Elanraigh

by S. A. Hunter

  A Memteth’s triumphant cry suddenly echoed over the plateau. Thera scrambled to her knees in time to see a soldier fall back from position on Elankeep’s east battlement, an arrow lodged in the breast.

  Frowning, Rhul silently bent over the contents of the small leather bag she had detached from her belt; extra string, fletch, chamois.

  Lotta, though, thumped her fist against the rock and cursed. Rhul’s fingers locked on Lotta’s wrist, restraining her. The look Lotta gave Rhul was strange and staring. Finally Lotta crumpled, sliding down the rock, the iron studs in her leathers grating against the stone. Giving Lotta a piercing look, Rhul released her and bent again to string her bow.

  Lotta tugged off her helmet and jabbed her hands through the sweat-dampened tangle of her hair. Lying back against the rock face, she rolled her head to face Rhul. “That was Avra struck.”

  “Lotta. You cannot know that at this distance.”

  “I know it.” Lotta raised herself to glare at the besieged keep again. “When do we strike?” She plucked her bowstring, “I will give that winding horn a new hole to blow through.”

  The raider whose arrow had struck Lotta’s friend continued to yowl at the defenders. Then a many-voiced howling and banging of shields arose from the Memteth.

  Thera and her companions scrambled again to the ledge. “There!” gasped Thera, pointing. On the west tower battlement, stood a tall woman, robed and veiled. She was flanked by a slender figure bearing a bow. The woman disregarded the Memteth below, and was facing the cliff where Rhul’s small troop lay hidden.

  “Blessings be!” moaned Rhul. “What can possess our Salvai to so expose herself?”

  Thera was barely conscious of those beside her; she had fallen into deep rapport. She saw in close detail the face that was only a white blur to her physical eyes. To her inward vision, the Salvai stood before her; pale complexioned, her grey eyes glittering like steel shards. There is not much resemblance to mother! The sharp features of this face glowed with feverish interest as the Salvai similarly examined her. Thera read satisfaction, and underlying that, a wistful sadness. She felt the sensation of a cool, thin hand caressing her cheek.

  “I have long been expecting you, Thera ep Chadwyn…niece of mine.”

  “Aunt Keiris?” Thera’s surprise at her aunt’s gentle tones must have registered in her mental voice.

  A rueful smile twitched the Salvai’s thin lips, then her face sobered and her lips parted as if to use physical voice…

  Jarringly, Thera was again fully present in her physical body; the Salvai only a distant blue-robed figure on the northwest parapet of Elankeep. Aware that it was the Elanraigh who had abruptly parted them, Thera’s startled exclamation died unsent as she now saw the Memteth arrow arcing its trajectory toward the figure of her aunt.

  Surely the Elanraigh has warned my aunt, why then does she remain unmoving?

  With a thin scream, more like the keening of a hawk than human voice, Thera cried aloud.

  Sound broke out all about her. Memteth heads swiveled, and from their mouths came hoarse cries of alarm. Rhul barked commands and the archers rose to their feet to send a sleet of arrows down upon the Memteth.

  A wind shouldered past her, “Therra, Therrra.” Whether Sussara was scolding or encouraging, Thera was too stricken to consider. The small elemental flung itself toward the arrow, but its energy deflected it only slightly. Thera saw her aunt stagger from the blow. Gasping, hands clenched at her own breast, Thera wavered where she stood on the precipice as her aunt half-turned, and then fell.

  Thera pressed the back of her hand against her lips. “Elanraigh forgive! I have betrayed the presence of the troop, and still did not save the Salvai from injury.”

  “Rhul…?” she cried.

  The archer, frowning furiously, spared a quick glance at Thera. “I do not know...” she muttered, then her expression cleared a little, “Ah, look!”

  Below, Thera saw the Memteth now clumped together, their shields over their heads, forming a rough square as they tried to escape the deadly rain of arrows. The archers’ rapid fire impressed her, for she knew what strength it took to use the longbow. Their movements were fluid and sure.

  Thera saw the jeering raider fall sprawled on the grass, an arrow through his throat. Another nearby was struck through the eye and fell heavily, dead before he hit the earth. The Elankeep troop charged from the tree line.

