by Renee Wildes
She made a torch from a piece of kindling swathed with oil-soaked wool. “The spirit of life is born in fire and by fire does the spirit return to Her Light. Light to Light, from this world to the next. Lady, welcome Your daughter home. May her next life be kinder for the sacrifice made in this one.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she touched the torch to her own mattress. Flames enfolded Mag’s body in the Goddess’ arms.
She wiped them away; ’twas past the time for tears. Now was the time for action. She turned from the stench of burning flesh to the rocking chair, hesitating. Rufus had made that chair and Fanny had sewn the cushions, embroidered with dyed silk thread from far south. Moira had gifted the thread to her for curing a toothache. She shook her head and squared her shoulders. She grabbed the fine lace tablecloth and stuffed it into her bedroll. Setting flames to her rocking chair, she tossed the burning brand into the far corner afore striding into the woods with Rufus’ weapons, Fanny’s medicine bags and Sheena’s tablecloth. The flickering light from Mag’s funeral pyre followed her for a long time.
Her skin twitched. The sense of being stalked grew in the back of her mind. The dark servants of Jalad, combing the countryside for Xavier and Mag, congregated at what was left of her home. Malice hounded her as she wove through the trees.
A howl sounded behind her, then another. Deep. Canine. Savage. The voices merged into a chorus of predatory intent. She knew what pursued her. She’d heard of a new breed of hunting dog, created by crossing bear-baiters on wolf-hunting coursers. The result was a giant, implacable trailer with courser speed and baiter bloodlust. Perfect for following and dispatching prey, be it four-legged…or two.
So focused was she on the vicious hunters behind her the malevolent shadows shimmering on the edges of her consciousness faded into insignificance. When a shout sounded to her right, she started in surprise. A movement to her left was all the warning she got afore something hard struck her head and the world went black.
Chapter Four
“Open yer eyes, wench. I know ye hear me.”
Dara first noticed wet leaves and a crushed mushroom smeared beneath her cheek. A pipeweed smoker’s raspy voice accompanied rough hands shaking her. The man’s apparently lifelong aversion to bathing stung her nose and overwhelmed the loamy scent of autumn decay. A night owl hooted from a branch somewhere above.
Dara kept her eyes shut and concentrated on the pounding in her head as the man yanked her to her feet. Whatever struck her had broken no bones, but her head would ache for days. She was unmistakably in enemy hands: gagged, bound, barefoot. She couldn’t feel her medicine bags or weapons.
She cocked her head and shifted her weight. Her spirits sank. Mag’s amulet was missing. They’d found the blade tucked into the underside of her braid. They’d found the other hidden blade too. One she’d been sure no one would ever find.
Death afore dishonor.
Her chance for escape was slim. She’d not run far on bare feet. Her worst nightmare had come true. Lady, grant me strength. Each hour she resisted put Loren and Xavier that much farther away. The kingdom was worth her life. Don’t let me give them away.
A leather-covered open palm cracked across her cheek and snapped her head around. She opened her eyes and glared at her captor. She focused on Westmarche black and red, squinty eyes and a leering grin that showed missing and rotting teeth.
Throaty growls distracted her from the human to the real menace—three hellhounds leashed by a second man. Dara stared at the legendary beasts with horrified fascination. Each was the size of a yearling calf, half-again as long as it was tall, with coarse grey fur, a long bristly tail, pricked wolf ears, mad yellow eyes and a square undershot jaw with oversized fangs.
Her eyes narrowed and she growled back. The dogs whined and retreated a pace.
Dog Handler cleared his throat. He was younger, taller and marginally cleaner than the first, with a few more teeth. “Ye’re a prisoner o’ King Jalad, th’ new lord o’ Riverhead an’ Safehold Keep. Ye’re accused o’ murder, bearin’ arms, destroyin’ property an’ fleein’ a crime.”
“Also impersonatin’ a man an’ failin’ t’obey orders,” First Guard added. “When I told ye t’open yer eyes. We’re not in th’ habit o’ askin’ twice. Ye’d best remember that in what’s left o’ th’ future.”
Dara’d be disobeying many orders.
“We tracked two ’scaped pris’ners when th’ dogs picked up yer scent. We’re takin’ all t’ King Jalad,” Dog Handler stated. “’Tis why ye’re still alive. He’ll want t’ know th’ identity o’ th’ body in th’ hut ye burned.”
