“Of course, my dear Boaz,” she whispered.
They plodded silently along the dirt road, Orick with his nose down, until they reached the camp under the trees. These were not grim soldiers, worn with experience. Most of them were younger men out for an adventure, strong and limber. One played a lute, and several of the fellows sat beside a campfire, singing drunkenly a rousing old tavern song,
“My lady fair, my lady fair,
was drunk as a duck and fat as a bear.
And if you saw her prancing there,
You’d lose your heart to my lady fair”
There was merriment in the sheriffs’ twinkling eyes, and they laughed and boasted as they gambled at dice and drank themselves silly with beer, hardly noting the presence of two bears wandering into town. One young man with long brown hair and a thin vee of a beard spotted Orick and shouted at him, “Och, why, we have strangers in our camp. Would you like to work your jaws a bit on something to eat? We’ve just boiled up a pot of stray lamb stew.”
“Stray lamb stew” was another way of saying “stolen lamb stew.” By law, a traveler could claim a stray lamb if it wasn’t with a flock and its ragged appearance made it look as if it were lost. In practice, if men traveled in a pack more than six, they tended to butcher any lamb they came across, figuring that they could intimidate the rightful owners.
Orick sniffed at the stew from outside the circle of the campfire. It was well seasoned with rosemary and wine. Bears were notorious for begging food from travelers, and were therefore not often so welcomed to camp. “Why, I thank you, good sirs,” Orick said in genuine surprise at the offer.
The lad got up from the rock where he sat, staggering from too much beer, went to the stew pot and made up two heaping bowls. He came and bent over, set the steaming bowls before Orick and Grits—then pulled them back.
“Ha!” he laughed, seeing how the bears’ mouths watered at the stew. “Not just yet. You have to earn it.”
“And how would I go about that?” Grits asked.
“With a tale,” the lad laughed. “You’ve likely heard more news out of County Morgan than we have. What tale have you? What rumor of demons? And make it straight for me!”
Orick was in no mood to humor the lads. Sheriffs or nor, this was a dangerous company of men, rowdy and full of themselves. “I’ll give you no rumor of demons,” Orick grumbled in his loudest, most belligerent voice, “for I’ve seen them, and what I have to tell isn’t the kind of idle gossip you’ve likely heard up north!”
Suddenly, the lutist stopped and over two dozen heads turned Orick’s way.
One old sheriff with a slash under his left cheek looked up and sneered, “Out with it, then. What did you see?” His tone said he was demanding an answer, not requesting it.
Orick looked at the sheriffs. They were weary from the road, and they weren’t in the mood for any slow tales. Orick licked his lips, remembering. “Two weeks ago yesterday night,” Orick said, “I was in the city of Clere, on my way north for the Salmon Fest, when the first of the sidhe appeared. It was a man and woman who came into town, late of the night, in the middle of a storm. I was begging scraps at the tables of John Mahoney, the innkeeper at Clere, when the sidhe opened the door and stepped out of that damnable rain.
“The woman was a princess of the Otherworld, more beautiful and powerful and fair than any woman who walks this earth. Oh, she had a face that an angel would envy.” Orick recalled Everynne’s face, and he let the memory of her beauty carry in his voice. Some of the men grunted in surprise at the sound, for it was obvious that Orick loved her, and the sheriffs seemed amazed that a bear would love a fairy woman, so they leaned closer. Orick decided to stretch the tale a bit, try to fill these men with the proper sense of awe. “Beside her was her guardian, an old bearded man who was stronger than any three men I’ve ever met, and swift as a bobcat. He guarded her jealously, with two swords that glowed magically. And though the rain was pelting the inn like a waterfall, neither of the two had a drop on them.”
Orick stopped a minute, gauging his audience to see if they believed that last bit about people walking dry through the rain. Some of the rough lads had their eyes popping out at his tale, and they gaped with open mouths.
“I’ve heard rumors of the sidhe coming to town, but I’ve never heard report of these two,” the old scar-faced sheriff said.