  “Hold!” commanded Rhul of her archers.

  The Memteth were forced from their sheltering to engage the Elankeep swords. The clash of steel echoed off the cliff face. Thera heard a few faint cheers from the Elankeep battlements.

  Young Edred, small and quick, was yipping fox-like cries as she swung her sword, dancing in and out of her opponent’s reach.

  Thera saw Sirra Alaine slam her small round shield inside a Memteth’s larger one and she plunged her sword in his side. Pushing him away with her foot, Alaine freed her sword and turned immediately to assist Alba, who was hard pressed.

  Alba’s opponent hissed as he turned to face Sirra Alaine.

  The raider the Sirra had just gutted began to crawl after her, almost tangling her feet before he lay still.

  Rhul turned to Thera, her teeth bared in a grim smile. “Lady, odds are in our favor now.”

  The archer shoved back and bid the others, “Come now, soldiers of Elankeep, let us cleanse the forest of this horror.” The small group plunged down the same game trail the Sirra Alaine had taken.

  Thera, biting at the skin around her thumbnail, returned her attention to the fight.

  A member of the Elankeep troop below had lost her sword and now sought desperately to evade her opponent. She was armed only with dagger and shield against a Memteth swinging a broadsword. The swordswoman ducked a blow that whistled past her head. No. The blow must have glanced her helm, for the helmet clanged onto the rocks. The blonde-haired swordswoman, bleeding at her hairline, tucked and rolled. She was on her feet again, swiftly, swiping with her arm at the blood running into her eyes. The Memteth growled low and pressed on; the swordswoman giving ground steadily.

  The Elankeep soldier must have been half-blind with the blood flow from her scalp wound, and Thera could see that she would soon be trapped against the cliff face. Jittering with the necessity of doing something, Thera desperately eyed the longbows Rhul and the archers had left with her. She stood only a head taller than the bow itself.

  “Ne’er-do-naught,” she muttered through clenched teeth, “just do it, you’ve drawn a bow before.”

  Thera clutched the nearest bow. Lotta’s, she thought. She quickly slotted an arrow from Rhul’s quiver, and drew. Her arm quivered, and sweat trickled down her sides. She could not sustain enough pull. Muttering Shamic’s favorite curse, she gritted her teeth and drew again. Finally her breath gusted out. She had no hope of hitting her target.

  The two combatants were closer. Thera could no longer see the Elankeep soldier, who was under the overhang of the cliff, but the Memteth was right below her. He roared as his sword sliced the air.

  Thera heard a scuffle of loose rock, and small boulders bounced past the Memteth’s legs. A human cry of pain echoed off the cliff rock.

  The Memteth raider paused in his attack. An almost reverent expression transfigured his features. He crooned words as he slowly raised the broadsword over his head.

  Desperate, Thera grasped the largest rock she could lift with two hands and with a gabbled prayer to all powers of good, she shuffled as near the edge as she dared, and heaved it. Her pulse drummed in her ears as she watched the seemingly slow passage of her rock through the air. After a pause she measured in heartbeats, it plunged. She dropped to her knees at the cliff edge, her fingers gripping the rim. Her rock was on a true course for the Memteth’s head.

  His muscles were bunched for the killing blow, hi
s gleaming sword at the apex of its arc, when Thera’s missile impacted. The raider’s head snapped back, his amazed gaze meeting hers even as his eyes glazed and he toppled.

  Dizzy with relief, Thera dropped her head onto her arms. The only sound she heard was the pounding of her heart.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A fading echo—Thera became aware that someone called her name. She stilled her breathing, listening past the pounding of her blood.

  What?

  She crawled toward the cliff edge. It must be the injured Elankeep soldier who called. She leaned forward just as a Memteth swung up over the cusp.

  Fear screamed along Thera’s nerves, contracting her muscles. Run!

  The forest’s energies rose like shimmering heat, only a few horse strides away, behind where the Memteth now stood.

