Islands in the Mist (Islands in the Mist Series Book 1)

by J. M. Hofer

  He managed to sleep a short while, and then relieved Ambisagrus, taking his turn at the wall with Eirlys beside him as a second sentry. The hours passed agonizingly slowly, the moon making her silent journey across the sky like a crippled old woman, and Neirin grew anxious for the dawn.

  During his father’s watch, Gwyn suddenly let out a shriek. The cattle grew restless. Neirin and Ambisagrus grabbed their weapons and jumped to their feet, moving to the edge of the wall where Belenus stood, bow and arrow poised.

  Neirin scanned the entire countryside with his keen eyes, sweeping the tree line and the faint path far below, waiting for something to move. Moments later, his patience paid off. He spied a black form slinking out of the trees. “There,” he said, pointing it out, his stomach churning.

  There was no need to point out what approached next. Limpid eyes began emerging from the dark forest below, shocking the three men who watched from above.

  “What in Arawn’s name?!” Ambisagrus whispered in disbelief.

  Smooth and agile, the eyes moved rapidly toward the hilltop, winking eerily in and out of view. Neirin and his father responded with a quick rain of arrows down upon them.

  Ambisgrus spat and pulled out his sword. “Let it be known to the gods that I am ready to die a hero’s death upon this mound of shit, and take a hundred of those—whatever they are—with me to shine my boots in the afterlife!”

  Neirin and his father had been shooting arrows with faultless precision through Ambisagrus’ tirade. “I’ve shot myself ten in the time you’ve blustered!” Neirin called out.

  “I’ll take care of any that make it up here!” he shouted back.

  The eyes slowly disappeared as Neirin and his father shot them down. He looked hopefully across the hillside. For the moment, it seemed they had managed to hold them off. He had no sooner sighed with relief, when many more pairs of eyes suddenly appeared. His heart raced with terror.

  Belenus looked down at the odds. “We’ll surely die if we stay here. There’s no way we can take them all. We must leave the cattle and flee. They have no horses.”

  Ambisagrus did not argue, and soon they were galloping down the hill homeward. The cauldron-born were waiting for them at the bottom.

  For the first time, Neirin peered into the lifeless eyes of the enemy and smelled their rotting bodies. The words of the Sisters were true. These were not men. Not anymore.

  The horses were spooked, but Ambisagrus had trained them well. The three of them galloped at full speed through the enemy, slashing at their limbs as they rode by, surging across the land toward the safety of their village walls.

  Neirin was comforted by knowing the things could not outrun their horses, but then, out of the corner of his eye, he spied a black form running alongside them. Dread flooded his stomach. Gods, now what? He looked over until he glimpsed it again. “Father!” he bellowed as it came into view. “Wolf!”

  Neirin knew his father heard him even though he did not turn around. They thundered on, Ambisagrus choosing the best path for their horses. To Neirin’s shock, the wolf kept pace with them. It seemed deformed, yet moved with amazing speed in spite of its strangely-formed limbs. It stayed ever on their heels. Soon the horses were lathered from fear and exertion.

  Terrified, Neirin noticed his father beginning to lag behind. He had loaned his horse to Iorworth for the journey south, and, though the mare he rode upon now was strong, she was struggling to keep up. The great wolf was gaining on them.

  He slowed to put himself between his father and the deadly pursuer.

  “What are you doing?” his father yelled. “Ride for the gates!”

  “Not without you!”

  The wolf slowly gained the advantage as his father argued with him. Still, Neirin refused, keeping his mount next to his father’s. When it was clear the wolf could not be outrun, his father looked over at him and deliberately slowed his horse.

  “No!” Neirin cried.

  The wolf snatched its opportunity and sprang, sinking its teeth into his father’s thigh and tearing him from his saddle.

  Neirin nearly choked his mount turning back to help his father. Ambisagrus was faster—he thundered by, spearing the beast in passing and forcing it to release its bite. The wolf ran back toward the forest, Ambisagrus’ spear still lodged in its side.

