The Legend of Lady Ilena

by Patricia Malone

  We dismount and tie the horses to a sapling. I look around and think of the ceremonies that must have taken place under these trees. “Do the Druids sacrifice here?” I ask.

  “Not any longer,” Gola answers. “The rituals are held in another grove; Dun Dreug hasn’t practiced human sacrifice for years. We come here only to pray at the well and to watch the Druid cut the sacred plants.” She points up into an ancient oak, and I can see bright green leaves of mistletoe gleaming against the dark tree bark.

  When I lower my eyes, I’m staring straight at the skull in its niche across the spring. I shudder and look away.

  Gola’s war vest and helmet are on the ground beside her, and she holds her tunic up. Her trousers are loosened so that her abdomen is exposed.

  “Will you help me?” she asks.

  Fiona and I often assisted our older friends with the ritual for fertility. I know how to sprinkle water over a woman’s body to bring the blessing of the water spirits. I reach down into the pool for a handful of water.

  “No, no,” she says. “With the head.”

  I look at the skull.

  “It won’t hurt you. Mona brings luck to all who wish to bear a child.”

  I reach across the spring and take the skull. It feels cool and clammy. I dip up water and splash it out of the skull’s mouth onto Gola’s belly. She flinches from the cold shock but says nothing. I set the skull down and take her hand.

  We walk slowly around the spring sunwise with the water always at our right hands. When we get back to the skull again, I splash more water over her. Nine times we silently repeat the rite.

  After I replace the skull, we bow to the spring, and Gola reties her trousers and puts on her helmet and vest.

  She glances at the sun overhead. “Let’s hurry. Cochan will be impatient.”

  He is sitting against a tree, waiting for us. “About time,” he says. His tone is gruff, but his face softens when he looks at Gola. There are splotches of water on her tunic and trousers, and she is shivering. Before he mounts his horse, he pulls her cloak from the top of her pack and hands it to her. “Wear this till you dry off.”

  The trail slopes gradually upward until we reach a steep ascent. Cochan stops us near a stream that rushes down the mountain. “We’ll rest here. It’s hard going up that track.” He nods toward a jumble of rocks that rises as high as I can see. The path is clear enough here at the bottom but disappears quickly in the mass of boulders.

  “It looks impossible,” I say.

  Gola laughs. “Just difficult. There’s another tomorrow that is worse.”

  “I’m glad you came with me.”

  “Chief Perr knew we’d like a few days to ourselves.” Gola smiles at Cochan.

  I reckon they have not been married long. It is a warming feeling to see a couple so fond of each other.

  I think again of Grenna and Moren and the looks, the smiles, the gentle touching when they thought I wasn’t watching. I feel an ache inside. The Vale of Enfert is the only home I’ve known, though I was an outsider there. With Moren and Grenna gone, I was alone there, too. Even with Jon I would have felt out of place. How good it must feel to have someone, to belong somewhere.

  We share our midday meal sitting against a sun-warmed rock and watching a pair of peregrine falcons overhead. They swoop in great slow circles over the moor and then hang motionless far above us. The horses drink from the stream and crop grass along its bank. There is a cold wind coming down the mountainside. I pull my cloak tight around me and shut my eyes.

  “Ilena, wake up.” Gola shakes my shoulder gently.

  I jump up, embarrassed to find I’d fallen asleep.

  Cochan hands me Rol’s rein. “We’ll walk up this. It’s steep for the horses even without riders.”

  Steep it is. The path is a narrow opening between huge boulders and piles of scree. In many places I have to scramble on hands and knees to get over rough spots. Cochan is far ahead, and Gola follows me. I’ve dropped Rol’s rein. There is no place for him to go except straight up with me, and he follows gamely. The mares are agile and seem accustomed to this kind of climbing. At least they don’t roll their eyes and snort as often as Rol does.

  We pause at the summit for a few minutes to rest before starting down the east side of the mountain.

  Our night shelter is a small, enclosed space; the walls are a welcome break against the cold wind. Gola builds a tiny fire against the inner wall while Cochan and I rub down the horses and measure out three piles of oats. Water runs down a crevice in the stone to a small pool. Rol and the mares drink deeply before they start on the oats.

