by Hazel Hunter
“Facking dreams.”
He wiped the blood from his chin and regarded it for a long moment before he went to wash. Perhaps this nightly idiocy was some torment he’d brought back from the afterlife—if there had been one. All Cadeyrn remembered was dying on the battlefield with his clan one moment, and then clawing his way out of the ground the next. According to the druids that had brought the Skaraven back to life, twelve centuries had passed between those two moments. Immortal or not, a man could drive himself mad contemplating such inconceivable events.
Madness might be the reason for his dreaming of Lily Stover, a lass he’d never met.
Seeing Lily taken from the forest farm was as close as Cadeyrn had gotten to her. As soon as she’d been grabbed he’d ridden like a berserker to reach her, only to see her vanish with the mad druids and their famhairean into an oak grove. By the time he’d leapt off his horse the portal in the center of the grove had closed over. He dimly remembered gouging holes in the indifferent ground with his pounding fists. He’d gone daft, as if Lily were his lady, and they had stolen her from him. In that moment he’d been convinced he’d never have another chance to save her. For in truth, the next time he saw her she would likely be another of the broken, mangled corpses the evil scunners left in their wake. His lady was as lost to him as was his place in his own time. Mayhap ’twas the reason she haunted him.
She’s no’ your lady, you addled conniver.
Jerking on his trews, tunic and boots, Cadeyrn sheathed a dagger and sword on his belt. As he made his way through the stronghold, his battle spirit allowed him to see what others could not. He’d never matched Brennus’s fearless raven agility, Ruadri’s blinding moon power or Kanyth’s fiery strength. Even Taran, the clan’s quiet, mild-tempered horse master, had always been invincible on a mount. But as war master, Cadeyrn’s sharp eyes allowed him to see into the weakness of a thing.
Now he watched for a lass he couldn’t see. What a fool he was.
Night sentries nodded to him as he left Dun Mor and endured a buffeting icy wind to make his way to the new stables. As one of the clan’s masters he had the freedom to come and go as he wished, and tonight it pleased him to ride the perimeter. He felt a twinge of sour amusement as he found his gray stallion saddled and ready to ride.
“I’ve grown unsurprising, have I, Liath?” he asked the horse, which dipped his head for a nose rub. “My thanks, Taran.”
The horse master appeared outside the open stall door, his pale, braided hair tied back from his lean, enigmatic face. He tossed him a tartan made of black and evergreen plaid.
“Dinnae ride him all night,” Taran said. “Unlike us, Liath craves his sleep.”
Cadeyrn led the stallion out through the rocky enclosure that concealed the stables, and mounted him with fluid ease. He’d missed riding since being brought back from the grave, but with winter coming there would be fewer chances to roam. The coldest months in the Am Monadh Ruadh brought endless ice and snow storms. When the weather cleared in the Red Hills, the cold remained, often too icy to inflict on the mounts for long.
But there was no ride that would be long enough. Though it helped exhaust him, it never kept away the dreams of Lily.
Why the horse master had given him the tartan for his ride became clear. The first scouts of winter had crept into the ancient forest. Frost glistened everywhere around the Skaraven stronghold. The spiky ice furred the leafy carpet beneath Liath’s hooves to a ghostly silver. Wood smoke from Dun Mor’s hearths wafted through a series of chambered vents before dispersing through hundreds of small flues spread beneath the great plateau. Any intruder entering their territory might smell their presence, but they’d never locate them.
Their Chieftain, Brennus, had spoken of using their power and experience to protect the innocent, but Cadeyrn still wondered if they’d ever truly be free. The Skaraven had been bred as indentured warriors, enslaved to fight for and defend the two Pritani tribes that had created them. Hardship and battle had always been their lot. They’d never been permitted to live among the Pritani. Until Brennus’s mate, Althea Jarden, had come to Dun Mor, none of the Skaraven had even spoken to a female.
When the tribes had died of sickness, the Skaraven had been freed for a short time, and came to the Red Hills to build Dun Mor and live as a clan. Now they had returned, but they still had no claim on the Great Wood. Nearly everything they’d owned in their mortal lives had rotted away, and they’d been forced to accept necessary goods from the tree-knowers. Even the tartan Cadeyrn wore belonged to another clan.