  Neirin leapt off his horse and ran to where his father lay. Blood was gushing from the deep puncture wounds and had already formed an ominous black pool in the moonlight. He ripped off his tunic and tied off his father’s leg in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the wound was massive. He knew he needed to get his father’s leg elevated above his heart, but they could not stay there. Tiny pinpricks of milky white eyes had already begun to appear in the surrounding darkness, surely drawn to the blood he could not stop from flowing.

  “Pennaeth, you must ride! We must get behind the walls!” he yelled, jumping from his saddle.

  His father could barely stand, so he and Ambisagrus hoisted him into his saddle as the cauldron-born started closing in. They rode as fast as they dared, Belenus in between them, the two of them galloping side-by-side to ensure he did not fall from his mount. They yelled as loud as they could as soon as the village walls came within earshot. Thankfully, their voices carried, and the gates flew open to receive them as they came thundering up the hill.

  “Close the gates after us!” Neirin bellowed.

  The gates slammed shut and were barred behind them, and he leapt off his horse to help his father. “Ring the bell!” he barked at Ambisagrus, who ran to the huge bell by the gates and pounded out ear-splitting clangs to wake the clan. “Archers!” he cried as the men emerged from their houses. “We need archers on the wall, everywhere! The bastards can climb!”

  He then spied his mother running toward them, her eyes filled with panic at seeing the pool of blood beneath his father—a look Neirin had never seen on her face before.

  “What’s happened?” she cried. “Healer! I need the Healer!”

  “Don’t worry, my light,” Belenus whispered. “I’ll recover.”

  Neirin could tell his mother did not believe his father’s lie.

  “Of course you will,” she said, returning the favor.

  The Healer heard his mother’s call and came quickly, followed by men with a large board to lay his father upon. His mother reluctantly stepped aside as they carried her husband off, her hands covered in his father’s blood.

  She somehow willed herself back into her calm and composed nature, becoming the strong queen their clan was used to. She organized the women and helped gather the children to take them to safety.

  Neirin ran to help lead the defense of the village. The cauldron-born were scaling the walls quickly. They did not have enough men to keep them all off. Inevitably, some of the cauldron-born managed to breach it. They moved powerfully, like crazed animals, lunging at the throats and thighs of his clansmen, seeking tirelessly to sink a fatal bite into a main artery.

  They won’t be easily overcome, he thought with dread, but the dawn was drawing near. If we can only hold out a few hours longer!

  Thanks to their well-made defenses and archers, the clan managed to keep their casualties to a minimum and their enemies confined to the wall and the courtyard, away from the women and children, until the dawn mercifully began to break. At the first sign of light, the grotesque creatures slunk back toward the cover of the forest, granting them a reprieve.

  Thank the gods! “Open the gates!” he cried as the cauldron-born fled.

  The men followed him courageously out into the disgusting aftermath of the night’s fighting, shooting as many down as they could before the beasts disappeared into the cover of the forest.

  After no more could be seen, aside from those that lay dead all around their feet, Neirin turned to his clansmen. “Cut off their heads and burn the bodies,” he ordered in disgust, “or we’ll see them again.”

  ***

  Neirin washed the dirt and blood from his fa
ce and hands and went to sit with his mother by his father’s bedside. The Healer had worked tirelessly through the night to stop the bleeding and ease his father’s pain.

  “I have done everything I know to do,” she told them. “He’s lost far too much blood. I fear he won’t survive the day.”

  His mother did not cry. She simply nodded her head, somberly accepting what would be. Then, as if in defiance, Belenus stirred and grasped his wife’s hand. Neirin saw hope leap into her eyes.

  “Dawn of my heart, can you speak?” She stared at his face intently.

  He opened his eyes and looked at them, managing a faint smile. “I have no illusions. This body will soon serve me no longer.”

  “No, my light—we will send for the Sisters!”

