‘From you?’ Lae raised an eyebrow as she limped to the bed and pulled back the cloak from the corpse that lay between them. At the end of the bed the midwife said nothing.
‘The child will die,’ Kert whispered, more anguish invested in the words than he would care to have Lae hear.
‘I wish my love was here,’ Lae said, and though he hated to hear her speak of love, Kert could only agree. The Guardian Pagan with his healing gifts would be a sure remedy to this situation.
‘We must do something ourselves.’ In his frantic state, Kert did not even realise he was including Lae in the dilemma as he returned his gaze to the dead king’s mistress.
Unexpectedly, Lae leant forward and ripped open Ghett’s sodden gown. The brown mound of her stomach, smeared in blood, rose between them. She gazed at it intently. ‘I can see an aura. It lives.’
‘Yet is trapped within.’
‘Cut it out.’
Kert’s head rose and met determined eyes. ‘If I injure it …’
‘If it dies?’
He swallowed back misgivings and pulled the short-knife from its sheath on his thigh, poised it above Ghett’s belly.
‘Do it,’ Lae said, then turned to the midwife. ‘Ready yourself,’ she told the old woman. ‘Bring fresh water and clean cloths. Quickly.’
No longer a fugitive cowed in her room, Lae spoke as a lady of a noble house in full command of the situation. Kert felt anger and relief in equal portions. ‘What do I do?’ he said.
She leant across the bed opposite him and her small hand closed over his own and pressed the knife tip into Ghett’s belly. Fresh blood ran from the wound as they sliced flesh. Feelings stirred within Kert — of superstition and mystery. Since his days as a young warrior he had killed and tortured the living with no remorse, yet never had he opened the body of a corpse. It was unsettling, yet hope lived within him that they could save Mihale’s child.
Lae’s hand led his own and together they opened the womb which contained a small, still child. Their joined hands cut the cord that bound it to its mother, then Kert withdrew his knife and swallowed sickly. It was a boy, a king. The king he had been unable to save. The second king he had been unable to save. Fresh grief for Mihale’s loss swelled in Kert’s chest and before he could still them, womanly tears stung his eyes.
Yet Lae was not idle in the face of this tragedy. She dashed her hands into a proffered basin of clean water and leant forward to lift the babe from its fleshy coffin, its bloody skin stark white beside the creamy brown of his mother’s belly.
Confused by these actions, Kert watched, knife hanging at his side, as Lae placed the child into the waiting arms of the midwife. The older woman turned it upside down and cleared its mouth, then pressed firm fingers into its back. A second. Two. Silence echoed so loudly in the room that Kert thought he might never breathe again.
Lae stood motionless across from him as they waited. Then came a noise, more blessed than the sound of running water to a thirsty man — the first choking cry of a newborn babe. Kert watched in breathless wonder as their tiny new king stretched a pale and perfect hand, then balled it into a fist. Alive. Their king was alive, and within Kert’s heart there sang such savage joy that he thought he must look away or risk revealing his happiness to those he trusted not.
A sound came from outside, far away, and Kert stiffened and turned to the open window. An unearthly howl like the horrors of Haddash echoed in the distance and then was silenced.
He shuddered at the ill omen and turned back, surprised by Lae’s tender expression as she gazed at the babe now held in her arms. He watched her stroke the bloody cheek of their newborn king and considered the weight of what she had just accomplished, as well as the cost. In apparent desperation to save the king’s son she had come into the presence of a man who had wounded and humiliated her. One whom she hated above all others.
What courage had it taken to limp across the narrow window ledge, to place herself within her tormentor’s reach? What dedication to the throne of Ennae? Was it fear that Kert would prove negligent again in his duties as King’s Champion?
Guilt and misgivings at his own behaviour came swift on the heels of these thoughts, and Kert knew he must overturn his mistrust and make amends with Lae, must enlist her aid to raise the child. She was a lady of Ennae, although he had not treated her as such, and the child deserved no less than the tenderness Kert now saw shining in her eyes.