She shook her head.
“Don’ deny it,” First Guard told her. “Ye reek o’ blood an’ woodsmoke.”
How could they smell anything beyond themselves?
First Guard leered. “I commend ye. Ye found some odd places t’ hide a blade. Ye’re lucky. King Jalad ordered all pris’ners go t’ him unharmed. He’ll handle ye…personal.”
Dara went ice cold. They must have seen fear shimmering in her eyes because they both grinned. The hellhounds whined and tugged on their leashes.
“Our lord has a way wi’ ladies.” Dog Handler reined in his four-legged charges with difficulty. “He’ll keep ye alive long ’nough t’ tell him everythin’ he wants t’ know.”
“Still, ye’re a looker. Please him an’ he might keep ye ’round. Ye look big an’ strong ’nough t’ handle a real man.” First Guard laughed.
If Jalad was the new world’s idea of a real man, Dara looked forward to joining Mag, Fanny and Sheena soon. Would there be anyone left to sing at her funeral pyre, or would she wander these hills forever in the service of the crone? Eons of luring wicked souls to their doom held a certain dark appeal.
“But first, one crime needs fixin’,” Dog Handler stated. “Men’s clothin’ is forbidden women. Take them off. Now.”
Dara narrowed her eyes and shook her head. Even unbound and ungagged, she wouldn’t have stripped and pranced naked for these two. She eyed the pile of knives at her feet. She almost reached one with the toes of her right foot. Almost…
“Ye’ll march back t’ Safehold in th’ skin yer demon goddess birthed ye in,” First Guard told her. “I’d be happy t’ help.”
Dog Handler knotted the leather leads to the nearest sturdy elm. Dara struggled as First Guard grabbed her by the arms, twisting them up behind her back until an audible creaking warned her not to move for fear of dislocating a joint. Dog Handler drew a dirk. The iron-blend blade gleamed in the waning light. Dara froze. She was not looking forward to a second go around with iron.
“Hold still.” The dirk flashed through the shirt and breeches. Dog Handler tsked at the binding wrap. “Well, this’ll ne’er do.” He found the tucked end and derived obvious enjoyment from revealing what the cloth had hidden. “Now that’s a crime, hidin’ beauties like those.”
Dara shuddered at the look in his eyes. Close as he was, ’twas no mistaking First Guard’s thoughts.
His voice was rough. “Best get back t’ the hold. I’ve a mind fer a pint an’ a wench.” He released Dara’s arms and stepped back.
She staggered.
Dog Handler gathered up her bedroll, blades and medicine bags, then untied the hellhounds. Grateful fear of Jalad overruled their lust, Dara mourned the loss of her things, all she had left from her family. Those filthy hands on Sheena’s fine lace… She wished she’d torched everything now.
First Guard shoved her forward. A sharp stone dug into the side of her foot. She fought for balance. A turned ankle spelled disaster. Her mind raced and she trembled deep within. Lady, help me be brave. My life for Moira’s and her son’s. I can do this, I can. A sense of peace warmed her soul. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
Naked we enter our mothers’ arms. If I exit this life naked in our Mother’s arms, so be it. They took her clothes and weapons but she’d not surrender her pride.
Courage. Death afore dishonor. Death is not the end.
For years she’d studied. Now came the test of what she believed. Woman power, to create life. Life conquered death every time—growth after fire, spring after winter. Her mind drifted, and she ceased feeling the cold on her bare skin or the sticks and stones against her feet.
Men and hounds marched her southwest. Dara clung to the Goddess’ serenity. She knew this was minor compared to what awaited her. Jalad lay at the end of her path. Dara was all that stood betwixt him and his goal.
One more minute, one more mile; one more hour, one more league. Dara felt Hani`ena and Loren in the far distance. Fanciful thoughts, but she could almost reach them, if she but tried…
A shadow of warning brushed her mind like raven’s wings. Let them go. Others follow this path you set. Dara pulled back, appalled. With what Xavier had told of Jalad’s true dual nature, ’twas naïve to think others of ability didn’t wait for just such a mistake.
Why her thoughts kept turning to Loren she didn’t know.