  “There is no time for that,” he replied kindly, reaching out to stroke her face. “Send for Ambisagrus and the Council.”

  “I’ll do it,” Neirin said, knowing his mother would rather die than leave his father’s side.

  It did not take him long to find them, as they were all close by, anxiously waiting to hear of their king. When they were all gathered round his bedside, Belenus spoke. “Let it be known that I, Belenus, Chieftain of the Warriors of the Light, and humble servant of the Guardians of the Dawn, am entrusting the Helm of the East to my only son, Neirin. It is my hope that he will always deserve your respect, and that you will honor him with your loyalty as you have honored me.”

  The Council nodded in understanding, and then the Healer dismissed them. When they were alone again, his father motioned for him to come closer. “Keep Ambisagrus and Iorworth near, but trust no one else,” he whispered. “We have a traitor within our walls.”

  “A traitor? Who?” Neirin frowned.

  “I am certain someone let the cattle loose the night before Iorworth and our warriors left, knowing we would stay behind to retrieve them and that we would be few in number. Gwyn never made it here with my message, which means she was killed. We were betrayed. You must find out by whom, and put them to death. Protect your mother and sister, and send for our warriors. They must return to defend their own now.”

  “It shall be so, Father,” Neirin promised with a bow of his head.

  With that, the great Belenus fell silent.

  ***

  As the Healer had predicted, the great king did not live to see the sun rise again, but his people buried him standing up facing the east, high upon Kings Tor, where they had buried all their chieftains for generations. From there, his spirit would greet every future sunrise until the end of time.

  ***

  After weeks of ruling in his father’s place, the clan began to trust and accept Neirin as Chieftain.

  One day, as suddenly as she had disappeared, Llwynog returned to their village. She had left without a word soon after his father had been buried. Neirin recalled riding to her house along the road to see if she had perhaps returned there, but had found it as empty as the hut he had given her to live in. I’d given her up for dead.

  “The llwynog returns, I see,” he said, a bit cross with her, yet happy to see her alive. “Why did you leave without a farewell?”

  “I am a solitary creature, my lord,” she offered meekly in explanation. “I found that I could not live among others, as I once did. I must beg your forgiveness.”

  “It’s forgotten,” he said with a casual brush of his hand. “Why have you returned, then?”

  “A debt, my lord.”

  “A debt?” he arched his brows. “You were here but a few weeks! You owe us nothing.”

  “No, my lord. A debt you owe me,” she explained.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, laughing. “I owe you nothing!”

  “Oh, but you do, my dear king. Do you remember the day we met?”

  “Yes. I remember it well, lady. I retrieved your horse, mended your door, and agreed to shelter you for the winter,” he said, growing irritated. “Perhaps it’s you who suffers from a clouded memory, for otherwise I’m quite certain you would not speak of debts.”

  “You accepted a wager from me, and lost,” she reminded him.

  “A wager?” He truthfully did not remember.

  “Oh, yes—I offered anything I owned if you could track and capture me, for you said there was nothing you could not track. Do you remember accepting this wager?”

  “Yes,” he answered with a simple nod.

  “And you could not track me, could you?” she added with a menacing glare.

  Everyone in the hall was now looking at him and the strange woman, surely wondering what she wanted of him, but most worried and anxious of all, was his mother.

  “No, I could not,” he replied, “but I’m sure it was because you cheated, or used sorcery.”

  “Oh, please, my king,” she said, shaking her head. “Do not appear ignoble before your people. You lost our wager, and I would claim what you promised.”

  Neirin grew sick. He now saw, for the first time, the woman in front of him for what she truly was. In a flash, he knew what she would ask of him, and when the dreaded words came forth from her treacherous lips, he leapt at her, grabbing her tiny arms in his hands.

  Suddenly, a huge, black wolf charged into the hall. Neirin backed away in horror, recognizing the beast that had killed his father. It had him on his back within seconds, nearly crushing him beneath its weight.

