by M. A. Grant
What a load of shit. Keiran knows I don’t like to fight with swords. They’re too long and cumbersome. It’s why he keeps so many knives on him; I’m better with a seax in hand.
Cybel, Drest, and Armel have already settled in at one of the tables set up for the day’s supper. The trio looks happier with their ale and hot meal. I need to remember to have us stop in places like this more often. Cybel’s older than Mother, and Drest and Armel are both old enough to be my father. They’re weathered from centuries in the Wylds, but strong enough they could trick others into believing them to be far younger, if not for their white and graying hair. They’re more than my childhood tutors. They’ve become my family and deserve to be treated as such.
“Keiran let you off the hook?” Drest asks as I walk by.
“There’s always a price,” I reply, focused on getting to a private room and a hot bath.
Drest grins despite my ominous answer and holds his hand palm up toward Armel. “Pay up. I told you he’d cover for the boy.”
Armel grumbles, but digs in his pocket for a coin. I roll my eyes, ignore their jokes, and follow one of the men preparing supper upstairs. The room’s clean and simple, but the tub is fairly large and some helpful boys lug in pots of hot water. One is even wise enough to leave a pot with some chips of soap soaking in the water so I can wash my clothes. Clearly, they’re used to treating visitors well here. We’ll have to leave some of our better pieces of treasure when we leave. Even at that cost, it’s a good end to a messy day.
Almost an hour later, I emerge from the bathing chamber in clean breeches and find Keiran sitting in one of the rickety wooden chairs near the dingy window, sharpening knives. A fire’s already going in the grate and he’s only using a tiny portion of the table for his work because a big bowl of hearty stew and a hunk of bread are sitting in front of the other chair, along with a tall flagon of what must be local ale. He doesn’t bother to look at me as I come farther into the room.
“Took you long enough,” he grumbles. He hitches his chin toward the chair, eyes never leaving the whetstone as he continues to work on the blade’s edge. “Saved you some dinner. Eat.”
The scrap of fabric I was provided for washing is completely sodden after drying my hair, and perfectly weighted for battle. Keiran’s got a bad habit of ordering me around. Usually I’d call him on it. But there’s something painfully domestic about the scene before me and I’m loath to disrupt it completely. I make sure to telegraph the move when I toss the cloth toward his face. He blocks it and it lands on the floor near my chair with a wet splat.
“I can take it back down to Armel, if you’re going to be an ass.” It’s a fond growl though and I know he’s not irritated by my childish attack.
“What new legends did you spread after I left?” I ask, dragging out the chair and slouching down until I’m comfortable. I don’t reach for the spoon or the bread.
“Oh, nothing too awful. You went to the river and learned the stealing of the kraken’s egg left it too suspicious of fae. You had no choice but to end its suffering. It was a painful decision for you to make, since you love all creatures of the Wylds so deeply, but the village’s fishing sites are safe once more and the children will no longer starve.”
I blink when he pauses, aware once more of the crackling of the fire and the steady rasp of metal on stone. His voice has always managed to smooth the tangle of thoughts in my head, to help me focus in on his words, but usually I’m better at hiding it. At least he’s too distracted to notice my less-than-subtle pining. “You really played up the noble warrior thing this time, didn’t you?” I manage.
It coaxes a half smile from him. “It never hurts to be well loved by children.”
I groan and rub a hand over my face. “Goddess, they’re going to mob me tomorrow morning when we ride out.”
It’s a full-blown smile now, broad and charming and mine. Keiran doesn’t smile like this for anyone else. When he spins his web of tales for the people of the Wylds, he smiles, but it doesn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes or hold that same warmth it does when he directs it at me. “At least ten of them have promised to be your escort to the edge of the village’s defenses.”
“I don’t have enough trinkets to give them.”
“You don’t have to give them anything but yourself. Wear the helm as we ride away. That sight alone will have them repeating the story to their children someday.”
The thought of wearing the Horned King’s helm long enough to awe the village children with the impressive illusion makes my head ache. “I’ll think about it,” I mutter, half-heartedly kicking at the washrag and missing it over and over.
“Lugh.”
I dart a glance at Keiran and find him watching me. His hands have stilled their motion and the concern in his dark gaze makes me squirm. I hate worrying him. “What, Keiran?”
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast. Are you hungry?”
I try to change the subject. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Downstairs with the men,” he parries. He waits and I know if I don’t start eating, he’ll start asking truly invasive questions.
I reach out and take hold of the spoon. His attention returns to the knife. He doesn’t have to look away from me as I eat. It’s probably smarter if he kept watching me to make sure I’m not just pushing around the chunks of parsnips and carrots instead of actually eating them. That’s why his unfailing trust in me, even when I don’t deserve it, is something I never want to lose.
I take a bite of the stew and chew carefully. No bones or gristle. My confidence grows with every bite, as does the hunger I’ve been ignoring for most of the day. Keiran’s almost done with the second knife by the time I sop up the remaining gravy with the bread. He’s moved on to the third knife by the time I finish draining the ale.