“Someday soon we’ll have our own,” he told Liath.
Riding to the outer boundaries of the forest, Cadeyrn moved down the lower slopes and followed the river that had brought them home. Along with eternal life, the druids had given the clan the ability to bond with water, and use rivers, lochs and streams to travel great distances in but a few moments. The advantage it gave them would come only when they learned at last where the faimhairean had hidden away. The chieftain had been sending out search parties every day, but Caledonia was a very large country.
“Scotland,” Cadeyrn muttered, correcting himself. “They call it Scotland now.”
How long he’d ridden, Cadeyrn didn’t know until the first rays of dawn illuminated the horizon. With a grimace, he once again turned Liath toward home. If the mad druids had decided to go into hiding, it might take them years to find them and the giants. Thinking of his green-eyed lady in their care for so long made Cadeyrn’s gut clench. He knew how brutal and unfeeling the giants were. The mad druids who led them had proven to be just as sadistic. Better he not think of Lily at all–
“Help me,” a rasping voice called from the other side of the river.
As Cadeyrn dismounted, he drew his sword. But even as he peered across the water, something in his chest knotted. His battle spirit stirred and yet his eyes found no danger.
Could it be, that after all the searching–
A thin shape lurched behind the brush as a sliver of sun glinted on golden hair. With a muffled cry, he jumped into the water. Despite the river’s strong, frigid currents, he hurtled across, leaving a wake behind him. But when he reached the opposite shore and bounded up the bank, he stopped. Still peering into the trees, every nerve was alight. Heart pounding, he forced himself to slowly sheath his sword before he stepped into a patch of daylight.
“My lady?” he called softly, almost afraid to hear her response.
To his disbelief, she stumbled out of the woods, made directly for him, and flung herself into his arms. Instinctively he caught her, holding her shaking, slender body tight against him until she gripped his tartan and drew back. Lily Stover looked up at him, her chest heaving and her eyes filled with desperation and tears.
“Are you Skaraven?” she asked, rasping the words.
“Aye,” Cadeyrn managed to say as her knees gave out and he caught her. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pushing aside his shock to reassure her. “Stay with me, lass. Dinnae try to speak just now. Catch your breath.”
She pressed her brow to his shoulder, still quaking as she nodded, while Cadeyrn silently marveled. Lily Stover was real—and she was with him.
She stood tall for a female, but the top of her head fit neatly under his chin. Her body felt wand-thin, but over her long bones he could feel sleek muscle. Her heat sank through his tunic and spread over his chest, soft and saturating. He’d never known what other men felt when they held their sweethearts and wives. Now he understood why they lingered so long in such embraces. The fierce protectiveness that welled up in him brought with it a flicker of shame. To think he had once worried that Brennus might harm Althea if the chieftain were not chained… Gods, how thick-headed he’d been.
Lily murmured something, and he loosened his hold. “What did you say?”
“I can’t believe you’re here, that I found you.” She lifted one hand to touch his cheek. “I saw you riding after me when they took us.” Snatching back her fingers, sh
e shook her head. “Sorry, I’m still a bit shambolic.”
“’Twill be well now,” he assured her.
Althea had told him that Lily came from England, which explained the differences in their accents, but not the hoarseness in her voice. Gently he brushed the tangled hair back from her bruised face, and saw more marks on her throat. No wonder she spoke as if every word hurt her, she’d nearly been strangled. Seeing the signs of her suffering ignited a deep, seething hatred in him.
“I’m Cadeyrn.” She didn’t need to hear that he was the clan’s war master. The poor lass would be terrified of him. “Or Cade, if you like. How did you come here?”
“Right,” she said, and took in a deep breath. “They learned that I helped Althea during the fight. When they marched me out to kill me, I broke free and ran for the grove.”
Cadeyrn saw the guilty way she averted her gaze, and imagined she was thinking of the three lasses she’d left behind.
