. Massive logs stacked to one side had been stripped of bark and notched in various places. One that lay on a huge table had been carved to resemble an arm as long as his own body.
The shape told Taran what the druids and their giants were making. Ruadri had described to him the Wood Dream tribe’s enormous oak totems before they had been transformed into the famhairean. Hendry meant to do the same. And now Rowan would use her powerful druid gift to help him fashion more.
Rowan. Despite her betrayal, simply thinking her name twisted his heart into a knot, and added to the dull throb of pain on the back of his head. How could you turn against the Skaraven? Against me? Did I drive you to fall in with this madness? To despise me so much that you’d force me
to pledge myself to our enemy?
Holding the chains so they wouldn’t clatter, Taran tested the strength of his shackles. The heavy cuffs stank of fear and blood. Hendry had likely stolen them from a horse breeder. Forged from iron to restrain stallions for cutting, the shackles would be almost impossible to break. He wanted to believe Hendry had intended the restraints for Rowan, but she must have known he would follow her.
Taran turned his focus inward, and reached out with his mind until he encountered the thoughts of a mare tethered somewhere near the barn. She shivered inside and out, her mind streaming memories of the famhairean attacking and killing her stablemaster. She’d been stolen along with food and tools, and then forced to ride for twoday carrying that and Hendry to reach this place. To her the ruined settlement stank of ancient death that terrified her more than the murderous druids and their giants.
Easy now, my beauty. Taran poured all his affection into his connection with the mare, praising her strength and coaxing her to calm. Once he could see through her eyes, he thought, Look upon the tether, aye, show to me where you’re tied. Now gaze around you.
After the horse eyed the thin branch where her lead had been loosely looped, she swung her head to regard her surroundings. A stone’s throw away from her stood a hastily-built shelter where Hendry kept her during the long, cold nights. Beyond it she spied the back of the barn where Taran had been left.
Take hold of the branch and break it, he encouraged her. You can pull free from it once you do.
The frightened mare nudged the branch a few times. Once it broke and she was free she thought for a moment of running until her legs gave out, but reluctantly calmed again as he poured more reassuring thoughts to her.
I cannae free myself as you have. You must go to my clan in the Great Wood. Taran showed her the different routes he knew that led to the Red Hills until she recognized one from the west. When you find the Skaraven, you will be safe again.
Taran knew the journey would take the mare at least twoday, but if the weather remained clear the clan would be able to backtrack her trail.
Stay to the woods, where you shallnae be seen. Go swiftly but carefully, my friend, Taran thought to the mare. You’re my only hope.
The horse quietly shuffled off into the trees, her step quickening as she made her way toward the eastern road. He stayed in her thoughts, tracking her until the growing distance between them thinned their link to a bare thread.
Something hard slammed into the side of Taran’s face, breaking his connection to the mare. He shook his head to clear it and looked up to see his own face glaring down at him.
“My lady comes to work. On your feet.” When Taran didn’t move the giant jerked him upright. With a brutal thrust he slammed him back against the stake and held him pinned. “Mayhap I’ll visit your clan again.” He jerked the Skaraven ring from Taran’s hand, and thrust it onto his own finger. “You yet breathe only as she wishes to punish you. When she’s had her fill of watching you suffer, then I’ll take your head.”
Taran couldn’t reply. Rowan’s command had effectively rendered him mute. But he understood the famhair’s jealousy. By the cave he’d heard the giant speak of running away with Rowan to the future, as if he were in love with her. This when Taran knew the famhairean despised all druid kind except Hendry and Murdina. He then recalled the strange name Rowan called Hendry after silencing him.
Any questions, Granddad?
Rowan walked inside the barn and surveyed them both. “Let him go, Ochd.”
The giant released him so abruptly Taran fell to his knees. “You neednae keep this one alive. Killing him would prove beyond doubt to Hendry your loyalty.” He went to her, and put his hands on her arms. “’Twould protect us both, my lady.”
“We’re good for now. Go and keep an eye on the druids,” Rowan told him, and moved toward the work tables.
Taran watched the famhair leave the barn without another word, and felt a brush of power as it spread out and dissipated. She could command Ochd as easily as the mad druids controlled the others. She had called Hendry that strange name. Her druid gift gave her the power to change and shape wood.
Rowan must share the mad druids’ Wood Dream bloodline.
A cool hand cradled his chin, lifting his throbbing face. “I’m going to unchain you,” she said, her voice barely more than a murmur. “You have to keep quiet and do exactly what I say. If you understand, nod.”
He nodded.
She pulled the pin from the lock and slid the release back to loosen the shackles on his wrists and ankles. As soon as she pulled him to his feet Taran looked at the open barn door.
