Malcolm and his kin insisted that these creatures were the Fae, but Rafael did not believe it. The Fae were mischievous sprites, if they existed. They were nature spirits that could punish a peasant or bring him riches. They had to be comparatively harmless spirits, ones that populated many a tale such as those Catriona told.
Such whimsy had naught to do with this evil force. There were so many walking corpses in this company that Rafael had no doubt of their true identity. The dead rode with their king, as did ghosts, and blood seemed to attract them. This king savored wagers, and the stakes were souls: Rafael knew no other kind than demons who gambled with such terms.
It was fitting, in a way, that the warrior they had called the Hellhound had inherited a holding with a gateway to the inferno.
The music grew louder and even knowing what he did of its treachery, even as exhausted as he was, still he yearned to dance. Rafael was no fool, but this music cast a spell. The music and those who created it were sorcerers, for they could make Rafael’s feet itch even though he had learned the high price of surrendering to the dance.
He jabbed his blade into an opponent and strove to ignore the approaching demons. He thought instead of his first arrival at Ravensmuir the Yule before. He would have forgotten that night if it were possible, but it seemed he could no more keep it from his thoughts than steel himself against Elizabeth’s allure. The blizzard of that night was so vivid in his mind that he could still feel the bitter cold. Rafael had never been able to shake the cold of his first northern winter—or perhaps it was the memory of that night’s events that haunted him. No sooner had he and Malcolm taken refuge in the stables than that infernal music had begun, enticing them toward a golden light that should have filled him with suspicion.
Tempting him to dance.
Instead, Rafael had surrendered to impulse for the first time in years, accepted a beauteous maiden’s invitation to dance, and been snared by demons intent upon claiming his soul in exchange. That night had been more intense and vivid than any other Rafael had experienced. The mortal realm had seemed a poor substitute.
It was a mark of exhaustion that he was, even now, tempted to join their ranks in Malcolm’s stead. He knew the price was death. Instead the old debt between himself and Malcolm would be repaid, for Rafael had saved Malcolm’s life once.
It had been their first meeting, and this would be their final parting. Rafael winced at the truth of it and heard Elizabeth’s challenge again.
He did not want to see her disappointment when he failed to intervene for Malcolm.
In a way, it made sense that Rafael had thought her to be an angel at first glimpse. Her beauty was such that no man could fail to notice her, but it was her manner that had snared Rafael’s gaze. No Madonna ever considered the mortal realm with such acceptance of what had been and what would be.
She had challenged him, as he supposed angels were wont to do.
As the music grew louder and the dusk deepened, his opponents were one by one seduced. They began to dance, dropping their blades as they were enchanted by the arriving company. Rafael reluctantly turned to watch the diabolical host approach, his heart sinking.
It was a reckoning come due.
It was a nightmare come to life.
Rafael saw the will-o’-the-wisp burning in the distance, a sparkle of treacherous lights that hinted at targets that did not exist. The eerie host rode across Ravensmuir’s fallowed fields, driving dark shadows before them. Their horses were high-stepping and uncommonly fine, their armor glinting in the twilight, and they seemed to breathe fire. There were knights and warriors, damsels and ladies, in this company of demons, all dressed in splendor and riding as if the uneven land posed no obstacle. There were gleaming gems and radiant jewels, gleaming mail and shining weapons. Some of the men on the field were transfixed by their beauty and halted to stare in awe as the company passed over and through their ranks.
Rafael saw only that the new arrivals were numerous, potent, confident, and possessed of a dangerous beauty. The dead trudged behind them, driven to follow this proud aristocracy by some unnatural compulsion that made Rafael shudder.
The music twitched and teased, winding into his thoughts, tempting him to dance again. Rafael stubbornly kept his boots planted against the ground, forcing himself to concentrate on the holes in the fine leather that were the result of his last such adventure. Once he had begun to dance, he had been unable to stop. Exhaustion had prompted him to take the wager, though he reasoned he might have died that night otherwise.
