by Bryn Colvin
Illyan Daughter
by
Bryn Colvin
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ILLYAN DAUGHTER
Copyright (c) 2005 by Bryn Colvin
Cover art and design (c) 2005 by Sheba Productions
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of America.
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Dedication
For Trish, my mother
Part One: Wolf Child
Chapter One
It was a little before dawn on one of those late Autumn days when you could taste the frosts that were coming. Liss was the first of the children to wake, her dreams restless after the conflict of the previous day. She shrugged off skins and blankets, pulling the straggling mess of her hair back with a leather thong, donning stout boots and wrapping her oversized tunic around her small form. Her father was deep in untroubled sleep, a young woman at his side. Liss could not remember her name and did not much care to know it. This one had a sharp tongue and made no secret that she saw Liss as a rival for her father’s affection.
The bright-eyed young girl took care when leaving the tent, not wanting to wake the sleepers within. Math was not a man who took kindly to being disturbed from his rest. The morning was barely begun as she ran back towards the scene of the night’s unexpected battle. She could smell the blood in the air and saw that the wheeling crows and ravens were already at their work.
In the aftermath of the fight, they had gathered their own few dead and covered them with cairns of stones. Those who had lost loved ones said whatever farewells they felt moved to utter, but it was a quiet business. The dead were dead and there was nothing more to be said of them that would not incur bad luck or invite their shades to trouble the living. Only when a person had been gone for seven years was it safe to speak of them at all. By then, the habit was so ingrained that names were seldom mentioned. Liss knew that the mother she could not remember had been gone longer than the time it took for a soul to pass onto its next journey, but still no one spoke of her.
There were only a few cairns raised after the last fight but it had only been a skirmish really and, although it had caught them off guard, they had lost only a few of the company. There had been perhaps a few dozen of their enemies—a tiny, angry force that could do no more than break against its far more powerful foe. The advantage of ambush had not helped them much in the end. When the fighters struck Liss had been riding with her father, but he dropped her carefully from his horse. Leaving her to find safety as he rode into the thick of the mayhem. She had watched from amongst the baggage wagons, clutching her small knife in case she should have a chance to use it. She longed to prove herself, but her time had not yet come and her father still saw her as a child to be guarded.
Having seen twelve summers, Liss was not yet bloodied. She knew well enough how to use weapons, but was still confined to watching with the children, pregnant women and slaves. Almost everyone else chose the fighter’s path, with all the glory and prestige it could bring. She knew that it was just a matter of time and, although she was eager to ride out at her father’s side, she understood that until she came of age she could not take her place in his company. Even though she was his only child he could not show her favour—that would not have been right. She would have to wait until her day came and then prove herself like anyone else.
Figures that had seemed dark and imposing in the dark chaos of the battle lay scattered across the flood plain like broken dolls. Liss paused at the brow of a small hill to survey the carnage. The flat expanse of land before her was a mess of blood and dark forms. She had seen countless battle scenes before—more than she could remember or count—but, even so, her head swam with the stench of death. It was a sick, sweet smell of old blood and ruined flesh. The night had brought scavengers and some of them lingered still—stout, waddling forms, moving sluggishly between the corpses. A host of crows lifted from a copse of gnarled trees, landing amongst the dead. It was then that Liss first saw her; a dark-haired woman knelt over one of the fallen. Where this lone figure had come from, she could not guess. Liss dropped to one knee, making herself a less obvious target against the sky. She scanned the countryside for signs of others, wondering if she should run back to the camp. Her sharp eyes squinted against the morning light. Aside from the crows and the furred scavengers, there were no other signs of life in any direction. The lone figure amongst the dead was an eerie manifestation that made Liss shiver.
The woman rose, turning and looked across the battlefield as though she had sensed Liss’ presence. There was no doubt in the girl’s mind that she was the subject of this disturbing lady’s scrutiny. Even though there was some considerable distance between them, she could see how the stranger’s skin was streaked with blood and grime and her dark, tattered dress blew in the wind like feathers. Poor and vulnerable though she seemed, there was something about her that transfixed the warrior child. The dark haired woman had the bearing of a Queen.
Across the yards and corpses that divided them, Liss felt a wrenching pang of familiarity grip her young heart. The shadowed eyes of the distant woman held hers and in a rush, she was caught up by the terrifying power of another’s grief for those dead and lost, a strong woman’s burning anger at the violence that had torn their souls from the world. The girl trembled under the force of anguished adult emotions, her hands shaking and tears stinging at her eyes. She wanted to break away from the horror of it, but could not. Never before had a battle scene affected her. Liss had grown up with the smell of death in her nostrils and had never questioned or considered it. She was sorry when people she knew died, but that was only to be expected. There was no shame in dying a hero’s death and going to walk in the lands of the mightiest ancestors. This grief, this feeling of life wasted and ruined, was alien to her and shocked her to the core.
