Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  “Curse that wretched beast.” John eyes shifted back to the barren expanse of water. “God help us, Owen. They could have taken her anywhere.”

  Desperation soured Owen's stomach as he crouched to inspect the bodies, hoping to find some kind of clue. But the men, with their blue lips and dull eyes, told him nothing. Although Lio had not failed, John was right – the wolf couldn't track over water.

  “We're not giving up.” Owen rose to his feet. “I must tell you what my father said. We have until--”

  A chilling howl cut into his words, the eerie sound rising into the air somewhere behind them. John spun round. “What in God's name...”

  “It's Lio.” Owen raced off. “He's found something.”

  Beyond a small rise, the wolf circled a prone figure. The splintered stub of an arrow shaft protruded from the man's chest, the remainder snapped off by some means. A bloody trail, leading back to the beach, told of his desperate crawl across the sand. Owen crouched and searched the man's neck for a pulse.

  “Is he still alive?” asked John, catching up to Owen and breathing hard.

  “Aye, he lives.” Owen grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. “Where is she?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Do you hear me? Where is the lass you took? Who has her? Speak! Who?”

  The man's face twisted in pain. His lids drew back to revealed the whites of his eyes. “Help...me,” he gurgled, through bloodied lips. “Please.”

  “You're beyond mortal help, sirrah.” Owen's fist tightened its grip. “But you might yet save your soul. Confess, now, before you meet your maker. Where is the lass? Tell me. Who has her?”

  The man's glazed eyes rolled down and, for a moment, focused on Owen's face.

  “El…ric,” he gasped.

  “Elric? Where has he taken her? Tell me where.”

  The man's eyes closed and his head lolled to the side.

  “Do not die, God damn you!” Owen shook him. “Tell me where he took her.”

  A single elongated word tumbled from the man's mouth, forced out by his final breath.

  “Maaaan.”

  Maaaan? Mann?

  “Mann.” Owen staggered to his feet, a dizzy wave of relief flooding his mind. “They've taken her to Mann.”

  “Easy, lad. Slow your breathing.” John wrapped a steadying hand around Owen's arm. “Elric. For some reason, that name is familiar to me.”

  “Elric is the threat my father spoke of. Adela knew him also. She claimed he could see into the mind and read the thoughts that lay there. She called him--”

  “The Dark One.” John's brow furrowed. “Yes, I know of him.”

  Shock stalled Owen's voice. “You...? How?”

  “Adela was my wife, remember?” John's voice softened. “It was not only a bed we shared. There's little I don't know of her people – your people – and their history. I'm quite aware Katherine is Morgan's thirteenth great-granddaughter.” He grimaced. “That's what you were going to tell me about, wasn't it? The prophecy? I knew it as soon as you told me of the visions.”

  “I...yes. Yes, it was.” Still stunned by John's admission, Owen fumbled with his words. “But I thought...I mean, I didn't think you'd begin to believe it.”

  John shook his head. “I never doubted Adela's power, young man. It's what saved my life. She taught me much, and opened my mind to many things. The prophecy, I grant you, was somewhat more difficult to believe. Until today, that is. I'm sickened to think Katherine was afraid to speak to me. I should have prepared her, told her of her mother's past. I've been a fool.” He heaved a sigh and stared down at the dead man. “This place stinks of death. Let's get out of here. At least, now, we have a direction.”

  Owen looked to the west, where the ancient mountains of Mann rose from the Irish sea. He knew if he stood by the water and stared long enough, he might just make out their distant shadows on the horizon.

  A familiar and pleasing sight – the island had been his home for the past several years. Weylin, his master and friend, also knew every corner of the small kingdom. There weren't too many places to hide amongst its quiet valleys. Surely, then, there was hope of finding Katherine before the solstice.

  His thoughts became words. “If we follow the coastline, we'll reach Fowdray Island within the hour. We can take a ship to Mann from there.”

  They turned back to the shore and mounted up, Lio at their heels as they headed down the beach. They had not gone far before they heard, behind them, a thud of mighty hooves.

  “Don't tell me,” said John, shaking his head.

  Owen turned to see Crovan's giant horse bouncing along in their wake.

