Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  When she came upon the village square, Pressine collapsed with the pain of running. In the moonlight, patches of blood already marred the snow. A mother screamed as she gathered a mangled child into her arms.

  Pressine swallowed bile. A handful of villagers, armed with hay forks, faced the pack, but the snarling wolves circled them and attacked relentlessly. More wolves leapt onto the snow-covered roofs and one dropped inside a dwelling through the smoke hole. Children cried nearby. Bovines bellowed and pigs squealed in panic.

  Gathering her strength, Pressine rose and filled her voice with the power of the Goddess. “I order you to stop. All of you!”

  As if struck, the villagers froze. So did the wolves, recognizing the voice and the scent of the Fae world.

  A great wolf stared at Pressine. She sent a commanding thought to the Alpha male. Return to the woods and wait for me there.

  With a yelp, the great wolf turned and sauntered away. Others leapt down from the roofs. A frightened mother opened her door, holding a bloody child. The intruding wolf bounced out of her homes and joined the pack filing out of the village. Pressine breathed easier. But had she come too late?

  The villagers stared at each other then at Pressine and whispered.

  “Is the child still alive?” Pressine walked to the sobbing mother and removed her gloves. “Give him to me.”

  After hesitating, the mother deposited the mangled toddler into Pressine’s arms. He looked mauled beyond help, but he still breathed. Dear Goddess give me the strength to save this child.

  Gathering her power, Pressine focused on healing the bloody baby. She opened her pelisse and pressed the child against her chest. Dear Goddess, allow your healing force to flow through me.

  A warm wave enveloped Pressine and the child, as a surge of luminous power flowed out of her hands. In her mind, the bleeding stopped. Flesh, bones, muscles and blood vessels knitted back together.

  Within a few minutes, Pressine felt exhausted as the power waned around her. She glanced at the child and smiled with relief. Despite the blood still marring his skin, he was fully restored.

  Pressine returned the baby to his mother. “Have no fear. He is whole and healthy.”

  Incredulous at first, the mother stared at her child. Realizing he was recovered, she bowed with reverence. “May the gods bless you, my lady.” Then she took the child inside her hut.

  “Return to your homes,” Pressine told the villagers still gawking at her and whispering. “The wolves will not attack again tonight, or any other night.”

  As if reluctantly, the men saluted and vacated the square. Alone in the moonlight, Pressine realized she had little energy left. But she must complete her task. Following the path the wolves had taken, she walked out of the village in the direction of the woods.

  The pack waited in a clearing. Exhausted, Pressine collapsed in the snow in their midst. A wet tongue licked her face, then several elongated gray heads with ivory fangs and yellow eyes appeared above her. Cold muzzles sniffed her. She could smell their breath and the damp snow dripping from their thick fur.

  The great wolf lay beside her, as if to keep her warm. Pressine offered her hands for the canines to smell. Carefully, she then touched and caressed the gray fur of their heads and necks.

  She laughed as they licked her fingers, remembering the times she had frolicked with wolves as a child, in the wet snow of her native Bretagne. The wild beasts recognized on her skin the scent of universal compassion no animal could ever dislike.

  When she attempted to sit up, the canines overwhelmed her with demonstrations of affection, so she lay back, laughing, enjoying the playful ministrations of a pack of wolves yelping with delight like a litter of pups.

  * * *

  Having tied his horse to a birch along the road, Mattacks, spear in hand, now followed Pressine’s tracks on foot. A while back, her riderless mare had galloped recklessly past, eyes bulging, as if frightened by Satan himself. The Pagan bitch couldn’t go very far or very fast in her condition.

  The cold night smelled of more snow to come. Mattacks’ hunting instinct warned him that he’d ventured into dangerous territory. The thought of turning back entered his mind. But God counted on him to rid the land of the heretical scum. And if the she-devil did not fear wolves, neither would he. Still. No matter how good a hunter he might be, what could he do alone against an entire pack?