‘Is the birth completed?’ he asked.
The midwife raised her greying head and nodded. ‘I have delivered hundreds of babes, some of them royal, yet this is the first I have seen with a bloodied halo. He will not live to rule.’
In two steps Kert was at the old woman’s side, his bloody dagger slicing her throat with swift, economical grace. ‘Take your damnable superstitions to your grave, crone,’ he hissed as she slumped to the floor.
Lae stared at the midwife in horror, whether shocked by the prophecy, or in fear of her own life, he could not tell. When she met Kert’s gaze, however, her eyes were filled with resignation and even defiance. Despite himself, Kert felt his admiration for her grow.
He tossed the dagger onto the bed, ‘I will trouble you no more,’ he said, the words harshly spoken to hide the growing turmoil of his emotions.
It took a moment for Lae to accept that she would not be dying, then she nodded, swallowed. ‘See that you do not,’ she said, hugging the child close as she spoke.
Kert threw a quilt over Ghett’s corpse and went to the door, opening it to speak to the guards. ‘Let it be known,’ he told them, that our Lady of Be’uccdha is now mistress of the Volcastle. Her orders will be obeyed.’
Lae came up behind him, the child’s face covered with the edge of its wrap. She did not even look at Kert. ‘Send for Firde. Have her gather maids,’ she told the guards. ‘We must prepare a nursery for my son.’
They bowed and retreated, their faces carefully blank. Were they wondering why the mother of their Lord Sh’hale’s child had been kept hidden from the court until the birth, and why her hair was so short and her cheek bruised? Soon they would notice her limp and that would be a cause of speculation too, as would be the reason why he had not married her. To put a seal on their farce that ceremony must be done quickly, yet he would not speak of that now.
Instead he offered Lae a bow. ‘You are returned to your former station and I will ensure that you receive no impediment to your care of the child.’
True to the bitterness that must dwell within her, Lae did not burden him with gratitude. ‘See that you do not fail your new lord and king as you did his father,’ she said quietly. ‘In this child’s fate lies all our own.’ Then, with a final dismissive glance she limped painfully down the corridor, her back straight.
Firde ran up a moment later and Lae spoke to her shortly. Then they were gone and Kert turned back to the room, alone with the body of Ghett who had died a needless death fleeing the one man in the kingdom whose life it was to protect her.
‘Fool,’ he said to himself, angered at the clumsiness of his apology to Lae and the futility of Ghett’s death. Then he turned to the corpse. ‘Fool,’ he said again, still vexed by guilt. He should never have admitted that she would not live past her son’s birth. Another in a long line of Kert’s mistakes. Their situation was precarious at best and yet, despite good intentions, he continued to make it worse.
He glanced back to the opened doorway where Lae had recently stood — knew the thoughts that lived behind her eyes — that her beloved, Pagan of the house of Guardians, or his equally esteemed cousin Talis should have been the King’s Champion.
He will come, Lae had said of her betrothed, Pagan, and Kert knew this to be truth. The young Guardian would return from his exile in Magoria, bringing with him the child of The Light to join the Four Worlds as prophecy foretold. What retribution might the Guardian seek against Kert for his mistreatment of Lae? And worse, would Pagan’s return deny him the right to Champion their new king?<
br />
Kert pulled back the quilt and reached across to close Ghett’s eyes. ‘I will name your son Lenid in memory of his grandfather, and none will take me from his side,’ he promised her. ‘Likewise, no man will take Lae from us while Lenid needs her as a mother.’ In his mind, Kert remembered Lae’s gentle finger on the child’s bloodied cheek and he felt again the savage emotions that had gripped him then, and knew he had reasons of his own to keep Lae near.
Pagan of the House of Guardians would receive no warm welcome from Kert Sh’hale when he returned with the child of The Light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘My Lord Verdan!’
Barrion struggled from sleep and lay staring at his Guard Captain as a howling sound faded into silence. ‘The beast?’ he asked, pushing himself up and reaching for the cloak his valet held for him.