“That’s because you never heard the tale proper, from someone who was there,” Orick continued. “At first, no one quite believed what they saw. The princess sought dinner and a room for the night, and she asked to hire someone local to take her into the woods, to Geata na Chruinne, the Gate of the World.”
The sheriffs hunched nearer, and one of the younger ones muttered, “That’s where the demons were headed, too.”
“Ay,” Orick said. “Gallen O’Day, who legend says is the best of you good lawmen, happened to be in the room, and when the princess turned her eyes on him, he must have fallen under her spell—as we all did—for he agreed to guide her, never dreaming the consequences.”
At this point, Orick licked his lips. The sheriffs listened with rapt attention. He had begun to hear rumors of late, nasty tales where Gallen was named a conspirator with the sidhe. Orick couldn’t come right out and say that such tales were lies, couldn’t tell men that the Lady Everynne was no more a magical creature than any one of them, that she was just some woman from another world, trying to defeat the swarms of alien dronon that were sweeping across the galaxy. What did it matter if she carried weapons that could demolish worlds? She was still only something akin to human, and even though she had no magical abilities, she was still more marvelous and powerful than these men could comprehend. And Gallen had done right in becoming her servant and protector. But Orick could never convince these men of the truth, so he bent the tale, making it seem that Gallen had been a slave who couldn’t control himself, and maybe that wasn’t far from the truth, for even Orick had fallen under the spell of the Lady Everynne.
“So it was that the princess sought rest and refreshment that night, for she had been running long and hard, trying to escape monsters straight out of hell.”
“You saw them?” one of the young sheriffs asked, leaning nearer and spilling a wooden cup of wine in the process. His hands were shaking.
“Aye, I saw them up close, I did,” Orick said. “And I’ll never sleep deeply again. Some of them were giants, and the biggest of you would hardly stand above their bellies. Their skin was green, and they had large orange eyes as big as plates. They were strong creatures. When they walked into town, I saw one of them kick a wood fence just in passing, and it splintered into kindling. Others had the same green skin and walked like giant dogs, on all fours, sniffing for the scent of the princess and her bodyguard. And with them was a major devil. A creature with wings the color of ale and a skin blacker than night. It had great clusters of eyes both on the front and on the back of its head, and it had feelers like a catfish’s under its jaw, and when you saw him, you knew his name: Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies.
“The demons walked into Clere just after dawn, and Father Heany confronted their master. Now Father Heany, there was a man of God. He had no fear for himself, only for his parishioners, and he rushed to block the path of the demons. And Beelzebub raised a magic wand, and a bolt of lightning flew out of it, striking Father Heany dead right there in the street, right in front of every woman and child in Clere. And when that lightning hit him, it melted the man. The flesh stripped from his bones and melted in a black puddle as if it were pudding.
“Then the demons marched on to Mahoney’s Inn and asked after the princess and her guard, but the princess must have slipped out in the night. When the demons learned that she was gone, Beelzebub flew into the air and bit John Mahoney, ripping his head off.”
Orick fell silent, and the eyes and ears of every sheriff were upon him.
“What happened next?” Grits asked.
“I can’t be sure,” Orick answered.
“At that moment, I turned and ran from Clere for my life. It was in the first dawnlight of the morning when I took off, and I didn’t stop running until the moon set that night, and even then, I hid. I went to the Salmon Fest, and from there I’ve heard stories the same as you—about how Gallen O’Day came back that day at dusk, with the sidhe warriors at his back, and the Angel of Death himself walking at his side, and then hunted the demons until nightfall. Some say that the sidhe chased the demons back to hell. Others say that the two sides are still fighting in Coille Sidhe. All that is sure is that no one has seen any sign of the demons, or of the sidhe, but Gallen O’Day rests easy in the village of Clere and is making plans for his wedding day.”
“And other folks say that it’s Gallen O’Day who opened the door to the Otherworld in the first place, at Geata na Chruinne,” the scar-faced sheriff said. “They say that in order to save his own life, he prayed to demons in Coille Sidhe and opened the doors to the netherworld.”