  Recommending his soul to God Almighty, Mattacks swallowed his fear and kept walking. He had promised his father he would keep an eye on Pressine, and by the rood he would make certain he had something noteworthy to report, something that would forever disgrace the Pagan queen.

  The boot prints indicated the evil woman had gone to the village on foot. But he found the village empty and quiet despite blood and confusing tracks in the square. His tracking skills allowed Mattacks to recognize Pressine’s boot prints and follow them out of the village toward the woods... apparently among a pack of wolves?

  The monstrosity of the sight he came upon when he reached a clearing shocked Mattacks beyond imagining. The evil queen in man garb, sprawled on the ground, wallowed among the hounds of hell. Or was she consorting with the devil himself through its foulest creatures?

  A decent queen would never abase herself to dark practices, and Mattacks would not stand for it. Better a dead queen than an evil one. God would gladly absolve a sin committed for the glory of His reign. Nothing was more important for the sake of the civilized world.

  Brandishing his spear like a javelin, aware that he might be sacrificing his life to the greater cause of Christendom, Mattacks aimed at the queen and let fly. A she-wolf leapt into the spear’s path, taking the blade in the chest then fell to the side, mortally wounded.

  “Hell and damnation,” Mattacks swore under his breath.

  The rest of the pack, instead of scattering as Mattacks hoped, fixed him with piercing yellow eyes. Upon a male’s growl, the wolves attacked as one. Before Mattacks could turn around and run, they leapt upon him, fangs and claws digging into his flesh through the leather trews and jerkin.

  Mattacks drew his dirk and fought back, protecting his face. Glacial terror flooded his body. The scream escaping his throat mixed with the howls and snarls of the unclean beasts. Jaws gnawed at his boots and clamped his forearms. Other wolves circled to leap at his throat. Panic made him kick and jerk and hit, until he lost balance and fell into the snow, losing his knife in the struggle.

  Suddenly, the wolves retreated and Mattacks lay in a moonlit patch of bloody snow. The panting beasts sat in a quiet circle around him, preventing any escape.

  Appalled, he saw Pressine walk into the circle.

  She looked down at him, and smiled. “Why do you hate me so, Lord Prince? I am no threat to you or to your religion. I love this land as much as you do, and I would guard it with my very life. So, what is your quarrel with me?”

  He could tell the arrogant shrew enjoyed her victory.

  Mattacks covered his ears with both hands. “Get away from me, you evil creature! Just listening to you might tarnish my eternal soul.”

  The queen had the audacity to laugh at him. “I do not understand how such a brave warrior could be so afraid of a woman, just because she honors an ancient Goddess.” Her gray eyes sparkled with demonic light in the moonlight.

  “You are no mere woman and you know it.” He spat on the ground to avert evil. “Your daily devotions to the Black Madonna do not fool me. I have heard of the dark powers of the priestesses of the Lost Isle, and I know they are foul.”

  “Then you are foul as well, Mattacks, because your father has Fae blood in his veins, and so do you. Why do you think you are so lucky in battle?”

  Struggling to hide the screaming pain in his hip, Mattacks could not believe the sacrilegious words. “You lie. And even if it were true, baptism erased all my inherited sins. I have no heathen powers.”

  “Power is not evil. Power is simply power. It is how you choose to use it that makes it good or evil
.”

  The heathen dared lecture him? Mattacks winced with the pain.

  “For instance, if you use it to heal, you work for the greater good. Let me help you with these wounds.” Crouching to his level, the queen reached with one hand.

  Mattacks jerked away from her touch and cried out at the lancing pain in his hip. “Get away from me. Don’t touch me, you devil-spawn. You will regret letting your hounds loose on me.”

  “I did not do that.” Her calm demeanor exasperated him. “On the contrary, I stopped the pack from tearing you to pieces when you tried to pierce me with your spear. If I meant you harm, I would have had the perfect opportunity to see you die. My kind, however, does not kill the defenseless.”

  “You are toying with me,” he shouted in desperation. “Go ahead. Loose your creatures on me. I am not afraid of you. I shall die a martyr of the church, and God will take me into heaven.”