Grey stone walls loomed in the distance. Black and red banners fluttered in the breeze. The heads of Hengist’s warriors on pikes lined the main pathway into the keep. The fly covered bodies of most of the male servants hung from the battlement walls, with a few notable exceptions. Already the stench of rotting flesh attracted ravens and other small carrion eaters.
She studied the lack of damage to the gates. There should’ve been dents from battering rams, scorch marks from fire, axe gouges. She saw none. That meant one thing. Xavier was right. Someone had opened them to the enemy.
Hengist and Moira had been betrayed.
No golden Eagles remained. Everywhere, the black Boar of Westmarche taunted her.
“Welcome home.” Dog Handler laughed.
Dara watched the drawbridge lower. Lady, I’m scared.
A piercing shriek rent the air. One of the great mountain eagles circled. Its buff color told Dara it was female. A female mountain eagle from the north. Moira. Me. I am an Eagle. Hengist’s Eagle. Dara took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Strength. Courage. Thank you, Lady. I can do this. I am ready.
First Guard shoved her onto the hoof-scarred surface of the drawbridge. More Boars awaited them on the other side, laughing and jeering at her. Dara straightened until her spine cracked. There were no familiar faces present in the courtyard, only dozens of leering men with dirty bodies and filthier minds. Disgust warred with fear.
“What’s this, Gerrold?” a barrel-chested pikesman asked Dog Handler. “Huntin’ must’ve been good tonight, but we were lookin’ forward t’somethin’ fer th’ stew pot.”
“Oh, but she’s a tasty mouthful an’ no mistake.” An archer shifted the quiver of arrows on his back.
“She’s t’ be questioned by King Jalad.” First Guard must’ve held authority among the invaders because all dispersed. “Let’s go, lass. Sooner we bring ye, sooner we can go eat. Gerrold, put th’ dogs away.”
Dog Handler—Gerrold—bowed and hauled the dogs off toward the stable.
First Guard removed her gag. “Don’ bother callin’ fer help.”
Dara licked her lips to rid her mouth of dryness and grimaced at the foul taste of the cloth. “Enjoy your temporary stay. You’ll be gone afore year’s end.”
“I doubt it.” He shook his head and dragged her into Hengist’s main hall. Every scrap of cloth from carpets to tapestries to draperies was gone. Cold stone remained, stained with dried blood, soot and woodsmoke. A frigid draft penetrated the shuttered windows. Weapons hung on the walls—axes, pikes, spears. A throne had been unearthed from who knew where to be placed up on the dais Hengist and Moira had never used. “Take a knee. Bow yer head. Ye’ll live longer.”
“Never. You are but a summer squall and will blow out soon enough. The earth will endure.”
“Blasphemy. You look cold. I can think of a number of ways to warm you.”
At the new voice, Dara focused on the scarred visage of the man striding toward her with the swinging walk of a lifelong horseman. A bearded man, big and burly, with wild bushy hair. She stared into his dark brown eyes. Cold, merciless, like a snake’s, without pity. Something furtive slid behind them, a hint of red like drying blood. “Jalad the usurper,” she spat. “Jalad the butcher.”
He halted an arm’s length from her and turned to First Guard. “Report, Caltrik.”
“A fugitive, me lord. She escaped a buildin’ burnin’ with a body inside. We thought ye might have questions fer her.”
“Indeed.” Jalad’s eyes bored into Dara’s. She read a dozen deaths in that gaze, none of them easy. None of them quick. Behind his eyes, on the edges of his mind, something stirred. Too fleeting for her to catch, it left her with a crushing hopelessness stole her breath.
“Mayhap your womanhood escaped your notice. Rest assured, it has not escaped mine.” Jalad’s gaze raked every curve afore he reached out to grasp her braid and yank her closer. “I’ve ne’er seen hair this color. No one in this area has it. You must be a foreign spy, hmm?”
Dara spat in his face.
Both men struck at the same time. Caltrik’s booted foot slammed behind her knees, knocking her to the cold stone floor a split second after Jalad’s fist doubled her over with a blow that had her retching and struggling to breathe.
“Where a woman belongs. On her knees afore her lord and master.” Jalad turned to the few witnesses present. “I claim this foreigner as my new slave.”