Liss heard the crunch of boots behind her and glanced back over her shoulder, the spell broken. The distinctive figure of her father moved closer, dark against the dawn sky. His tall, broad form always made her feel safe, no matter what the circumstances. She looked back at the woman who stood amongst the corpses, knowing that if the woman did not hide herself, Math would end her life with a swift arrow from the bow that never left his side. It came to Liss then, that she did not want this to happen. She had never cared about one of them before, but for some reason she did not want to see this frightening woman die. She looked back at her father, wondering if he would spare this one. A lone female could hardly be a threat to them.
As Liss turned back she saw that the dark-haired woman was lowering her head and drawing her arms across her body. The movement looked far too slow and exaggerated. In the flicker of an instant she was gone and where she had stood, a dark-winged crow launched into the air to be lost amongst the other battlefield scavengers. It was a while before Liss remembered to breathe, her exhalation appearing as mist before her, as she gazed in disbelief at the scene. She felt Math’s strong hand grip her shoulder, his body shielding her from the wind. For a while neither of the
m spoke, but Liss knew he must have seen it as well. Uncertain and troubled she looked up at her father, seeking reassurance from his strong and confident presence. His face was marked with an expression that she could not name but which left a sense of dread in her heart. In all her life she could never remember him seeming so dark before. As the sun crept ever higher above the distant horizon they stood together in silence, as he surveyed the battlefield, watching the circling crows.
“Tell me if you ever see her again Liss,” he said, and with no further explanation he turned and walked away from her, calling out to his men.
“Drew, to me. Gron, Leaf, get your men out; scour the area. No quarter. Kill any crows you get a shot at.”
Liss remained as she was, unsettled by his words and the lack of explanation and feeling strangely abandoned by the man who was the sun in her small world. It was the first time he had ever done anything that made him seem less than perfect in her eyes. She wanted him to stay close. On the previous night she had thirsted to be an adult but this morning found her hankering after her child’s role—to be protected and reassured. It was not to be. There were men and women moving across the plain, fanning out in search of the crow-woman. She supposed that Math would have his own work to do now. The small force that had ambushed them must have come from somewhere. Most likely they had come from a nearby village and the place would now be ripe for pillaging. He would be talking with Flash and Wyn, planning the scouting and the next attack.
The day was rousing itself to life and the camp behind her was growing noisy with wakeful activity. As the sun rose, the morning seemed less mysterious and the dreamlike peculiarity of all that she had seen seemed less real and important. If it had not been for the sight of distant adults scouting through the long grasses and stalking between the shrubby trees, she might have thought it just a freak of her playful imagination. She wished it had been nothing more than that and did not like the way the crow-woman had made her feel. Liss shrugged her shoulders and made her way down onto the flood plain. Carefully she picked her way through the bodies of the painted, dark-skinned men and women who had been slaughtered for their foolhardy assault. None of them seemed to carry much beyond their weaponry and that was crude and simple. Liss started making a little mound of everything that looked useful. She was on her guard, for sometimes one of them would manage to survive and would try to attack young scavengers. Most of the fighters they met were a little better equipped than this ragged bunch.
As the older parties were lost behind screens of distant trees and the curving contours of the plain, all became still and deathly quiet once more. The silence made Liss uneasy and she watched continually for signs of crows. They were bad luck birds. At last, one by one, the other children came bleary-eyed over the brow of the hill to join her in her work.
Chapter Two
It had been a long day but a profitable one. The camp buzzed pleasantly with life as the men returned, bringing their trophies and much needed supplies. The rules of plunder were simple and Math Wolfstrong seldom had cause to reprimand his men. Anything that counted as food, fuel or livestock was the property of the community—to be shared out under the watchful eyes of his masters of food and flame. Any other plunder that they found: clothes and leathers, trinkets, ornaments and household goods belonged to whoever discovered them. Math did not tolerate fighting amongst his men and had personally whipped more than one individual who had sought to take what he had not fairly won. Sometimes there were fair disputes and those he permitted them to settle for themselves, wrestling for proof of power and right. Math did not like to lose men needlessly and he knew the value of good discipline.
For a while he walked amongst the campfires, observing the condition of his people and taking time to speak with them, as he distributed small gifts to those he considered particularly worthy of his attention. The afternoon’s efforts had rewarded them with a significant haul and good fortune had guided him into the dwelling place of the village’s metalworker. He had pockets full of rings, bangles and brooches, many of which he gave away. Good discipline did not last unless it was well rewarded, he had found and loyalty was best maintained with gifts. They followed him because he made good judgements but he was always careful not to be seen to take more than a fair portion for himself. He had seen armies undermined by the greed of their leaders.
Math had saved a fine necklace for his wild daughter, knowing that she would like the many coloured stones, each encased with a delicate swirl of metal that held it in place on a fine chain. Having made his way through the mass of brightly coloured tents and old battle-worn pavilions, he approached the central area where his own tents lay. Liss was there, attempting to repair her sling.