“No, you’re not going to make a run for it,” Rowan told him as she held onto his arm and led him over to the largest work table. “Grab the other end of this and help me move it.”
Taran had no choice but to obey her. After they moved the carved limb from the table Rowan had him help her bring a new log to take its place. She seemed entirely indifferent to him as she surveyed the length of the oak.
“This should match the other one for size.” She brought a curved stripping blade with two handles and placed it in front of him. “Start stripping the bark.” When she saw his expression, her mouth tightened. “This is the new deal: either you shut up and do the work, or I give you and that tool to the giants, and they start peeling you.”
Taran picked up the blade.
Chapter Twelve
WHEN HENDRY AND the famhairean had returned with the dark druidess and the Skaraven, Oriana felt at first delighted. She had never tried to create a revenant from an immortal Pritani warrior, and wondered how much pain she could cause him during an attempt. The temptation to dismember him alive would be strong. Yet if she could end and then resurrect him he’d be the perfect weapon to wield against the rest of his clan.
Her joy soon shriveled as she stood and eavesdropped on Hendry’s conversation with Rowan. Murdina’s ramblings had suggested that he needed the druidess for some dark purpose, but that mattered nothing to her. Enslaving the Skaraven would doubtless keep Rowan placated until the time came for the druid to make use of her, which would likely arrive after the completion of the new totems.
Oriana admired the druid’s strategy, but the druidess’s presence meant she had to advance her own plans.
“Come walk with me, Tri,” she said to the damaged giant once Hendry had disappeared into the cottage. “I need your aid.”
“We go pick flowers?” Tri asked as he followed her into the dead forest.
That he expected to find anything blooming in this dead place made her chuckle. “I’ve another harvest in mind.”
All of the giants avoided the loch as if it were filled with wood worms, so Oriana had chosen a secluded spot near its banks. Tri stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw the water through the trees.
“No, Mistress.” He backstepped as he shook his scarred head. “Tri no like splash.”
“’Tis where I need your aid,” she told him, and gestured to the frozen ground. “You must sit and listen to me. I’m your friend, and I need your aid.”
“Aye.” The famhair dropped into a crouch. “Kind to Tri. Aid lady.”
Oriana knelt before him and reached into her cloak. “Look at the sun. See how high ’tis risen?”
Once the giant’s head fell back she drove her ritual blade into his chest and uttered the soul-snaring spell three times. The divided halves of Tri’s face splintered as they contorted with the surfacing of the other beings imprisoned within his form.
“Release me, I beg you,” a soft, feminine voice pleaded from one side of the famhair’s mouth.
“Pagan scum,” a much deeper voice roared from the opposite side. “My blade shall fill your throat.”
“Silence,” Oriana said, and when the giant clamped his maw closed she twisted the ritual blade. “No more be tethered to this creature’s soul. Begone with you, and leave him whole.”
Tri’s face lost its crazed animation as two s
treams of light poured from his flat eyes. They gathered into spheres that rose gracefully into the air, turning ever more transparent until they disappeared from sight.
Oriana looked into the giant’s still face, and summoned her power to begin the bone-conjuring. Tri made an odd sound as he reached for her hand on the dagger. Choking out a startled cry, Oriana pulled her hand away and watched wide-eyed as he removed the blade from his form and dropped it on the ground between them.
“No. I’ve freed you, and now you shall do my will,” she demanded, and quickly recast the spell.
As if immune to her power, the giant rose to his feet and sniffed the air. He turned toward the loch and shuffled toward it like he’d already been made a revenant.
Oriana stumbled after him, grabbing at his arm. “Stop. Dinnae go near the water. Tri, you must obey me.”
The famhair paused and glanced down at her before he shook her off like a gnat and continued through the trees.
Oriana pushed herself up, grimacing as one of her ankles swelled hot with pain, and limped after him. “Tri, you cannae. ’Twill end you. Come here to me before ’tis too late.”
The giant trudged into the still waters, sinking lower as he waded out. Soon he reached the depths and submerged, only to surface and turn around.
Unwillingly fascinated now, Oriana peered at his bulging, changing form. He grew taller and broader, taking on the shape of one of Hendry’s totems.
’Tis what he was before the massacre. An oak carved into a giant.
His flesh darkened and grew nubby as he absorbed all the water soaking him. As he stepped out of the loch Oriana saw his feet and legs sprouting roots, and his shoulders and arms reforming into branches. He shot up again, growing thinner and impossibly tall as he shuffled a few more steps to the edge of the woods. There he turned to face the loch as his feet split into a network of thick roots that sank into the soil. He lifted his arms as his garments vanished and his torso took on the broad, rounded shape of a tree trunk. A few moments later Tri finished his transformation, and went still as his roots disappeared into the earth.