Alanna stood beside him.
“What do you wish of me, Master?”
“I am not your master yet, little ghost. You are stronger than you would have me believe, but I will not coerce you till you force me to.” He smiled at her, and she quailed beneath his gaze.
Seth backed away, trying to determine what he should do. It shook him that the Fomor giant spoke the Daen language better than he did. It seemed like it should be in his blood, not needing practice. Now Waylaid stood in front of an ancient grave marker, waving his ritual knife and speaking in the ancient tongue of the Fomor.
What does it mean? he wondered. This was clearly a magic ritual, but what was the monster trying to do? His mouth was dry, and he felt fear in him, a fear unnatural in a Daen.
Is this sorcery? He had thought that Waylaid had renounced sorcery, and he was certain there needed to be a sacrifice for sorcery. So this was magic.
“Are there spirits of the dead here?” Seth asked. He looked around, desperately trying not to look anxious. He could not see any spirits, but he hadn’t seen any spirits before either. Waylaid was always talking about seeing spirits, but he hadn’t taken him seriously then—surrounded by soldiers in a comfortable house. Now he was standing in an empty field by an ancient grave marker. Suddenly seeing spirits seemed a lot more important.
Seth retreated to the ponies to quiet them, though they hadn’t made much sound. Surely they would be nervous if they were about to come under a sorcerous attack. He took comfort in their ignorance, which oddly paralleled his own.
Waylaid had forgotten Seth’s presence entirely. He focused on the spirit before him, who had so entranced his vision. Her power must be great to drag him so far into the past.
“Tell me, what dead have risen in the New Year?”
“Surely you know all, Master.” She smiled. “The dead have remained in their graves.”
He drew the knife along his palm, but it did not cut the skin. She leaned forward, as if to smell a fresh cooked meal.
“Don’t toy with me, Alanna. I can dismiss you as easily as I bind you. A thousand years of paradise may seem a torment, but I can grant you the Dragon’s Lair as easily. You will find true torment in the first day of his warm embrace.”
“I protect this land, and you would not disturb that,” she retorted. She crossed her arms, her robes shifting to display her breasts to best advantage. “I am the spirit of these fields, and I won’t be broken by any man.”
Waylaid sighed.
“Honestly?” He touched the lid above his hideous left eye with the point of his knife. “Do I look like I care about barley fields or even by your obvious implication, my own fertility?”
“Don’t threaten me,” she said, looking chagrined.
“You will make me break a promise, and I don’t do that lightly.” His hair had but a single black braid, and he brushed it with his knife. He adjusted his kilt and vest. He wouldn’t show it, but she had disturbed him. “I want answers, not a fight.”
“You and the one you marked as your apprentice are the only two with the mark of sorcery who have crossed my fields,” she said.
“His mark is not sorcery, only magic,” corrected Waylaid.
“As you say, my prince,” she said.
“What dead are walking here? What ghosts have crossed your fields?”
“Many dead walk here and in Ard, Master. I could not count them if I tried.”
“Answer me, woman. What ghosts have crossed your fields?”
“I know what you seek, but I desire payment.” Alanna knelt on the ground at his feet. Her hands pressed into the ground. “I am weaker than I would be, and long for the feeling of blood in my veins. Surely, great sorcerer, you have blood enough to spare a drop for me.”
“You ask a great deal, Alanna, for a simple service.” Waylaid looked to the distance for a moment, making up his mind. “I will command you three times, and three times you will do as I ask. When I have commanded you three times, I will bargain no more but free you from these fields and bind you as you wish.”
“I only wish to be bound to you, to serve you.”
“So you say, but what I need, now, is the service of a Spirit of the Field.” Waylaid sheathed his knife. He hitched his knee as straight as it went, leaning on the marble column at his side. “That is the service I need, and your only coin with which to bargain.”
“Three services, you will bind a braid for it?”
“I will, and on the third, if you wish, I will cut this braid and bind you as appropriate for a familiar to a sorcerer.”
Waylaid felt the edge of her power and looked up. A shadow passed through the field; it resolved into a man carrying a brass necklace, the very necklace she wore. He stepped into the road, next to Seth, and laid it upon the ground. Seth leaned into the pony, which had started at the ghostly presence, but Seth seemed unaware, though the man near brushed his leg. The ghost bowed once to Waylaid and then walked away.
“Seth,” shouted Waylaid remembering to speak in the language of the Blessed Folk, “Look on the ground at your feet; I believe there is a piece of jewelry there.”
Seth looked, scuffed the dirt with his heel, and then dug a bit into the road. He emerged with a twisted piece of brass, a few beads hanging dejectedly from it.
“Wow, good eye, Master Waylaid. I didn’t see it at all. Doesn’t look worth much.”
“Hold onto it for me, I need it.”
Seth looked confused but tucked it into his pouch.
Alanna blinked and looked worried. “I’m being tricked, aren’t I? You won’t feed me. You won’t honor your promises. You are just a dark god hiding behind the sun.”
Waylaid took her hands and lifted her to her feet.
“I am your prince, and you are my servant.”
Her expression eased.
“I gave up sorcery because it is evil, the Good Father does not abide it. I would not subject you to evil. But I will free you, or bind you, or feed you as you wish.”