  There is little space for our sleeping places. I spread Rol’s saddle blanket as far from Gola and Cochan as I can, and I look without success for any vegetation to soften the hard rock beneath it.

  “It’s a hard sleep here,” Gola says.

  “Aye, and a short one,” adds Cochan. “We need to be up at first light to make the next pass tomorrow.”

  We eat in silence. Stars are thick in the clear, dark sky; water from the little cascade tastes of mountain ice. I fall asleep the instant I lie down.

  When I awaken in the dim predawn light, Cochan is harnessing the horses, and I hear a murmured comment from Gola in their sleeping place.

  “I’m awake,” I call softly.

  “High time,” he says. “You women are a problem. Sleep all day if I’d let you.”

  I feel a flash of anger at his tone but relax at the sound of Gola’s laugh.

  By noon we have made some headway up the stony slopes of the next mountain range. Cochan assures me that we will find shelter just over the pass by sundown. I struggle on, thinking of Moren. It is no wonder he returned exhausted from his journey. I wish he were beside me now.

  Night camp is another rocky hollow with wind howling around us. I measure Rol’s grain carefully. There is no grass to crop up here, and the tiny pile of oats I pour for him is soon gone. There is enough left in the sack for tomorrow morning. I notice Gola weighing their grain sack after she feeds the mares.

  She says, “I think we could spare a little if Rol needs more.”

  I’m touched by her offer. Grain for the animals is a difficult matter; it is heavy to carry, but necessary if they are to remain strong. “Thank you. He has enough, and you have two days’ travel to return to Dun Dreug.”

  “You’ll find a good meadow at the bottom of this trail,” Cochan says. “He’ll have grazing by noon tomorrow.”

  It is a shock to remember that they will leave me tomorrow. My face must show my concern. Gola reaches out to touch my arm.

  “Do you want us to go on to Dun Alyn with you, Ilena?”

  I swallow hard. Of course I want them to stay with me. As I come closer to Dun Alyn, I begin to fear what I will find. I force myself to sound calm.

  “I will miss you, but I will be fine. You are needed back at Dun Dreug.” I manage a smile.

  She looks worried. My smile must not be very reassuring.

  Cochan speaks. “Your kin will be glad to see you. How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

  “Oh, years,” I say with as light a tone as I can manage. Do I even have kin there? The closer I get to the end of the trip, the more unlikely that seems. Where will I find the woman called Ryamen? How do I approach the gates of Dun Alyn?

  “We’ll go on in the morning till you can see the trail,” Cochan says. “There is an outcrop that gives a view clear to the sea. I’ll point the direction when we get there.”

  I sleep soundly again and waken to Cochan’s bustle about the horses. I watch closely this morning and notice that, despite his gruffness, he is moving quietly to let us sleep longer. Gola is a lucky woman.

  The outcrop is only an hour’s trek down the eastern slope of the mountain. The sun lightened the early-morning sky but now has retreated behind a sullen cloud cover. Rain falls on plains to the south. Far to the east I can see the ocean. It looks flat and gray from so far away, but I’m sure the wa
ves churn as fiercely as they do on the western coast near the Vale of Enfert.

  Cochan points down the slope below us. A trail meanders around piles of boulders and sharp drop-offs. It disappears from view in places, then can be seen again farther down. The constant switchbacks look to be an easier descent than the one we stumbled through yesterday. At the foot of the mountain a wide valley stretches, green and inviting.

  Cochan draws my attention to the northeast. “See that pine forest just past the mouth of the valley?”

  I nod. The conifers make a dense green pattern in the surrounding browns and yellows.

  “Dun Alyn lies on the coast. Follow the stream in the valley below us till it meets a river. The crossing is downstream a short distance. From there the track leads into that forest. Stay on the main trail and you will come to a clearing where the trail branches in two directions. The right one leads to Dun Alyn.”

  Gola says. “I could go on with Ilena.”