‘My Lord, yes,’ the Guard Captain replied. ‘I fear it may be attacking at last.’
‘Where are our sentries?’ Barrion grasped his captain’s arm and pulled himself up off his uncomfortable cot while his valet poured him a goblet of wine — the only one he would allow himself, on waking to rouse his weary mind.
‘Returning soon. My Lord,’ the Guard Captain replied. ‘I have ordered the men to make ready for battle.’
‘Good.’ Barrion stepped out of his tent into the Plains mists, its cosseting effect dulling the instinctive vertigo he felt whenever he ventured outdoors. His valet would pack his belongings on the chance that camp was moving. They had been on this section of the Plains for a fortnight, the longest stay in their twelve week campaign. But there was no complacency. The flying beast who stood with the Northmen had contented himself with eating the dead, but none knew when that would change.
It demoralised his men to think the beast toyed with them, but Barrion would hear no mention of defeat. None of his messengers to the Volcastle had returned and neither had the Royal Guard nor the forces of Sh’hale or Be’uccdha come to his aid.
It was obvious that Verdan was not the only castle to be attacked. But Barrion and his men had escaped theirs with the help of the Spirit of the Loch, and left a good many Northman drowned in their wake. They had hurried towards the Volcastle then, only to be halted on the Plains by more Northmen with a beast.
Barrion had no way to assure himself of Ellega’s safety, so patience was required. Until they could break through the Northmen lines to the forests and the Volcastle beyond, they must stand and fight. Thankfully Barrion had not lost more warriors than the Northmen, so while both sides suffered losses they remained equally matched.
Unless the monster chose to intervene.
‘Sentry!’ came a distant call and the Guard Captain pointed. Barrion strained his eyes to see the incoming warrior.
‘My Lord,’ he gasped, as he came out of the mist and ran straight to Barrion. ‘The beast …’ He struggled to catch his breath. ‘Disappeared. Cried out and … vanished.’
‘Give him water,’ Barrion ordered, and waited as the sentry was handed a flask. He gulped noisily of its contents, spilling it down his chin. ‘The Northmen’s reaction to this?’ Barrion demanded.
‘Disarray, My Lord,’ the sentry reported, still struggling to calm his breaths. ‘They were not expecting it. And after the beast had howled and vanished in a cloud of fire they called out ‘White! A White has come!’
Barrion frowned. ‘White what? Did you see anything? Was the beast attacked?’
‘My Lord, no. It was sleeping and then it rose and howled.’
‘What is this White, My Lord?’ the Guard Captain asked.
Barrion shook his head. ‘Something the beast fears, obviously.’ He turned back to the sentry. And the Northmen are now in disarray?’
‘Sentry!’ came another faint call.
Barrion gestured for his Guard Captain to bring the other sentry to their side while he listened to the first’s account — Northerners running and wailing in fear.
‘My Lord, they are vulnerable,’ the Guard Captain said when he returned. ‘The second sentry reports Northmen attacking each other and shouting clan names. They are in civil uproar. It is time for us to strike.’
‘Then let us do so,’ Barrion said loudly as his men gathered behind their captain. ‘We will vanquish the Northmen here on the Plains and continue to the Volcastle to aid our king. We will show our sovereign this day that Verdan is a worthy ally.’
His Guardsmen cheered as Barrion strapped on his sword belt and took up his shield. ‘For Verdan and the king!’ he shouted, raising his arms.
‘Verdan and the king!’ they shouted back, and ran forward to enter the battle.
*
Kai of the Northmen pulled his spear from the chest of a clansman and turned to the others facing him. ‘The next to challenge my leadership will also die,’ he said. ‘Do you hear that call? The men of the Southlands are attacking.’
‘Kraal has abandoned us,’ one of Kai’s own cousins called. ‘He has abandoned you.’
‘Because we failed him,’ Kai said, turning a circle to look each warrior in the eye. ‘We were told to destroy The White and yet one has returned, banishing Kraal from our world. If you would have your God back to bring fear into the hearts of our enemies, The White must be found and destroyed.’