  “Stop!” Neirin’s mother screamed. “Stop! Please!”

  The woman called to the beast and the great hound obediently ceased his attack and walked up next to his mistress, his massive skull in line with her shoulders.

  “Neirin! Does this woman speak the truth?” his mother asked him.

  The disappointment and sorrow in his mother’s voice was nearly as hard for him to take as his father’s death. He could not bring himself to answer. Shame strangled the words in his throat, refusing to let them out, but he managed to stand up and gather his words. “Yes, she speaks the truth, but from a deceitful heart. She played the part of the innocent with me, and I sheltered her, not knowing that I’d let a black adder slither in behind our walls.”

  The woman smiled in a compassionate way, which confused him.

  “Let yourself be comforted by this, my young king,” she said, stroking the beast at her side. “I do not wish to claim the Helm for myself. I wish to claim it for the unborn son I carry. You may pledge it to him with a clear conscience, for the blood of the East runs in his veins, thanks to you.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Taranis

  Everyone was in good spirits, laughing and talking, when Taranis entered the motherhouse. The boar he had speared that morning was roasting over a large fire in the sunken stone pit in its center, and the rich smell of roasted meat made his mouth water. He proudly hung the shield of his people in its place and then made himself comfortable upon the large pile of furs directly opposite the entrance to the massive circular hall. He whistled to the dogs waiting patiently at the door, and they eagerly came and sat at his feet. They had earned the privilege tonight, having bravely brought down the boar after he had speared it. Once he was settled, his servant girl approached.

  “Milord,” she began in a hushed voice, “the woman with the ale waits outside. Would it please you to speak to her?”

  Ah, yes. Earlier that afternoon he had been told a woman had arrived in the village driving a horse-drawn wagon bearing several barrels of ale and had requested an audience with him. The men said she was a beauty, and there were two things he loved almost as much as a good hunt—beautiful women and good ale. I’ve already had a good hunt today, so if luck’s on my side, I’ll have the pleasure of all three before the sun rises again.

  “Bring her in!” he barked, eager to see her.

  The girl rushed off to do his bidding. She returned a few moments later, leading the woman to his feet.

  He was not disappointed. The woman’s eyes radiated above rouged cheeks. Her hair spilled down in braids over a long shawl of many colors that hung about her shou
lders, bringing attention to her ample bosom—a quality in women he had a special weakness for.

  “Noble Taranis,” she said, bowing her head, “I have come to humbly ask if I may trade my services as a brewer for lodging through the winter. A fire has taken my home. I can promise you, it will be the finest ale you have ever tasted.”

  His people were master brewers, but, because of her beauty, Taranis tolerated her boast like a parent indulging a small child. “I sincerely doubt that, woman!” He chuckled along with his clansmen. “You obviously have no idea how much ale this king has tasted, or the talents our brewers possess!” To that several men in the hall gave a cheer and raised their horns in a toast to themselves.

  The woman smiled. “Then, gentle king, let me leave you a barrel as a gift for your feast tonight. I will return in the morning, and if it was truly not the finest ale to ever pass your lips, I will take my wares elsewhere and bother you no more.”

  Taranis enjoyed being generous, and had already decided that he would let her stay through the winter. However, there was no harm in letting her believe she needed to earn the privilege. He knew well that people did not value things that came too easily, and he definitely wanted her to value being under his roof.

  “Agreed. We’ll see if your ale is worthy to be poured into the horns of the Northmen, and if it is, we’ll provide you with what you need to keep ‘em full of it.”

  “Thank you, kind Taranis.” She bowed deeply in respect. “I’ll leave you to your feast, then, and return tomorrow.”

  Taranis turned to the two warriors closest to him. “See the lady out and fetch a barrel off her wagon—all this talk about ale is making me thirsty.”

  The men did as he asked. They returned with the promised barrel, opened it, and set it at his feet. He then gestured to his servant girl, who filled his gold-rimmed drinking horn and brought it to him.