Waylaid held her close, and, in that moment, she was solid and flesh. She spoke from the comfort of his arms, her face upraised to stare into his eyes.
Seth shouted distantly. There was no magic separating them, but Waylaid held a very beautiful and very solid woman in his arms. Seth was not worth his immediate attention.
“You are so beautiful,” Alanna said, from the circle of his arms. “I want to believe you. I want to serve you.”
Waylaid gave her a kindly look, for all that it came from that horrible face.
“I swear under the Good Father’s name that I will not forsake you, that I will remember you, and, if I live, that I will see my promises fulfilled.”
She took a deep breath and looked from Waylaid to the sun. She seemed to enjoy feeling the true heat of the sun for these few moments. She stared into the light which would blind mortal flesh. She would not waste the power he had given her but would give up this body and return to her spirit world. There she was real, and the world was false; here she was false, and the world was real.
“Thank you, Master. I will trust in your promises and take your geas.” She made a long slow blink, still staring at the sun. “There is one who walks beside my fields and dares not enter them. He is a hollow spirit, a taker of souls, a headless ghost. I do not know what sorcery has woken him, but he walks each night on the edge of the moon. He will abide neither the light of the sun nor the shadow of the moon. He draws in the pure and unwary, feeding a hunger that can never be filled, damning himself to the eternal screams of his victims.”
Alanna shook her head, a tear glistening in her eye. “I fear him, that he may someday become strong enough to break my wards and enter into the lands that I protect, but I also weep for him, that he lives in such torment.”
“Thank you, dearest Alanna. I praise you for your defense of the innocents on your land. Had he reached Ard, there would have been deaths by the hundreds.” Waylaid thought for a moment. “He may yet cause great harm. Without r
ecourse to a second service, can you show me where he is, or take me to him?”
Alanna nodded. She laid her head on Waylaid’s chest and warmed herself. His arms wrapped around her, and they stood in the sun.
Alanna finally spoke. “I can’t carry you. I don’t want to bargain for your blood, but it would take more power than I have to carry you that far.” She pointed, past Ard. “He walks on the far sides of the fields, as far from here as I walk.” She motioned the direction along the road they had traveled. “The crossroads are just ahead. If you take a turn to the right, then drive your chariot hard on the trade road, you should reach the West Gate road before the sun is in the trees. Where West Gate crosses the trade road is the edge of my fields and the edge of where that ghost can walk.” She stepped away from Waylaid, out of the circle of his embrace.
“Thank you, my prince. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
She walked off into the field, both men staring at her as she walked away, carving through the grass without fear of tooth or thorn. Walking like that, dressed like that, both knew she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
She faded and only the wind carved paths in the untended fields.
“What the?” Seth shouted in astonishment, when the woman appeared. He blinked, unable to believe his eyes, which had not lied to him before. He was embarrassed by his outburst and tried to think of something clever to say. Seth opened his mouth a couple times, trying to imagine what he could say.
Master Waylaid, did you notice that you summoned a beautiful woman out of thin air? That was probably not well thought out. Waylaid had probably noticed. Waylaid, is this magic? That seemed a bit redundant.
Campfire stories all talked about the power of sorcery, but he hadn’t seen how it was powerful. Protection from dark gods was easy enough. “Pray to the Blessed Mother for protection, and the Dark Angels of the Dragon are vanquished.” He had learned that before he could walk.
Why would a Daen use sorcery to kill his enemies when he had a sword? Seth touched his sword, tucked into his belt behind his back. Killing enemies is the stuff of life, not sorcery. But summoning a woman is real power; nothing you could do with a sword. He could see how that could make a weak man renounce his vows. Sorcery was far more formidable than he had imagined.
“Blessed Mother,” Seth finally spoke as she turned away from Waylaid. “Fomor women are …” He lost his grasp of words as she faded from sight.
Waylaid stumbled and leaned against the obelisk.
“Blood and Souls,” he cursed in the Fomor tongue. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on breathing. In the language of the Blessed Folk he spoke.
“You saw her, eh? She was a handful, wasn’t she?”
“Where did she come from? Where did she go?” asked Seth. He was still shaken over her appearance, her beauty, and her disappearance. He sat in the road, still holding the reins of the ponies. “What in Her name do we do next?”
“In her name, I think not,” said Waylaid. “Oh, you mean in the Blessed Mother’s name. I thought you meant Alanna.” Waylaid shook his head, still not opening his eyes.
“I’ve been told that the fields I’m searching for are on the other side of Ard. Luckily enough, the crossroads are just ahead, and we can take them around to the North road. With any luck, we can get there before sunset.”
“You summoned a woman to find a field?” Seth asked. “You do know that there are farmers roughly everywhere around here who could answer that for you?”
Seth stood up, checking the ponies’ harness.
“I know how to get to West Gate from here, and we can make it long before sunset, if we hurry. These are my best ponies.” He mounted up and waited on Waylaid to stumble over to the chariot.
Waylaid managed to grasp the side rails and pull himself in.
“I also needed to know what kind of sorcery those farmers were afraid of. I might be their only hope of defeating a headless ghost.”