  “Are you certain of that?” The demonic queen smiled in the faint moonlight. “But your time has not come yet. One day, you will become king, and I would like you to be a good king.”

  Mattacks scowled, partly with disdain, partly with the pain rending his right side. “I shall make a better king than my father. He is weak and lets a woman control him.”

  “Your father is wise and compassionate.” The heathen looked to the dark sky as if searching for inspiration. “Unlike you, he is not afraid of what he does not understand and is willing to learn and take chances.”

  Mattacks found the strength to laugh. “I pity him, and I despise you.”

  Upon a sign of the queen’s hand, the wolves gathered behind her, leaving Mattacks free to go. “Remember that I offered you a truce. Now leave, before your stubbornness makes me change my mind.”

  Scrambling to his feet, Mattacks looked fearfully at the pack snarling at him with bared fangs. He turned around and ran, but the pain in his side forced him to slow down and limp away. Warm blood oozed from his hip, running down his leather trews.

  With great pain, dragging his hip, he retraced his steps toward the tethered stallion. The Pagan bitch would pay for this humiliation, but getting rid of her might prove quite a challenge.

  * * *

  Watching Mattacks stumble away, Pressine stretched her back. The jolt of pain made her sit on a snow-covered log. She fervently prayed the hardships of the night had not hurt the little one inside her.

  At her feet, the fallen she-wolf had died instantly. Pressine stroked the fur of her neck. “I am grateful for your sacrifice. The Goddess will reward you for it.”

  Her gaze traveled to the alpha male, whose feral eyes brimmed with intelligence. “You have to return to the mountains,” she said softly.

  The beast tilted its head. The wolf did not understand the words, but she knew he enjoyed the tone of her voice. As she spoke, Pressine directed her thoughts into the alpha’s mind. “I want you to leave the lowlands. If you threaten the towns, the king’s men will hunt you down. You have to tell the others, all the others. The Goddess will provide plentiful game for you in the northern wilderness.”

  The great wolf yelped an assent, then licked her hand and lay down at her feet, head on the ground, in a gesture of obedience.

  “Good boy.” Pressine scratched the big gray head. “I know I can count on you.”

  Hoping to regain some strength, Pressine rested a while in the company of the pack. Then she stood on leaden legs numb from the cold, retrieved her gloves from her pockets and pulled them on. Taking it as a signal, the pack retreated, and Pressine waved farewell before staggering away in the opposite direction, wishing she could heal herself.

  But focusing the power of the Goddess required a great deal of energy, and she had spent all hers on the mangled child. Healing Mattacks could have finished her. The pain in her back grew worse, and Pressine had a long walk ahead before reaching Dumfries castle.

  Dear Goddess, I place myself and my unborn child in your merciful hands.

  But Pressine also wondered what Mattacks would report to Elinas, and to the Bishop.

  * * *

  “Who is asking entry to the king’s fortress?” Judging by the alertness in the voice, the guard peering over the rampart through the paling dawn must have just started his morning duty .

  “Your queen.” Pressine’s panting breath steamed in front of her mouth.

  After such a long walk, she must not look very regal, dressed in trews, disheveled, painfully trudging in the snow before dawn. She wondered whether the mare still roamed the countryside.

  “Come forth into the torchlight.” Doubt crept into the guard’s voice. “Far as I know, the queen is safely tucked in bed.”

  “You are mistaken, my good man.” Shivering under the snow-drenched pelisse, Pressine had no strength left to argue or to convince the man by supernatural means. A spasm lanced through her abdomen, folding her in two. Struggling to raise her face to the rampart, she mustered her most commanding voice.

  “Raise the gate before I give birth right here in the snow.” But it could not be... it was much too soon for the child to come.

  “By the rood!” the burly guard exclaimed. He motioned to someone below inside the wall. “Get the queen’s servants and open the blasted gate!”

  The portcullis clicked and grated in response. As the iron-shod gate lifted, another contraction rippled through Pressine’s body. A gush of warm liquid ran down her legs. Water tinged with blood, as attested by the pinkish hue of the melting snow between her feet.