Dara gasped. “I’m no foreigner. I was freeborn here.”
“Show me your free mark.”
“I had a Riverhead amulet. Your edimars stole it.”
Caltrik growled at the slur. “We found no such thing.”
“Liar.” She glared at them both. “I bear not the mark, nor the manner, of a slave.”
“If you’ve no free mark then you’re a slave. You don’t look like anyone in either this country or my own, wench. I’d know of flame-haired viragos were they common.” Jalad’s hand knotted in her hair. “The first order is to brand you my slave. Then I’ll teach you a slave’s duty.”
Horror crawled along her skin. Were she branded a slave, ’twas how the world would see her. There’d be no help should she escape. They would just return her to her…master.
“Your first duty is to always tell the truth when asked a question, and I have many.” His free hand trailed over her bare shoulder. “Your second is to see to your master’s pleasure, no matter what it may be.”
His pleasure would not be hers. Dara turned her head and sank her teeth into his wrist. She leapt to her feet, twisting around and reaching for the knife in his belt with her bound hands. Jalad proved faster than Rufus, however, and beat her to the knife. The blade pricked her skin just below her right ear.
Death afore dishonor.
He was made of sterner stuff, though. “You don’t get off that easy. Caltrik, hold her. I’ll be right back.”
Too close for Dara’s kicking to have any effect, Caltrik twisted her arms too high for her to flip him over her shoulder. She stood silently raging as Jalad strode to the nearer of the two stone fireplaces. He stirred the logs with an iron-blend bar afore pulling it from the flames.
Dara noted with horror the branding mark on the end. Being branded like a stray cow, being marked as his property forever short of cutting off her own arm… Power rushed up from within. Her blood boiled. Her eyes burned. She clenched her jaw, wrestled it down, dared not open her mouth. It screamed to escape, but Rufus’ training helped her hold the wild power in check.
Lady, help me hold. Cold wind from the mountains, freeze my soul. Power is a servant, a mere tool. I am in control. She pictured the flames receding, changing to snowflakes, drifting into still darkness. She calmed and opened her eyes to glare at Jalad.
He smiled a savage, toothy smile. “This should warm you.”
Dara recognized the servant girl behind him. Tegan. She held a small pot of colored dye. An ominous mixture glinted from red to black and back to red again in the flickering torchlight, like the pre
sence behind Jalad’s eyes. Tegan’s teary eyes were filled with despair as her gaze met Dara’s. Dara saw the ugly colored brand on Tegan’s right shoulder. A red and black S, raw and recent.
Caltrik’s hold tightened. Dara braced herself.
The gleaming iron met her right shoulder with a hideous sizzle. Dara heard someone scream. She prayed it wasn’t her. She went limp, smelled burning flesh. Something wet pressed into the wound, but ’twas as if it happened to someone else. Removed. Distant.
“That took some of the kick out of her.” Jalad laughed. “Caltrik, take her to my chambers.”
Caltrik didn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body. He dragged her by her good arm up the winding stone staircase. Dara staggered along under her own power, down a dark corridor lit by smoking, stinking rush torches until they arrived at the solid oak door of Hengist’s bedchamber.
Her eyes watered from both the agony of her branded arm and the betrayal of Moira and Hengist. “I’m not going in there. Jalad has no right.”
“Yer master King Jalad has ev’ry right.” Caltrik shoved her through the doorway. “Hengist left th’ keep unprotected while he rode off t’ tournament. King Jalad’s not so careless. He’s here t’ stay.”
Dara glanced around her. Both fireplaces blazed. With no windows to shutter, the room was warm. The family portraits were gone. Inferior weavings of battle scenes and executions replaced Moira’s colorful hunting tapestries. Hammered black wrought iron replaced the silver. Rush and pitch torches replaced the handmade beeswax candles. Reeds and rushes replaced the rugs on the floor. She barely recognized the place.
“What happened to the carpets?”
Caltrik smirked. “King Jalad didn’t want t’ruin ’em with blood. Rushes’re easier t’ change out.”
Dara paled, but squared her shoulders. “How appropriate—a jackass using stable material for bedding.”
Caltrik’s fist slammed into the back of her already pounding head, knocking her to her knees. “Insolent slave. King Jalad’ll knock that out o’ ye soon enough.”