Orick considered the threat implied by that story. If these men believed Gallen was consorting with demons, they’d put him to death. Orick wondered if he might be able to turn these men from their course. “I wouldn’t believe such talk,” Orick said, hoping to calm them.
“It’s true enough,” Scarface said. He nodded toward a small fat man that Orick hadn’t noticed before. “Tell him.”
The fat man looked uneasy, bit his lip. “A-aye,” the fat man stammered. He had a bowl of stew in his hands, and he tried to set it down out of sight, as if he’d just been caught pilfering it. “It’s true. Me and my friends were planning to rob Gallen O’Day’s client, but he—Gallen—put four of us down before we could defend ourselves. It was only a lucky blow from one of us that felled him, and then that Gallen, he began praying long and low to the devil in a wicked voice. That’s when the sidhe appeared.
“I—I know it was wrong to try to rob a man, but if we’d known a priest would die from our wickedness.… Now, now I just want to wash my hands of it.”
Orick looked at the greasy little man and imagined sinking his teeth into the rolls of fat at the man’s chinless throat. The robber was glancing about, as if daring someone to name him a liar. Orick would have shouted the man down if he dared, but he knew that now was not the time.
Scarface said, “We intend to arrest Mister O’Day and put him on trial. Bishop Mackey signed a warrant”—he nodded toward the town’s inn—“and the Lord Inquisitor himself has come with us, along with two other witnesses who will swear that Gallen O’Day prayed to the Prince of Darkness. Aye, this O’Day is guilty of foul deeds, all right. And we’ll not let any southern priests conduct the questioning—not with their soft ways. We’ll wring the truth from him, if we have to skin him alive and salt his wounds.”
Orick raised a brow at this, then licked his snout. A full Bishop’s Inquisition would involve days of torture and scourging. They might even nail Gallen to the inverted cross. And though Gallen had a lot of heart in him, even he couldn’t endure such punishment. The lad would have no recourse but to fight these men for his life.
“Are you sure there’s enough of you to take Gallen O’Day?” Orick asked. “They say he’s a dangerous man himself. He’s killed more than a score of highwaymen and bandits. And if the Angel of Death is on his side, you’ll need more than thirty men to take him—even if you have the Lord Inquisitor to back you.”
Some of the younger men looked about to the faces of those around them. Fighting against Gallen O’Day was foolhardy enough. But no one would want to be found fighting against God.
“Hmmm …” Scarface muttered, squatting on the ground to think. “Things to consider. Things to consider.” He got a wineskin from his pack, filled a bowl, then looked up at Orick darkly, his thick brows pulled together, and said, “You’ve earned yourself more than a little supper. Sit with us tonight. Drink and eat hearty, Mister …”
Orick did not like his probing look.
“Boaz,” Grits answered quickly. “And I’m his friend, Grits.”
“Keep those bowls filled,” Scarface ordered his men, and he offered the wine to Orick.
Orick thanked him and began lapping at his bowl of stray lamb stew. He intended to eat his fill. He’d need the energy later tonight, when he ran to Clere to warn Gallen of the danger.
* * *
Chapter 2
“Maggie,” a man’s voice called. “Maggie Flynn? Are you in there?” His voice trailed to a garbled string of words Maggie couldn’t make out. She knew everyone in town, and whoever was hollering for her was a stranger.
Maggie looked up from sewing ivory buttons onto the back of her wedding dress, stared up toward the door of the inn, expecting the stranger to enter at any moment. It was a bitter cold day in early fall, with a sharp wind—sharp enough so that the fishermen of Clere had dragged their boats high onto the beach. A dozen of them were lounging about the fire, drinking hot rum.
Danny Teague, a stable boy who had shaggy hair and a fair-sized goiter, opened the door and looked out. A horse cart had drawn up outside the door. Its driver was a stranger in a gray leather greatcoat, a sprawling battered leather hat pulled low over his face. He had piercing gray eyes and a neatly trimmed sandy beard going gray. Still, at first glance, Maggie knew that it was his moustache, waxed so that the ends twirled in loops, that she’d remember when he was gone.