The demon riders formed a half circle outside the gatehouse of Ravensmuir, one that nearly surrounded the troops of the attacking earl. When their horses stood shoulder to shoulder, there was a glimmer on the ground. Rafael caught his breath as frost spread across the bailey, emanating from the feet of the horses and spreading inward with fearsome speed. It grew in white crystals, like ice forming on the surface of a lake in the autumn, spreading and becoming whiter with astonishing speed. In the blink of an eye, the ground was covered with snow, snow that glinted with the light of the stars. The ice traveled up the legs of the dead, and froze them in place. The wind became suddenly colder and more bitter, even as that wild music gained in volume.
Some of the demons dismounted and others who had been on foot slipped through the ranks of the prancing horses. They stepped onto the frosty ground, playing their lutes and reeds, singing and dancing as they progressed. They made no footprints in the snow, and left no mark of their passage. The demons laughed and cavorted through the ranks of the earl’s men, their tune becoming faster and more beguiling. More and more of the earl’s men cast away their swords and joined the dance.
Could the others see the demons? Rafael did not know, but the horses shied and the men seemed to be confused. They were aware of the demon host on some level, even if they could not discern them. It became colder yet, as cold as the grave, and Rafael felt a damp wind that smelled of rot. Arrows were launched from the gate house that hit only the empty ground as the confusion infected the forces defending Ravensmuir.
Rafael prayed that none of the Sable League joined the dance.
It seemed that some of the men could see the otherworldly host. Elizabeth had offered a potion of wild thyme to those men who wished to discern what she called the Fae. Rafael had been skeptical until he saw his bold fellows turn pale and seem to stare at the approaching company in horror, just as Jeanne had done.
He had himself declined the potion, for he had no need of any substance that addled his wits when he stepped on to the battlefield.
Rafael saw his comrade Ranulf fumble in the casting of another volley of Greek fire from the gate tower. It was clear that the arrivals had distracted that man from his task, as little else might have done. There was an explosion bright enough to blind a man and loud enough to deafen one, then smoke and silence.
Rafael was running to the gatehouse when he heard Ranulf’s roar of pain. At least that man was not dead, or not dead as yet. Rafael hastened to his comrade’s aid, slicing down an opponent fool enough to step into his path. Ranulf began to swear with vigor, an encouraging sign that he might survive on his own.
Rafael was a dozen steps from the gatehouse when he spied Malcolm. The Laird of Ravensmuir stared across the lands outside his own gates, a man entranced. Rafael followed Malcolm’s gaze and his heart stopped cold.
A king with a long dark beard rode into the circle, as regal and richly appointed as any monarch. He was garbed in silver and black, and his steed was so brilliant a silver that it might have been wrought of precious metal. There were bells woven into its loose mane, for they tinkled as he rode, and the beast’s hooves shone. The others stepped back to create a path for their regent, bowing low as he passed them.
Rafael recognized him, though he wished he did not. This was the king who had claimed six months before that the price of departure from the dance was Rafael’s soul. This was the king who had accepted Malcolm’s soul in exchange and vowed to co
llect it in six month’s time.
On this night.
The King of the Dead—for he could be naught else—dismounted, then offered his hand to a woman, as tall and as beautiful as he, her hair long and dark. Both of them had whirling marks upon their flesh, dark blue tracery that Rafael had noticed six months before. She too dismounted and put her hand in his. They proceeded regally across the frozen ground to the gatehouse and looked up at Malcolm, expectation in their expressions.
Nay, it was hunger.
The avidity of their expressions was yet more evidence of their true nature, in Rafael’s mind, for only ghouls and demons had such a lust for blood and bone. How would they kill him? What would they do with his corpse? Rafael’s thoughts filled with a thousand gruesome possibilities.
As he watched, a river of starlight flowed from them to Malcolm. It surrounded that warrior, moving independently of the cold wind from the sea, swirling around Malcolm like a swarm of fireflies that would carry him to his doom.