“If you’d tried to free the others, you’d never have escaped.”
“Oh, I’d have made a hash of it. Still could.” She pressed her lips together and then looked up at him. “Will you go back with me, and help get them away?”
He’d like nothing better but he’d already felt the shredded sleeves of her jacket, and the warmth of blood soaking through it. She also had dark stains and broken nails on both hands.
“We’ll speak to my chieftain, but first you need tending.” When her face fell he quickly added, “Lady Althea awaits in the stronghold.” Shock widened her eyes. “Aye. She’ll have much to tell you.”
And Brennus needed to hear of a sacred grove so near the stronghold. But as he moved to help her toward the water, she held up a hand.
“Wait,” she said and showed him one of her feet, which was clad only in a wet stocking. “One of my shoes fell off when I came out here. Might we fetch it first?”
He felt tempted to carry her to the stronghold, and yet at the same time he longed to do this small thing for her. But as his war master senses returned, he knew it would also do well to inspect the portal.
“Let’s see this grove then,” he said, nodding.
As she led him back into the trees, Cadeyrn saw why they’d never discovered the place. As they approached, she slipped away from him to climb onto a high mound of stones. When he joined her he saw a second, inner ring made of scattered rocks around a patch of glowing ground. Behind the stone mound a crescent-shaped cluster of ancient oaks loomed, concealed from behind by a wall of thick-needled pines.
“I don’t think I can reach it,” she said, pointing to a small black slipper near the edge of the portal. “Can you?”
Cadeyrn crouched, and leaned down to retrieve it, only to feel Lily leap past him. As he stood, she bent and touched the ground, which whirled out into an open portal. All the emotion left her pale face as she stood and stared at him.
“Lass, you cannae–”
Her eyes went black, and then a huge force slammed into the back of his head. Lily said something as the world went dark, and he fell into the spinning chasm.
Chapter Three
ANCIENT FORESTS AS far as the eye could see surrounded Bhaltair Flen and Oriana Embry as they rode their ponies toward their unhappy destination. He’d told his acolyte that they would be riding through trees older than even druid kind, but Oriana seemed somewhat indifferent to their magnificence. Perhaps the prospect of visiting a place where so many had died occupied her thoughts. It certainly disturbed his own, along with other troubling signs.
Since entering the dead tribe’s territory Bhaltair had felt the absence of other lives. He heard no birdsong, which added a peculiar emptiness to the still, dry air. Nor had a single forest creature appeared to look out at them. The few trees that had not dropped their leaves in preparation for winter had a dullness to them, as if their evergreens had gone ashen.
Twelve centuries had passed since the Wood Dream tribe had been attacked and slaughtered by marauding Romans. Still the land mourned as if their blood had been spilled yesterday. Perhaps because the massacre had spawned the blood-thirsty famhairean it might never heal.
For many centuries Bhaltair had not permitted himself to think on the lost tribe. He could excuse himself for being preoccupied with other, equally dire matters, but the truth was that he had deliberately forgotten the Wood Dream and their terrible legacy. Of late he’d tried to make amends for that, particularly to the Skaraven Clan, who had long ago died while helping him entrap the famhairean. His gift of awakening the clan to immortality had not swayed their hatred of him an inch. Their chieftain, Brennus, had told him as much before taking his clan and disappearing. Perhaps nothing would repair the damage Bhaltair had done, but if he could find the means to defeat the giants, it would hold some weight with Brennus and his men.
“Master, ’tis been so long since the Wood Dream disincarnated,” Oriana said, her timid voice low and hushed, as if she feared waking the dead. “Surely we willnae find anything of them here.”
“Aye, time serves as the world’s scrub maid. Yet it cannae wash away that which has no incarnation.” He reined in his mount and peered ahead. “You see that ring there, between the two trenches that lead into the woods? ’Twas once a ritual altar.”
Her soft eyes narrowed as she squinted at the spot. “Those jagged rocks poking through the moss? Surely no’.”
“They arenae stone, but wood turned to it. The tribe used the stumps of fallen sacred oak to build their altars. ’Twas said that the Wood Dream even spoke to the trees.” Slowly he dismounted and retrieved his cane from a saddle loop. “Come now, dear one. We shall walk from here.”