  “And then you’d return alone,” Cochan says. “Ilena’s route is easy. She’ll have no trouble finding her way.”

  “You can use that sword you carry?” Gola asks.

  I manage a laugh that I hope sounds convincing and say, “Yes, of course.”

  Cochan touches Gola on the arm and motions back up the trail. She follows him slowly. I take Rol’s lead rein over my shoulder and turn down the path.

  When I look back from the first bend, she’s watching me. We wave and turn to our separate paths. I go on alone.

  JUST A FEW DAYS AGO I HADN’T MET GOLA OR DURANT. Yet I miss them as sorely as I miss Jon and Fiona.

  To add to my gloom, the skies, which have threatened all morning, open and pour down a cold deluge. I clutch my cloak tight around me, and Rol shakes his head against the pounding rain. The path down the mountainside has become a stream. It is hard to know where to step through the rushing water.

  I see a dark place in the cliffs and I turn Rol from the path in hope of shelter. It is a cave that opens into the rock face. The space inside is high enough for us to stand. A fire circle is in the center and a low ledge holds pine boughs. This must be a popular spot for night camp.

  The rain continues outside the opening, but it is dry inside. Even with Rol’s steamy body heat in the shelter, I begin to shiver. I must start a fire to dry my clothes and warm my body before we can go on. I rummage on the ledge for the oldest bits of pine boughs. When I put them on the fire circle, I discover a few live coals under the ashes. Someone has been here recently.

  I blow the coals into life and add more boughs from the bedding. Rol backs into a corner of the cave as far as possible from the blaze. I hang my wet cloak over the ledge closest to the fire and take my pack off of his back; the skins around it have protected the contents. After changing into a dry tunic, I drape my damp trousers and vest on the ledge and put my wet boots as near the blaze as I dare. Rol has shaken and stomped until he is dry. At last I begin to feel warm.

  Sheets of water are falling outside the cave entrance. Cochan said I would be at the gates of Dun Alyn soon after noon. That assumed I would travel steadily. I’ve lost time sitting here, and the mud and puddles underfoot will slow me even more.

  I consider my arrival at Dun Alyn. At Dun Dreug I was taken for an important person because I rode in with Durant. I’ll be alone and unknown at Dun Alyn. Looking good enough to impress those I meet will be difficult in my mud-stained boots and trousers. I look over the things in my pack. The bracelets would slide about and tangle in the reins; the circlet for my hair won’t fit under my helmet. I study the torc.

  The shapes carved into the end pieces look like faces. They stare back at me, and seem to hold knowledge I cannot fathom. The piece was appropriate at Dun Dreug. It won’t interfere with handling a horse or weapons. The torcs were designed for heroes to wear in battle. Moren told stories of warriors saved from an enemy’s sword blow because the blade caught the torc instead of flesh.

  I think of Moren and his last words to me. Will I find Ryamen? And how do I gain entrance to the fortress? There will be gates and sentries.

  A ray of sun catches the doorway. The rain has stopped. I clasp the torc around my neck and put everything else back in the pack. I pull on my damp boots, trousers, and vest and lead Rol out of the cave.

  The path is treacherous. Rol slips several times. I lose my footing often. Once I fall flat in a wide puddle and add a generous layer of mud to my already soiled clothing. At least the sun is warm, so I do not need my damp cloak to keep away the cold.

  When we reach the valley, I stop beside the stream and scrape off some of the mud. After Rol drinks, he begins cropping grass. I remove his bit so he can graze in comfort. When he has eaten steadily for a time, I mount and ride on. It feels good to be on horseback again after so much clambering up and down rocky trails. Rol, too, enjoys the level path, and we make good time to the river crossing. The water is shallow and he splashes across with no hesitation.

  The trail leads into deep shadows under dense pines. The trees are old, with high branches, and I can stay mounted with a little ducking and dodging. According to Cochan, the path to Dun Alyn lies through a clearing on the edge of these woods. When I see open space ahead, I hurry Rol on instead of stopping to listen and look around as I should. That is why I miss the first sounds of other people.