  She felt her vision darkening around the edges. Yet some other, wiser, part of her knew that fear would make her careless, and suppressed the overwhelming rush of panic. She was aware of her hand moving, drawing the Sha’Lace, of her feet shifting slightly, finding the right balance. Captain Lydia’s endless drills ,blessings on her patience, schooled her muscles beyond the fear.

  She forced herself to read the Memteth. He had moved, swift as a lizard, to place himself between her and the forest. That escape was cut off. Yet, Thera now realized, he did not understand the true nature of the protection it offered her. To the Memteth it was merely a place she could hide from him. He loathed the strange, dark forest—but he did not understand that it was an intelligence, and that it roused against him.

  Thera understood from this reading that he felt only that the forest was unwholesome. He believed the death of his companions in the ancient grove was caused by the witch in the keep.

  Thera pulled free of the reading. This Memteth did not have even a portion of the intelligence that she had read in the captain of the Memteth ship, the one whose face she had scarred. This was the crudest of soldiers.

  The Memteth was relaxing somewhat from his crouch. He ran his yellow eyes over Thera, then stared at her face. He straightened, looming tall over her.

  He sheathed his sword.

  Incredulous, Thera watched. Does he mean to let me go?

  She shifted her weight, holding herself light, ready to run.

  The Memteth also shifted. Keeping directly in front of her, he lifted his arms wide.

  As if he was herding geese! Was Thera’s absurd thought. Her hand sweated on the jeweled hilt of her dagger. She breathed deeply, loosening her grip, then readjusting.

  May the Elanraigh accept my spirit if it should be freed this hour. Thera felt calmer as she sent her prayer.

  The Memteth did not move closer.

  Thera twitched in surprise as he began to sway—a slow, side-to-side movement. His yellow-eyed gaze remained fixed upon her. His lips parted and he growled, low and sonorous.

  Thera felt her neck hairs lift.

  The Memteth’s throat was flushing bright scarlet.

  Thera studied him, looking for some clue to this strange behavior. Her confusion mounted when she realized she could no longer read him.

  The Memteth’s spoke a word, “Sinzet…” he laughed to himself and resumed the strange humming. From under hooded lids, his eyes gleamed at her.

  Thera flinched, body and soul. The heat of outrage and horror pulsed at her temples.

  He swayed, his eyes drooped shut, and Thera sprinted for safety.

  Quick as a toad’s tongue he snatched at her, grabbing the neck of her tunic. Twisting his hand in the soft kidskin, he swung her against him.

  Thera slashed with her dagger, but he eluded her effortlessly and her blade slid against the iron bands that fastened his cuirass. Deftly he shifted his hold on her, gripping her weapon hand.

  He will snap my wrist like a dry twig!

  His thumb pressed down, numbing her fingers.

  He slid his yellow gaze into her vision. “Ne-sinzet,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  Thera’s Sha’Lace dropped to the ground and trampled under their feet as she struggled.

  He snorted, a light flaring in his eyes, as she tore at his restraining fingers with her teeth. He grunted more words at her, sounding not particularly angry, then swept his foot behind her legs.

  She fell to the ground, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her nostrils filled with his musky scent as he dropped to his knees astride her. Shoving his finger in her mouth, he laughed as if he encouraged her to bite him again, then he slid his hand heavily down her body.

  Thera did scream then. She screamed when she realized that no act of will would make this horror stop. She sent a desperate, powerful call to the Elanraigh and thrashed wildly.

  He slapped her. Once. Twice. “Ne!” he growled.

  Her mind began to retreat—there was the Memteth kneeling above her, blocking the sun, then, abruptly, he was gone.

  * * * *

  Her ears rang. It did not stop, not as she rolled away, realized what had happened, or crawled to retrieve her Sha’Lace.

  The impact of the huge grey wolf’s hurtling body striking the Memteth carried both combatants to the cliff’s edge. They fought savagely, noisily, Farnash snarling as their bodies tumbled and twisted, scattering rocks and debris. The Memteth roared, struggling to rise. He heaved his body upward unable to shake off the wolf.