But there was no need for any reminder to Malcolm, much less any sorcery to compel him to do as he had pledged. Malcolm strode to his demise, keeping his vow like the honorable warrior Rafael knew him to be.
Here was the difference between them.
Here was the truth that could only make Elizabeth despise Rafael.
Malcolm descended the staircase of the gatehouse. Rafael called to him, but his comrade either did not hear him or had no power to reply. The portcullis creaked as Malcolm opened it, then he stepped upon the starlit path that led to his doom.
The king smiled with satisfaction, for the ransom he had demanded—one mortal soul—would be paid and paid promptly.
It was then that the fullness of his choice came to Rafael. Malcolm would die, right before Rafael’s eyes, leaving his new wife and holding undefended, and it would be Rafael’s fault. This was no fair repayment of whatever debt Malcolm owed to Rafael and Rafael found he could not stand aside.
Not now that he had been challenged by Elizabeth and his lost sense of justice awakened anew.
Even as Rafael stepped forward, Catriona cried out in protest. Malcolm’s wife fled across the bailey, Elizabeth fast behind her. The women had remained in the relative safety of the keep, but now they abandoned all good plans.
Elizabeth could not be at risk! Rafael raced toward his comrade, intent upon intervening first, but Catriona reached Malcolm before he did. She seized her husband’s tabard, but he ignored her. Malcolm stepped onto that circle of snow and Rafael was close enough to see him shudder.
Catriona would have followed without hesitation, but Elizabeth pulled her back. Elizabeth’s fingers dropped to the hilt of Catriona’s knife. The maiden’s eyes flashed in warning, and Catriona seemed to understand. Rafael did not, but then, Catriona oft told tales of the Fae. There was some detail of these fiends, whatever they were called, that he did not yet know.
He watched as Elizabeth, her expression as grim as that of any avenging angel, took a small knife from her own belt and jammed it into the earth before herself. The blade sank into the soil at the very periphery of the uncommon frost. Rafael cringed to see a fine weapon so abused, for the hilt was costly and the blade had clearly been wrought by a skilled smith.
To his amazement, the frost shimmered for a moment, then melted away from the blade. Rafael blinked in surprise, unable to explain this fact.
He watched as Elizabeth fearlessly stepped over the buried blade. She did not falter and she did not shudder when her boot trod on the unholy snow. Indeed, she, like the demonic host, left no footprint or mark of her passage. Rafael understood that this knife offered some protection for her in confronting the demons.
Or some sorcery that countered their own.
She did not intervene out of innocence or ignorance. She stepped forward for the sake of justice and honor.
And he would do the same.
Meanwhile, Catriona plunged her own blade into the soil beside Elizabeth’s, then followed her. The starlight swirled around them, one woman with ebony hair and one with golden tresses cropped short. They clasped hands as they faced their foes, as if to draw strength from each other. Rafael had never seen such valor, and he admired them truly. The sparkling light seemed to keep its distance from the two women—just as the frost shrank from the blade—while it surrounded Malcolm closely.
Like a shroud.
Both of these women would be devastated if Malcolm were lost. In contrast, if Rafael died before the morning light, not a soul would mourn his passing.
Elizabeth was right.
Rafael swore thoroughly at the realization of what he must do. He pulled his own dagger from the scabbard, trusting in Elizabeth’s greater knowledge of the fiends. He plunged the blade into the soil alongside those of the two women and stepped over it, following them.
Catriona glanced his way in surprise.
“Time ’tis to be a better friend,” he said grimly, though that was but a small measure of what drove him. He offered his hand to her, unwilling to look past her and witness Elizabeth’s triumph. Her victory would be short-lived, undoubtedly.
Respect lit Catriona’s eyes for the first time since they had met, which he supposed was worth some thing.
Perhaps he would not be condemned forever to this Hell he glimpsed.
The music swelled, growing ever louder in volume, and the king placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Catriona’s cold fingers closed over Rafael’s own and they three stepped forward as one.