  We are almost out of the trees when I hear the clink of metal against metal. I pull Rol up, but it is too late. A mounted war band in the clearing has seen me. They are spread out across both paths that branch from the one I’m on.

  I wheel Rol to return to the woods, but a man on a large black horse blocks the path behind me. He stares at me from under the brass-trimmed helmet with the same intensity he showed in the Vale of Enfert. I would recognize him even without the checked cloak bundled behind his saddle. I can see his face clearly now; he has heavy brows over hard brown eyes and a full black mustache. He sits his horse firmly, and there is no way around him.

  “No.” His voice is deep and smooth. “You’ll not escape this way, lady.”

  I whirl Rol around toward the clearing and see the war band moving toward me with spears ready. I haven’t time to get one of my war spears. I sweep my shield into my left hand along with the reins and take my sword in my right hand. Rol leaps forward at my command, and I head him straight for the center of the line in front of me.

  Five warriors are advancing across the clearing. All wear the blue facial tattoos of the painted ones from the Far North. The man in the center and another beside him ride tall horses. The others—two men, one woman—ride ponies.

  I urge Rol on and begin the war cry Moren taught me. The sound takes the five in front of me by surprise. I call more loudly and keep Rol headed straight for the center of the line. The man there has his war spear held firmly to the front. As we come close, I signal Rol with my knees; he swerves just out of range of the spear and rears to bring his hooves down on the other horse’s hindquarters. The animal bolts and throws its rider.

  I call out the war cry again and hear it echo through the forest. Our momentum has carried us through the group. I urge Rol onto the right-hand path and find that the man on the black horse has moved to block my way.

  This time he has sword in hand and starts toward me. “You should have stayed in your western valley,” he says.

  As I prepare to meet him, a spear point thrusts against my vest from the back. I topple sideways but manage to stay in the saddle. Rol feels my body shifting and responds by backing away from both attackers. The spear fails to pierce the heavy leather, and I strike with my shield edge against the painted warrior’s spear arm. He backs away to set his spear again.

  The battle cries that come from the woods around us cannot be echoes. The old words, so familiar to me, ring out shrill and threatening from at least a dozen voices. The man on the black horse is within sword’s reach. As the calls intensify, he pulls his mount up short and jerks it around to gallop down the path toward Dun Alyn.

  I g
ive my attention to the painted one charging on my left. I catch the spear point on my shield and push my attacker off balance. My sword strikes his shoulder, and he falls with a scream.

  When I turn toward the others, a slingstone smashes against my forehead just below my helmet. I reel from the blow and can see nothing but bright bursts of light for several moments. I try to swing my sword before me to fend off attackers, but I cannot lift it high enough to clear Rol’s head.

  I am unable to defend myself and brace for a death blow. I hear metal strike metal, and the battle cries are deafening. Finally my eyes clear, and I see that a large war band has entered the clearing from the left fork. Those who attacked me are fighting now for their own lives.

  Some of the newcomers break past the skirmishes and surround me until I’m protected by a ring of warriors. The pain in my head worsens, and the blinding light bursts begin again. I slump forward over Rol’s neck and feel my sword fall from my hand.

  WHEN I OPEN MY EYES AGAIN, I AM LYING ON THE ground. My helmet is off, and a cold cloth presses on my forehead. The noise of battle is gone, and I hear several voices close by.

  “Back to help Belert, I’d guess.”

  “A problem for Ogern, this.”

  “He’s the Druid. He’ll know what it means.”

  “I’m not getting close. Not to that.”

  The words make no sense to me. My head throbs, and I move to ease it. A moan escapes. Someone presses a waterskin against my lips.

  “She drinks like one of us.”

  “Aye,” the man holding the waterskin says, “and bleeds like us too.”

  “And what about that torc?”

  “I’ve not seen it for years.” He takes the waterskin down. “Enough now?”

  I try to nod, but the pain stops me. “Thank you.”

  I open my eyes and focus on the man beside me.

  He is near Moren’s age, with sweat-soaked hair matted against his head from the leather helmet that lies beside him. He watches me closely. He offers bread from a pack beside him. “Do you eat?”