‘I do not want him back,’ the cousin said. ‘He did not help us, but only ate —’
Kai threw his spear, piercing the chest of his kinsman. No further blasphemy was uttered. ‘I will protect my God,’ Kai said solemnly to the gathered clansmen, ‘from friend and foe alike.’ He turned a circle to look again at them. ‘Are there any here who would join me in Haddash as one of Kraal’s favoured when our lives are at end?’
‘Haddash!’ a warrior called, and soon others were raising their fists with him.
Kai nodded, satisfaction in his glance now. ‘Then let us work towards freeing our God from his bondage. We must find The White and destroy it.’
‘But what of this Southman attack?’
Kai turned to the warrior who had spoken. ‘Let them pick off those clans who would fight with each other. Side Clan will evade them in the mists and journey west to the castle in the mountains which has no lord. The traitor said it could be easily taken and Kraal would have his court there.’ This last was a lie. Kraal had expressed no desire for a court at Fortress Sh’hale, but Kai was desperate to save his clan. If Kraal never returned they would have to fend for themselves. That could best be accomplished holed up in a well-provisioned fortress.
‘What of the other castle over the volcano?’ a clansman asked.
Kai shook his head. ‘Our brothers have that castle under siege. More warriors would not aid their cause.’ And indeed, those clans may already be dead. Kai did not want his clan to suffer their fate. Better to take the weaker castle.
The others nodded and Kai raised his bloodied spear to point the way. ‘Be most silent my brothers,’ he said, ‘and we shall all survive to aid our God.’ Kai led his warriors through the mists to collect their women and children before they headed away from the sounds of battle, but he wondered at his own motivations. He had spoken of their need to find The White and kill it, yet Kai felt no desperation within himself to do so. The return of his God would bring a return of terror and Kai could not make himself wish for that. Instead, he looked forward to lying with his youngest wife again, content in the knowledge that she would not turn into Kraal and bite off his head.
Was it that threat which had stolen his devotion to his God? Or was it that he had seen Kraal more often in the shape of a man than a serpent. In all the centuries of their devotion to their God, the Northman had believed him to be a powerful serpent, yet he had only assumed that shape to terrify them and quickly tired of it.
Kai shook his head to clear it. He must not dwell on these matters now. They had women and children to collect and a long journey before them. But as Kai reached the place where his wives waited away from the battle, he found himself looking into the eyes of the youngest one for a
sign of the serpent, although he knew that Kraal was no longer on their world. He wondered then if he would ever find peace in his heart again.
And for the first time he silently cursed the name of their God.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Breehan sat atop the highest pinnacle on the first range of the Echo Mountains, and although he could not see their camp below on the edge of the Plains, he knew that Noola and the others were safe. Breehan, however, risked his sanity by passing the border firestone quarries to travel deep into the mountains themselves, for it was here that Magaru had warned him visions and madness could steal a mind forever. Yet Breehan did this gladly, trusting the memory stone to protect him while he sought a vision of Hanjeel.
Noola would not hear of him seeking vengeance on The Dark with so little chance of success, but Breehan needed to do something. He could no longer bear the emptiness in her eyes. She had not joined with him again after the first time, and when the new moon had come and no blood with it. Breehan had known that the memory stone was true. She was with child, as were the others now. His duty to the tribe had been discharged.
The Echo Mountains would give him a vision if he allowed them to, and in preparation Breehan had not eaten for two days. His head was light, yet he had deliberately chosen a narrow pinnacle to keep himself alert.
Cool air swirled around him and he swayed. The dangers inherent in the rite exhilarated Breehan, and now he wondered if Noola had been right to accuse him of recklessness. At the time he had argued that it was sense to go after Hanjeel, who would be old enough to lie with Eef and her sister after their babes were born, and thereby ensure a mixture of parentage in the tribe. But Noola had been torn. As a leader and a mother she wanted Hanjeel back, but to risk their only remaining male?
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