Once Oriana had hobbled their mounts she retrieved their packs and brought him a flask of water. “You must drink, Master. I see the sweat glistening on your brow. ’Twill no’ do for you to become parched.”
“My thanks,” Bhaltair said and took a few swallows before mopping his face with a kerchief. “I cannae, for the lives of me, ken why I grow so hot in such chill weather.”
“I dinnae think you’re heated.” Her face grew solemn as she regarded the old altar. “I almost feel them here. When the tribe died beneath Roman blades, the violence sank with their blood into the earth. Our poor brothers and sisters, how they must have suffered. Like my grandfather at the hands of the famhairean.”
He saw how she shuddered. “Dinnae think on it, Oriana.”
“Naught else fills my head,” she said with grim conviction before she grimaced. “Forgive me, Master. My prattling delays us.”
“Nonsense. I’m your teacher. If you cannae speak your mind, you maynae learn.” He took a better grip on his cane, and used it to point to the long stretch of barren, stony soil. “See, there now. The tribe used the old way of pebbling their trails to preserve them. I reckon that one shall lead us to their settlement.”
They followed the rough ground into a thicket of birch and pine, where the air grew latticed with thin shadows from the skeletal canopy overhead. Now and then Bhaltair spotted heaps of smooth stones scattered over roots, and imagined them to be the remains of spell cairns placed to ward off mortal intruders. They had continued to do their work even after the tribe’s demise. From the thickness of the leaf and twig rot, no one had used the path in centuries.
“’Tis so quiet and empty here,” Oriana murmured. “If someone died in these woods, I reckon no one would ever come upon them.”
“Well, then, dinnae kill me here,” Bhaltair said. “For I wish a proper burial.” He saw the stricken look in her eyes. “I but jest with you, dear one. I trust you with my life.”
She nodded quickly. “I shall try to be worthy of that, Master.”
The trees thinned and then parted around them as they reached a clearing large enough to accommodate a modest village. The Wood Dream’s cottages and outbuildings had long ago fallen and rotted away, leaving only a few stone hearths, now toppled or crumbling beneath grim blankets of dead vines. Golden mistletoe grew unchecked everywhere, deck
ing the trees in magic splendor. At least the sacred vine proved that druids had once occupied the place, but Bhaltair saw no other trace of the lost tribe.
Oriana stopped and turned slowly. “’Tis all gone.” She met his gaze. “I cannae feel anything here but shadows and ruin.”
“We ken ’twould be a gamble, lass. ’Tis as good a spot as any to rest and eat before we return to Aviemore.” He touched her shoulder. “Shall we warm ourselves with a fire?”
While he kept his acolyte busy building the blaze Bhaltair slowly limped around the perimeter of the settlement. Oriana was yet too young and unlearned to sense the subtle traces of ancient spells, but once he finished his trek he was forced to agree with her. Whatever magic the Wood Dream might have used to protect themselves and their home, it had dissipated long ago. Gone too were the enigmatic spells they had once used to animate the totems that had transmuted into the famhairean. He’d come hoping to find a trace of the magic, that he might use it to return the giants to their natural form.
Tired and heart-sick, Bhaltair sat with Oriana and pretended an appetite he didn’t possess. The lass had gone to much trouble to prepare a fine meal of bread, cheese and pears poached in honey. As they ate he praised her for bringing a thickened mint brew that she diluted into a refreshing drink with their second flask of water.
“Grandfather always loved mint after a journey meal,” Oriana confessed to him. “He said it eased the belly and cleared the mind.”
Her charming anecdote reminded Bhaltair that he yet had another option to learn from the Wood Dream. In his young acolyte’s head lay a powerful speak-seer talent that had provided much useful information since she’d come to him. He had also promised to train her to use and control it wisely, which he had yet to do. It pained him to use the lass this way, but the threat of the famhairean against mortal and druid kind outweighed all other concerns.
“My dear one, do you feel strong enough to attempt a channeling here?”