  Her chest tightened with fear. She gripped her abdomen and screamed.

  “Dear Goddess, protect us both.”

  Chapter Two

  “Push, my lady. For the love of God, I beg you to push.” Ceinwyn’s urgent voice sounded far away.

  When Pressine opened her eyes, the white veils and blue draperies of the canopied bed spun out of control. Anchoring herself in the sudden pain ripping her insides, Pressine clenched her jaw and pushed with an agonizing cry of frustration. Why had she so easily dismissed the dangers of her reckless ride? But she had to obey the Goddess and save her people from the wolves.

  Despite the fire raging in the wide hearth and the sour sweat of her travail, cold shivers ran along her spine. Time stopped as Pressine writhed in labor. Her voice grew hoarse from screaming. She could endure no more. If only she could sleep, get away from the pain into oblivion, but something kept her awake... The child demanded to be born.

  Pressine clung to consciousness, struggling to focus on her surroundings. The grave faces, the silence and consternation of the women patting her hand and wiping her brow told her something was terribly wrong. She had lost much blood. She could not push anymore, and the baby was not coming. Would she die in childbirth, like so many women did? Her kind was long-lived as to be called immortal, but they could still die or be killed by catastrophic injury.

  In the king’s absence, would the council decide to sacrifice her life to harvest the male child in her belly? If Mattacks had a say, he would have them both killed. She should not have told Elinas that it would be male, but she could not resist giving him the pleasure of the news. Kings, more than ordinary folks, relished sons.

  If she died today, Pressine wondered about what came next. Would her spirit return to the otherworld? Or would it hover endlessly above Dumfries castle, attempting to soothe her king’s despair? With such a long life ahead, she had never considered her own death. What would it be like?

  But Pressine did not want to die yet, not when she had found happiness, not when the man she loved returned her affections a thousandfold. Great Goddess, let me see him one last time, she prayed, with the fervor of the dying.

  Detaching herself from the sick bed, Pressine floated away, a disembodied spirit. Looking down, she saw the miserable shell that had contained her, a small woman lying unconscious among furs and blankets, trapped in a tangle of fear and suffering.

  A gossamer thread of shimmering silver still connected her to the inert body, like a stretched umbil
ical cord. Rising over the white and blue canopy of the bed, Pressine felt free and serene, bestowing her compassion on the unfortunate woman below.

  Through the roof and into the crisp light of a winter morning, she glided, untouched by the cold, or the rays of the timid sun. Higher and higher over the snow-covered hills she rose, then she turned toward the northwestern part of Strathclyde. In her flight, Pressine noticed packs of gray wolves heading north through the bare forests, returning to their highland homes. After silently encouraging them on their way, she swerved west toward Ayre, toward Elinas.

  Pressine felt incredibly vibrant. Her ethereal body tingled all over with excitement. Her heartbeat quickened when she located the castle of Ayre.

  Gliding through richly furnished rooms shuttered tight against the cold, she smiled when she finally found Elinas. Eyes closed, he sat quietly on a bench by the open draperies of a canopied bed. His wide shoulders sagged. How she missed his warmth, his goodness, the strength of his arms around her.

  A single candle, almost burned out, flickered on a heavy oaken chest darkened by age. In the shadowed recess between the bedposts, Dewain lay still under a wool blanket. His pale grizzled head contrasted with the bright crimson of a silk pillow. In the hearth, embers crumbled into gray ash.

  The candle sputtered then went out. In her disembodied state, Pressine saw Dewain’s vital light ascend. She smiled and waved a loving thought. Dewain’s spirit answered in kind, seemingly at peace with the universe.

  “He is gone,” Pressine said softly, unsure whether Elinas could hear her voice.

  The king straightened and shook his black hair away from his soft brow eyes, then he held his hand in front of Dewain’s nose, checking for breath.

  “You are right. He is gone,” Elinas whispered with a deep sigh. “Farewell, my old friend.”