Rafael felt cold anew, so certain was he that the price of saving Malcolm’s soul would be the surrender of his own.
It appeared he would have little time to marvel at that.
Rafael had accepted her challenge!
Elizabeth did not know whether to be pleased at her triumph or to fear that Rafael would be lost. She was surprised that she had the ability to influence his choices, and was thrilled by this proof.
The blood on Rafael’s left glove was considerable and she wondered if it was his or that of another man he had felled. The sight of it made her fear for whatever blow Rafael had endured. Had he accepted her dare because he knew himself fatally injured already? But there was no shadow of death upon him, and Elizabeth had to believe that it was his hidden honor responsible for his choice.
How she wished to ask him! But she knew that speaking within the Fae circle would cast her into Finvarra’s power forever. There would be more than enough carnage on this night, though she wished she could contrive a way to see both Malcolm and Rafael survive.
What could be done? Elizabeth was quite certain that Finvarra would not fail to collect his due, whatever that king perceived it to be. He watched her now, his gaze so cold that she struggled not to shiver.
After entering the Fae circle, the three of them stood together in silence. Elizabeth yearned to warn Rafael not to eat, drink or speak while in this circle lest he not be allowed to depart it. She knew that he was not as familiar with the Fae as she and Catriona, but dared not speak aloud herself. She willed him to follow their lead and was relieved that he seemed intent upon doing so.
He was not one inclined to readily accept the counsel of others, after all.
The Fae music soared and the earl’s men danced with wild abandon. The sun had disappeared and the night sky was full of stars. The moon sailed clear of the horizon, rising quickly. It wasn’t quite full and could have been wrought of finest silver. Its light made the frost on the ground glitter but suddenly, with no discernible signal, the entire Fae company seemed to catch their breath as one. The music stopped.
They turned to watch Finvarra, who had been standing motionless before them all.
That king spared a glance about himself, clearly reveling in their attention. He left the Elphine Queen and took a step forward, pulling his sword from its sheath. The hilt was wrought of gold and shone in the moonlight, embellished with a ruby of enormous size that seemed to pulse like a beating heart. The blade itself gleamed, seemingly with a malice
of its own. It might have been the finest steel, honed to perfection, but Elizabeth knew the Fae could not abide steel or iron.
Perhaps there was a glamour upon it. Perhaps it was bronze. She could not say, but she did not doubt that it was sharp.
Her brother Malcolm dropped to his knees before the Fae king and bent his head to surrender his neck to the blade. Did he keep his word as a man of honor, or did the Fae compel him to be so compliant? Again, Elizabeth did not know and she watched with horror as Finvarra’s blade was lifted high. The Fae company began to shimmer in agitation, as if they could not control their excitement that the tithe would be collected. Catriona’s grip on her hand tightened, that woman’s fingers icy cold, as the Elphine Queen offered a golden chalice to Malcolm.
Its contents were a rich golden hue, like mead perhaps or Fae ale. Perhaps it was a mercy, and drinking of this draught would ensure that Malcolm felt no pain. Perhaps it would make him forget all the mortals and the life he had known. Again, Elizabeth did not know.
Her heart leaped though, and she hated being so powerless that she could only watch Malcolm be sacrificed. Catriona clutched her hand so tightly that Elizabeth could not feel her fingertips.
Why did Finvarra not even glance toward Rafael?
What could Elizabeth do?
Six
As the Elphine Queen lifted the goblet to Malcolm’s lips, a gnarled old man darted through the company of the Fae. For a moment, Elizabeth did not know whether he was Fae or mortal. He lunged toward Malcolm and the force of impact sent Malcolm falling backward. The old man snatched at Malcolm’s chest, his fingers scrabbling against Malcolm’s tabard.
“Mine!” he roared and grabbed something. He gave a ferocious tug and Malcolm fell forward, the move allowing Elizabeth to see the chain around his neck. Catriona stiffened beside her.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 109