  The Memteth flailed at Farnash, beating him about the head, but the grey wolf continued to grind the raider’s arm in his jaws. His eyes glared into the Memteth’s contorted face. The wolf’s hind feet sent small rocks bouncing over the cliff as he dug his claws into the grainy dirt.

  Thera crawled toward them, horrified at Farnash’s peril so near the cliff edge. She heard herself whimper in fear. Farnash strained, gathering his haunches, as he resisted the Memteth’s strength. The Memteth suddenly yelled and rolled, in a massive effort to loft the wolf over the cliff.

  There was a snap as Farnash’s jaws bit through bone and the raider’s arm fell useless to his side. Hissing, the Memteth lifted his legs, attempting to wrap them around the wolf’s rib cage. Farnash leaped and twisted sinuously, snapping his jaws a finger’s breadth from the Memteth’s throat.

  Thera felt her own lips curl in a feral snarl as the Memteth rolled to his knees, his uninjured arm and hand reaching for his blade. Farnash leaped again, this time slashing the Memteth’s throat. The raider’s blood sprayed in swift rhythmic pulses.

  Farnash stood panting, legs braced and head lowered, his eyes never leaving the Memteth. The wolf’s sides heaved and his raised ruff twitched across his shoulders. Stiff-legged, he circled the Memteth, growling low in his throat as the body shuddered in its death throes. Finally the wolf backed away, his pelt still flinching.

  In the new stillness, the voices of the Elanraigh and Teacher burst in upon Thera’s awareness. She shut them out. She felt vile and sick. She had been crawling, Sha’Lace in hand, toward the Memteth, determined to kill him before he killed Farnash. She was covered in the Memteth’s blood.

  Thera slumped. Her arms, suddenly heavy, went limp. As if from a distance, she watched her fingers slowly unclench to drop the knife. Folding her arms around her knees, she hugged herself, trying to stop the shaking. His foul taste is scum in my mouth. Great dry, heaves of retching convulsed her body.

  Farnash sniffed the dead Memteth. After shaking himself, he padded, ears flat, over to Thera. Gently as he would caress a sleeping cub, he lapped her blood-spattered cheek.

  Thera felt something release in her, and through gritted teeth, she began to moan—a strange keening sound she had never heard herself make before.

  Farnash butted her with his huge head. She flung her arms about him, burying her face in his thick fur. His coat smelled of forest and clean air. Slowly he eased himself down.

  Thera watched th
e sky darken. A small wind ruffled the wolf’s silvery guard hairs.

  The dead Memteth lay silhouetted, a jagged darkness against the evening sky. Thera shuddered.

  “You are Clan,” sent the grey wolf, licking blood from his muzzle. “We protect our own.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Lady Thera!” A hand shook Thera’s shoulder.

  Thera slowly released the grey wolf’s scruff. His eyes gleamed in the light of many torches. It was Alba bending over her, her forehead knotted. Her eyes widened as Thera winced.

  “I’m…unharmed, First Sword.” Thera tried to twist her mouth into some sort of reassuring smile; she could not. Alba continued to stare. Her hand tilted Thera’s face to the light.

  “Demon’s heart, Lady!”

  “The blood isn’t mine…” said Thera, “…not mine.”

  There was a scuffling at the cliff edge as two Elankeep soldiers stripped weapons and gear off the dead Memteth. They rolled the corpse over the edge.

  “We’re burning ‘em.” Alba explained, glancing aside at the huge wolf. “It’s over, Lady Thera.”

  Thera hugged the Elanraigh wolf and then raised herself stiffly. She could see the moon was high with a few tattered clouds tangling the stars. A friendly wind was blowing from shore to sea, dissipating the dark smoke from the pyre of Memteth dead.

  Women’s voices called from the plateau below, “He’s a big ‘un. Who got him?”

  “The Lady Thera!” was the reply shouted down by Alba’s two guards.

  “No,” Thera rasped. She cleared her throat. “No. It was Farnash. I owe my life to Farnash.” Thera’s hand searched for him. The grey wolf flagged his ears and nosed her hand. He too had risen to his feet, alert and proud.

  Thera felt a mental nudge. “First Sword Alba, I present Farnash, grey wolf of the Elanraigh.”