  “You must concede,” he said, biting back a smile of amusement, “the wretched beast is determined.”

  The levity ceased a moment later when both men, confronted by a sobering sight, halted their horses at the water's edge.

  A few feet offshore, the body of a man floated face down, arms spread wide. His hair, like a mass of red tentacles, fanned out around his head. The waves played with his enormous bulk, rocking it back and forth with quiet ease.

  John cleared his throat. “Is it him?”

  Owen nodded. “No mistake.”

  “Dead, then. All of them.”

  “Aye. No doubt he wanted them silenced.”

  “Hmm. 'Tis as well we found one alive. But it makes me wonder about this devil we chase.” John gave Owen a thin smile. “This Dark One, it seems, is a very dangerous man.”

  Chapter 15

  Owned by the Cistercian monks of Furness abbey, the tiny isle of Fowdray functioned as a stepping stone between the shallow waters of the coastal shelf to the temperamental Irish Sea. The enterprising monks had developed the island into a busy harbour, catering to ships from Ireland and Mann. Access to Fowdray's harbour was possible on foot at low tide, or by ferry from the mainland at high tide.

  Despite the late hour, the ferry port hummed with a diversity of folks waiting to make the short crossing. Nobles rubbed shoulders with tradesman. Persistent beggars pestered and pleaded for spare coin. Pack-mules and horses, laden with all manner of goods from fleece to sacks of grain, snoozed at their tethering posts. Barrels of wine and mead formed bevelled wooden walls along the shore. Money or bartering dictated priority of travel – the wealthy were always given priority.

  Darkness had all but descended when John and Owen arrived on the outskirts of the ferry port. John reined in, holding up a hand to indicate Owen do the same.

  “I'm concerned,” he said, nodding at Lio, who had also paused, “about him.”

  Owen frowned. “Why?”

  “That's quite the crowd.” John grimaced. “The wolf's presence may well be seen as a threat. Plus, there's a bounty on his kind. What if someone tries to hurt him?”

  Owen feigned a scowl to hide his amusement at John's unexpected concern for Lio.

  “You have a point.” He twisted in the saddle and patted Arrio's rump. “Lio, up.”

  In one effortless leap, the wolf landed square behind Owen and sat down. Arrio snorted and shook his great head.

  John huffed and rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

  “What about him?” Owen gestured to Crovan's horse, who stood just beyond the reach of Arrio's back hooves. “Do we leave him here?”

  As if he understood he was the topic of conversation, the big horse lifted his chin and pulled back his lips in the semblance of a grin.

  “The witless beast will attempt to swim the channel if we do,” said John. “Nay, I'm not of a mind to leave him. His strange loyalty merits some reward, and a third horse might be useful to us.”

  As they approached the docking area – a raised section of the beach paved with planks of thick oak – their presence drew immediate attention. With something akin to reverence, the crowd parted to let them pass. A murmur of hushed voices arose, spiralling out like a ripple. Owen, aware of a hundred pairs of eyes on him, cleared his throat.

  “You'd think they'd never seen a wolf on horseback before,�
� he muttered, which brought a chuckle from John.

  Night had brought with it a cool wind that brushed the sea into white curls and sent clouds skidding across the darkening sky. Braziers burned at the water's edge, their light mirrored by fires burning on the opposite shore. The dark shape of the ferry shuddered through the waves as it approached. Although a decent size, the boat seemed inadequate in contrast to the waiting crowd.

  Owen, his body aching with fatigue, released a frustrated sigh. “I doubt we'll find room on this barge.”

  John slid from the saddle. “Knighthood has certain benefits,” he said, handing Owen the reins. “Wait here.”

  The crowd swallowed him up only to expel him a few minutes later, his eyes bearing a triumphant gleam. “This way, lad,” he said. “You go first with these two, and I'll fetch the big brute.

  The ferry, steered across the narrow channel by a series of ropes and pulleys, bumped up against the shore and lowered the landing platform. No sooner had returning visitors disembarked than the next wave of passengers, including John and Owen, stepped aboard. Lio rose onto four paws, balancing with ease on Arrio's back. There he remained for the short crossing, occasionally lifting his nose into the wind as if identifying a scent.