Seth clucked to the ponies and they swayed down the road. Waylaid firmed up his grip, and Seth gave a second flick of the reins. The ponies moved into a canter, and the road rushed past them on either side. They whipped past the edge of the swamp into a dark forest.
“Cha Cha,” shouted Seth, and the ponies dragged the chariot into a hard right turn.
The road had been well laid but poorly maintained. Trade traffic still ran the old Fomor trade routes, though perhaps less than in the days of old. Much business was still done with the Bolg in the south, the Daen colonies, the other Ruad cities, and the remaining Fomor fortresses. But, despite all the traffic, no workers set out from Ard to flatten the roads, fill in the wash-outs, or cut down the trees encroaching on the path. Two deep ruts were still visible in the morning sun. Leaves flashed past them, or into their faces, and Waylaid found himself crouching as far as his knees would let him.
Seth reveled in the speed of the ponies, driving them through the curves, up and down the hills. The ponies whipped their manes, seeming to enjoy the high spirits and the good speed. He grinned. Waylaid was hanging off the back, a full arm’s length into the road. Since he was counter-balancing the yoke, there was no weight on the ponies’ shoulders and they could run with their best and most tireless gate.
“Was that one of the Fomor gods?” Seth asked. He had heard that they sometimes became visible to mortal men.
“No, she was one of our protectors. She willingly went down to death to become a spirit warrior. She keeps Ard safe from the works of sorcerers, and the Fomor gods.”
Seth’s brow furrowed. “The Fomor gods hate them, hate the Fomor, I mean, right?”
“You remember something of our stories then. Yes, they hate us and with good reason. They were simple spirits in the beginning, free to do as they wished upon the surface of the world.” The Fomor thought for a moment. “You have training as a priest. I can put this in terms the Blessed Folk would understand. I believe the Fomor gods are what you would call ‘Angels,’ and hold allegiance to the Dragon, the Blessed Mother, or the Good Father. But the angels lived long before man, countless ages at play in the world.”
Seth smiled. “They loved the world, and then they met the Fomor?”
Waylaid snorted, a noise as close as he made to a laugh. “That is terribly unkind,” he said, “and I expect they enjoyed the company of intelligent, thoughtful, earthly beings for most of a thousand years. But the ancient ones, my ancestors, learned to rule the gods, the angels, and use their powers for themselves.
“In time, the gods rebelled from the hand of man. The servants of the Dragon wish to punish us for controlling them. The servants of the Mother wish justice for our crimes, which were legion. Perhaps the servants of the Good Father have forgiven us.” Waylaid shrugged. “But we don’t deserve forgiveness; we only multiply our problem by binding our dead into a thousand years of servitude.”
Seth had simply listened, focused mainly on their hurtling track down the forest lane. After a long pause Waylaid continued to speak. His voice was lower, and Seth had to strain to hear him.
“I had long hoped to find some solution to this endless war of man against god. I tried to bring the Good Father to the Fomor. I had hoped that I could save my people at last.”
The simple joy of driving faded from Seth, suddenly, as the logic of the situation slowly resolved itself in his head.
“Master Waylaid,” he shouted back, remembering to speak in Daen. “The fields you were looking for, that’s where the farmers came from, right?”
“Yes.”
“They are going to try to kill you, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know. Probably,” Waylaid answered.
“Why are we going to get ourselves killed?”
“The only answer that matters, Seth.” Waylaid’s voice was calm, his deep rumbles carried over even the noise of the chariot wheels. “As I said before, you identified the central truth.”
Seth drove on, feeling like a student again; this was one of those priestly tests. Waylai
d’s answers were apparent, as were Judge Brea’s. Seth was not new to being a soldier and a priest, but he was still a young man who planned on doing a lot of living. He had been trained to fight and perhaps die when ordered. He hadn’t really investigated what that meant without orders. Waylaid’s teaching, should he accept it, was clarifying, if uncomfortable.
Clearly saving the people of Ard was right, even if they were just farmers and even if they were just Ruad. Farmers had value. You could rate that value less than the value of a warrior priest, but, Seth considered it truthfully, farming is at least honest work. He couldn’t really call a farmer’s life less valuable than his own. He couldn’t value a Ruad less than one of the Blessed Folk. There was a basic teaching among the Daen, “If you can’t treat your conquered people as well as you treat your own, you don’t deserve to rule.”
So, in this case, Right―with a capital letter―was clear. But so was death at the hands of a Ruad mob. Seth spoke to the teacher as a warrior and not as a student, facing death with courage.
“The central truth remains:” Seth answered. “Act in the way that is right, no matter the consequences.”
“You are learning,” the giant rumbled. “You are learning.”
CHAPTER 9 MOB JUSTICE
Afternoon, Midsummer’s Day, Year Twenty-Seven of King Cail’s Reign
You can hear the drums of war
And see the brass-bound gates;
An army is a coming
But, the red caps only wait.
Our foes are strong on foot
And spears on chariot ride,
Their bows may seek the red cap
But, within our forts we’ll hide.
Chorus:
Let the Da’ en seek their glory,
Let the Fomor plot our fall;
The Broken Man Page 19