“Here.”
He tossed the small treasure towards her and she caught it with nimble fingers, turning it over in her small hands and smiling up at him. She made no remark but he had expected none. A nod was enough to tell him that Liss appreciated the find. He had wanted sons to inherit his rule but Liss was proving more than promising and he could see the makings of a good ruler in her already. She was untidy, though and her face was streaked with mud. Sometimes he regretted that she had no mother to watch over her.
“You should wash your face girl,” he said, “and your hair needs a comb. Have one of the women help you.”
“Yes, father.”
When she came to his fire later that night, her hair was plaited up and tied around her head, as a full-grown woman might wear it and the necklace he had given her sparkled at her neck. Her skin, or what he could see of it at least, was clean and her long tunic becoming over her loose trousers. He nodded his approval and saw a smile twitch the corner of her lips before she took her seat amongst the other high-ranking women. Looking at the darkness of her braided hair and the delicacy of her cheekbones, he realised that she was growing up to look very much like her mother. He had hoped that she would show a stronger resemblance to him and did not relish the prospect of seeing the woman he had loved and lost echoed in the face of his only child.
Math had the power to command almost anything his heart could desire, save for the women who moved him. He had loved in his youth and it had left scars on his heart such that he had sworn he would never let women rule him again. His first wife had died too young and since then, love had only brought him conflict. There was one woman from whom he thought he would never escape, one whose body had almost driven him from his senses. She had been beautiful indeed when he first met her—a captivating and powerful woman who raised his lust into a dangerous inferno. Now he would not even think her name and those who remembered it did not dare utter it in his presence. Some things it was better not to speak of. Despite the precautions he took against the memory of her, there were times when her shadow still fell upon him and he would find himself drawn back into recollecting. There were mornings when he woke and, in the hazy moments when sleep still gripped him, he would think that the woman at his side was this lost lover returned and he would burn anew. She had cursed him utterly and he knew he would never be free of her: Annis, with her raven hair and honeyed voice. Dark Annis, terrifying Annis, whose grip upon his balls and soul was the only thing he truly feared.
Sometimes, he would find that a sensual memory of her warm and yielding mouth had come unbidden into his thoughts. He would have to fight not to succumb to remembering how sweet her tongue had been and how skilfully she had used it on his body. She could talk, kiss and lick him out of all reason, robbing him of all control. Thinking of her angered him, making him want to lash out, to fight and to dominate. To vent years of grieved frustration and it made him want to sink down into the comfort of some more placid woman.
Try as he might, Math could not concentrate on the tale that was being unfolded for his entertainment. Annis was stalking him again, enmeshing him in her charms and curses. Years had not served to weaken her hold. Death, violence and betrayal had not fully broken her spells and sometimes the memories overpowered him. Math rose and withou
t offering an explanation, drew his fur-lined cloak around him and stepped away from the fire. Wyn rose to accompany him, but he gestured that the muscular woman should leave him be. He felt safe enough in his own camp and did not mean to venture out into the night.
Family groups were sharing their own meals and stories—their tents and shelters spread out under the stars, gathered in groups built up over nearly two decades. It had been a dozen years since he and his followers had accepted their exile and set forth, burning their boats on the beach where they landed to prove they knew that there could be no going back. Without land or provisions, they had only that which they could bear away with them and no choice but to fight for a new life. Time had swelled his small army into a mighty force, as sons came of age and others from the old country had followed him in his new career. For the first few years there had been a steady drip of them, . Drawn by tales of his success—younger sons of families who stood to inherit nothing and who sought to carve out a future for themselves.
It seemed to Math, that he had spent most of his life under canvas. He had first gone to fight when he was a mere thirteen years and now he could not be certain who he had fought for in those first skirmishes, or who he had raised a sword against. In a country where three sons, an uncle and two cousins had fought for many bitter years for the throne, war had been a way of life. He had grown to manhood amidst the colours of pavilions, the smell of blood and horses and the haunting cries of the dying. It was better to think about that distant, brutal past than to recall the woman whose lips had stolen his soul.
Wandering between an old battle-pavilion of faded blues and a more recent canvas creation patched together in a motley of tattered browns, Math saw a girl dancing to the song of a companion. Her slender frame was illuminated by flickering firelight and she moved like a fluttering moth. Her hips undulated gracefully, swaying suggestively and making her skirts fan out and her breeches billow like airy wings. The girl’s hair was loose and pale, glimmering in the light. He stood still, letting this fair vision distract him from unwelcome memory. Pallan, the girl who had warmed his bed for the last few months was growing tedious. She had started to act as though he had granted her some status and he had determined to put her aside and take a new girl in her place. He seldom kept any woman for long—as soon as there was any suggestion that they were getting above themselves, he handed them on to other men to use as they saw fit. He doubted there was a woman alive who could keep his interest for a full cycle of the seasons.