  “It would be nice to think he can still sense her,” said Owen, more to himself than John, who gave a soft growl.

  “A nice thought, Owen, but not possible.”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “You're still reserving judgement on him, then?”

  “Nay, my judgement is sound,” John replied, with a wry smile. “I never thought I'd thank God for a wolf, but I've done so several times today. We wouldn't be here but for him.”

  The braziers blazed a welcome as the ferry grated against the opposite shore. From there, John and Owen mounted and kicked their weary horses to a canter for the short ride to the main harbour. Lio kept pace at their side, while the big horse ambled behind in a less than graceful fashion.

  Another line of braziers outlined the main harbour, their undulating reflections flickering on the water. Bearded men with broad shoulders loaded and unloaded cargo from several small boats, their colourful words snatched up by the playful breeze. The ancient languages of the Britannic Isles fell upon Owen's ears, and he feasted upon the richness of their inflections. Welsh drew his attention – the musical dialogue of his homeland causing his heart to beat a little faster. Irish and Manx Gaelic too, he recognized. He turned his face to the sea, licked the salt from his lips, and gave his mind freedom to wander.

  Several masted ships were moored in the shallows, riding the skittish waves. Beyond them lay open water, where the wind roamed unhindered by earthly obstacles. How ominous the sea looked, like it hid some great monster that drew breath, causing its surface to rise and fall. Owen shook off the foolish thought. He was, he allowed, beyond exhausted; his mind and body tortured from lack of sleep. Yet Kate was out there, somewhere, in the grasp of another monster. He closed his eyes, hoping he would be in her dreams that night. For now, my sweet lass, that is all the comfort I can give you. But be brave and stay strong. I will find you. I swear it.

  A man's voice broke into his reverie. “Are you stabling the horses here until you return from Mann?”

  “No, Brother,” said John, dropping a number of coins into the monk's hand. “We wish to transport them with us. I trust this will cover our passage and a decent cabin.”

  “Most certainly. And...er...him?” The man's fist closed around the gold as he eyed Lio with apparent trepidation. “I assume he is harmless?”

  Owen shrugged. “Gentle as a kitten.”

  “Very well.” The monk cast a critical glance at Crovan's horse and gestured to one of the moored ships. “You'll have to wait for the Kateryn. She has a winch to load larger animals, but she's not sailing till dawn.”

  “The Kateryn?” Owen's stomach gave a sharp lurch. “By all the saints. Perhaps it's a sign.”

  “A sign?” The monk looked puzzled. “A sign of what?”

  John waved the question away. “Is there somewhere we can shelter for the night?”

  “Indeed, you may board the ship now if you wish,” said the monk. “We'll take care of the horses.”

  The cabin was cramped, but the two narrow bunks were still preferable to the open passenger deck, which lacked any privacy. A hanging lantern cast rolling shadows around the tiny space, and the breeze whistled through cracks in a small shuttered porthole.

  John sat on one bed while Owen stretched out on the other, hands folded behind his head. Lio lay on the floor between them, his tired body already twitching in sleep. John, with the help of some coin, had managed to persuade a rather large monk to part with a partially-eaten leg of cold mutton. The hungry wolf had feasted well.

  “You are correct, my lord,” said Owen, nestling into the mattress. “Knighthood does indeed have certain benefits.”

  John glanced around the cabin and removed a cloth bundle from his saddlebags. “It's no palace, but it serves our needs. Here, lad. Eat something. It's no banquet either, I'm afraid, but again, it serves.”

  ~

  Some time later, John looked over at Owen, humbled by the courage of the young Welshman. The lad slept at last, exhaustion evident in the dark crescents beneath his eyes. Those, and the stubble on his jaw, stood out in contrast against the pale cast of his skin.

  Earlier, as they shared their simple meal of bread and cheese, Owen had told John of his time at the abbey. He'd described Brother Michael’s treachery and the murder in the woods. Emotion had broken his voice when he'd described his father's death and the consequent ride back to Wraysholme. Christ, the lad had not even waited for his father's burial.