“I’m calling after Maggie Flynn,” the stranger shouted at Danny. “You don’t answer to that name, do you, man? What’s the matter with you—did your father marry his sister or something?”
Danny closed the door and sort of stumbled back under the weight of this verbal insult, and Maggie shoved her wedding dress up on the table.
“It’s all right, Danny,” she said with obvious annoyance. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Rudeness out there!”
Already, several fishermen had got up from their seats by the fire and were rather sidling toward the door. If the stranger had hoped for an audience—and folks who stood in the street and hollered usually did want an audience—well, he had one. And whatever Maggie said to him now was likely to be talked about in every house tonight-as if the town didn’t have enough to gossip about after the past few weeks: with demons and angels and fairies battling in the forests outside of town, the priest and innkeeper murdered.
Maggie got up, straightened her green wool dress and a white apron so that she looked the part of a matron who kept an inn—albeit a very young matron. Her long dark red hair was tied back.
She went and opened the door, gazed into the biting wind that smelled of ocean rime. The man’s wagon was old and battered, and it was drawn by a bony horse that looked as if it hoped to die before it had to plod another step. The blacksmith’s hammer had quit ringing across the street, and he stood squinting from the door of his shop. Elsewhere, an unusual number of people suddenly seemed to have business on the streets.
The stranger set the brake on his wagon and greeted her. “Damn it, Maggie, you look too damned much like your mother.”
She studied him. Since he spoke so familiarly, she thought she should know him, but she’d never seen his likeness before. “I’ll thank you to speak more reverently of the departed, Mr.…?”
“Thomas Flynn. Your uncle.”
Maggie glared at him, trying to consider what to say. Her mother had been dead for three years. Her father and brothers had all drowned a year and a half before that. And in all of that time she’d not seen so much as a whisker of Thomas Flynn’s beard nor got a single message expressing his sympathy.
“That’s right,” Thomas said, “your only kin has come to call. You can close your mouth now.”
From across the street, the blacksmith cracked a huge smile that barely showed through his bushy black beard. “Will you be giving us a song, Thomas?” he called.
In answer, Thomas reached behind him and pulled out the rosewood case for his lute, stood, and shook it over his head. “I’ll give you many songs in the days to come!” he shouted, and his coa
t opened. Beneath it, Maggie could see a beautiful plum-colored shirt tied with a gold belt, pants that were forest green. His outfit was slightly festive, slightly dignified, and slightly absurd—as befitting a minstrel. Indeed, she realized now that he had been striving to draw a crowd by shouting for her from the streets. He was a man of wide repute, a satirist with some reputation for having a quick wit and, as they say in County Morgan, “a tongue sharp enough to slice through bones.”
Such folk were always good for songs and tales of faraway lands, mixed with a fair amount of political commentary so burning hot that you could use it to scald the hair off a pig.
Maggie said, “We’ve heard of you—even in this little backwater. Everyone knows Thomas Flynn, who goes about aping the great men of the world.”
“Aping great men? Oh, heaven forbid! I’d never ape a truly great man.” Thomas grinned, removing his hat to show a full head of close-cropped hair. “They’re too strange and fine a thing. But, now, for those who call themselves ‘great,’ but who are in fact deceivers—those men I will not spare. For through my aping I can sometimes prove that those who call themselves ‘great’ are nothing more than great apes.”
“So why have you favored us with your presence, Uncle Thomas?” Maggie said in a tone that flatly admitted she wanted to be rid of him quickly.
“Oh, it’s worried about you that I am, darlin’. Rumors. I’ve been hearing disconcerting things, Maggie. Rumor says you plan to marry a man named Gallen O’Day, even after he prayed to the devil and got your village priest murdered.”
“Och, and what would you know of it?” Maggie asked. There was far more to the story than she ever planned to tell her uncle—or to anyone else.
“I’m only repeating the tales that I’ve heard on the road,” Thomas answered, “tales everyone is telling nowadays.
Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) Page 2