  “But I was too late,” he'd said, his voice trembling. “Too late.”

  John frowned, guilt coiling in his stomach as he thought of Edgar. Owen had spoken true. Katherine – possessed of her mother's bright spirit – would never have thrived with such a man. Perhaps Edgar had wealth and title, yet he had shown little compassion toward Katherine's plight. While this Welshman, whose motives I doubted...

  John heaved a sigh. Owen had no title or lands – only a fine horse and a strange hunting companion. But his devotion to Katherine, and his determination to rescue her, was beyond question.

  As a knight sworn to chivalry and courage, John recognized those same qualities when they appeared before him. He realized the dubbing of a blade gave title only. True knighthood, in its noblest form, could dwell in the heart and soul of any man, no matter his origins. Such a man, with a great silver wolf dreaming at his side, slept before him now. God knows, both of them had earned their rest.

  Disturbed by a tempest of thought, John slept little. He stirred at last to the shouts of men setting sail, and the creak of the Kateryn's oaken hull as it slid through the waves. Despite the noise, Owen slept on.

  John sat up, blinking away the fog in his mind. He needed some air, and he needed to piss. Lio opened an eye and thumped his tail on the floor.

  John met the animal's gaze and, for a heartbeat, imagined that he connected with something in those golden depths. An understanding, perhaps, of shared fear and desire?

  John smiled at his fanciful thoughts. “Or maybe,” he whispered, reaching down to pet the wolf, “you just need to piss as well.”

  ~

  Owen awoke to find daylight thrusting its way through cracks in the shuttered porthole. The Kateryn's pitch and yaw told him the ship had already left port. He sat up and rubbed sleep from his eyes, wondering at the time.

  He felt a mild stab of anxiety at Lio's absence. The wolf had never answered to anyone but him before. Could he be trusted to obey the English knight?

  He need not have worried. Indeed, the sight that greeted him on deck settled like a warm hand around his heart.

  John Harrington stood on the bow platform, his face lifted to the wind. Lio stood at the knight's right side, his nose also raised to the sky. John's hand rested on Lio's head, his fingers moving in a slow c
aress through the wolf's fur.

  Passengers, milling about on deck, eyed man and beast with apparent curiosity and obvious wonder. Owen grinned. If only they knew the real irony of what they were witnessing. If only Kate could see this. His grin vanished.

  Lio, evidently sensing his master's presence, turned to greet him with a wagging tail.

  “Ah, Owen, there you are.” John eyed him with a frown. “You look rested. Good. I warrant we're about half way there already. I've been told we should arrive in Balla Cashtal shortly after the noon hour.” He looked up at the sky where a swath of grey stretched from horizon to horizon. “We're fortunate the seas are not too rough.”

  Owen heard the anxiety in John's voice and sought to assuage it. “I'm certain Weylin will see us immediately upon our arrival, my lord.”

  John sighed. “I'm not sure how Lord Weylin can help us. Not that I doubt the man's wisdom, but where do we even begin our search?”

  “Weylin knows many people and is privy to much information. He'll ask around – using his discretion, of course. Mann is not a large domain. Someone must know of this Elric.”

  “By God's good grace, I hope so,” John mumbled. “I need to find my child.”

  Owen observed him for a moment, noting the man's haggard skin and reddened eyes. “While I rested,” he said, “it appears you did not, my lord”

  John grimaced. “I cannot. Katherine has been gone but a day, yet it feels like—what, in God's name, is he doing here?”

  Owen raised a brow and followed John's line of sight. A man of the cloth had staggered out on deck, his face an odd shade of green. He stepped to the side of the ship and emptied the contents of his stomach overboard.

  “Who is he?” Owen chuckled. “Apart from being a miserable passenger.”

  “That is the Prior of Cartmel. One of the shrewdest representatives of Christ you will ever meet. I wonder why he's on board?”

  Owen shrugged. “Perhaps he's going to the abbey at Rushen.”

  “Perhaps. In any case, I've no wish to be seen by him.” John turned back to the bow. “He's a pontificating bastard, who'll take delight in judging Katherine should he discover the reasons for her abduction.”