“That was good,” I admit.
He continues to work the blade’s edge. It’s the seax I handed him after using it in our battle this morning. It’s clean now and shining from the water on the whetstone. I accept it with a murmured thanks and watch him work. We sit in near-silence for so long the fire’s nothing but banked coals before Keiran nudges my foot under the table with his. “Go to bed,” he urges. “I’m almost done.”
Yet another of Keiran’s orders I don’t mind following. Maybe I should be more concerned about this, my desire to acquiesce to his wishes without question when I’m tired, but it’s late and I’ve no energy left for that much self-examination. The hazy edges of sleep make the room waver and bend and the sheets are blessedly clean and smooth compared to the thin bedrolls and blankets we normally camp with. I crawl under the top layer and shift until the pillow is a comfortable cushion under my head instead of an annoyance. Keiran’s good enough to let me start drifting off before he asks, “How bad are the nightmares, Lugh?”
I hold up a rude gesture in his general direction and try to ignore him. It doesn’t work well when all he has to do is repeat my name with his honey-sweet inflection that screams I’m worried, let me take care of you, trust me.
“Bad,” I grunt.
“How many nights now?”
Thinking hurts. Tracking dates is worse. Goddess, I hate when he makes me count. “Three.”
A long silence. Can I sleep now?
“I’ll stay up,” he finally says. I know what that means. Keiran staying up means whispered recitations of the Eddur and a promise of breakfast in the morning. It means waking up to find him guarding me as the sun rises after a long night spent with his old knife in hand after keeping a watch out for all the monsters who visit my dreams.
Too bad they’re not monsters he can kill.
“What, Lugh?” he whispers from across the room.
Oops. Didn’t mean to say it aloud. Can’t exactly pretend I didn’t though.
“You can’t stop them,” I tell him. “They’ll keep coming.”
&
nbsp; “What will keep coming?”
“And they aren’t monsters.” I don’t tell him the rest. Instead, I close my eyes and wait to see if the next shade has already found me.
Chapter Six
Keiran
Lugh fell asleep as Loki and Freyja set about arguing in the recitation. I finished up the night’s work—setting Lugh’s washed clothes by the fire to dry, taking a quick bath, and rearranging our weapons—before preparing for bed myself. There was no room to sleep beside Lugh. He’d burrowed deep under the covers, his head covered by the pillow and the blankets kicked about, with his bare, muscular legs exposed. I tugged the blankets back in place and instead settled into one of the corners of the room. The spot gave me a clear view of Lugh and the door and eased some of the worry gnawing in my chest. Enough, apparently, that I crossed over into Nótt’s realm of sleep without much trouble.
I’m paying for it now though. Blinking awake is painful, partially due to the sunlight streaming in onto my tired eyes and partially due to my uncomfortable position. Wedging myself into the corner for a few hours wouldn’t have been so bad, but the lagging pull in my muscles and the steady ache in my joints warns I’ve been asleep for much longer than I originally planned. I reach up to scrub a hand over my face, but a blanket stops the motion. Someone tucked me in like a small child.
A quick glance at the bed confirms Lugh’s no longer asleep. His clothes are gone from their place by the fire. His favorite seax is missing from the spread of weapons on the table.
“Herne and the hunters,” I growl and claw my way free of the blanket. I throw on the rest of my weapons, do one final check of the room to ensure we aren’t leaving anything behind, and hurry downstairs.
Despite the sun’s progress, it isn’t as late as I feared. The only people awake are our party. The open doors of the hall let us see a few Sluagh passing by on the street, but not enough to indicate the village has begun to wake for the day. Lugh and the Hunt are settled in happily at a table in one of the hall’s quiet alcoves, sharing a loaf of steaming bread between them, along with a crock full of fresh butter and several open jars of jam. Armel notices me first and raises a slice in my direction.
“The fair Brynhildr has awoken,” he teases.
Lugh turns around, spots me, and is up from the table and in front of me before I can make the rude gestures I intend.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
Confused. Slow. Too far behind the day’s progress already. “Fine,” I tell him.
Lugh hasn’t called me on a lie since we were children, when he accidentally gave me away once in front of his mother. She had asked if we’d snuck out the previous night and I lied to protect Lugh, who instantly confessed. Queen Mab sliced open my cheek with an ice dagger as a warning against future lies and Lugh spent the next week helping me clean it while it healed. His expression would go stormy when he saw the pale line marring my skin. I hated seeing his guilt and grew out my beard, hoping I could hide the scar from him. He doesn’t seem to notice it as often, though he’ll sometimes trace the spot with a finger when he’s about to drift off. So when I voice this blatant falsehood about my day’s start, he makes a face, but lets me have the moment as he leads me back to the table.
“It’s all fresh,” he exclaims, reaching for the slice of bread Cybel offers. He starts slathering butter onto the bread and reaches toward one of the pots of jam with the butter knife.
Heathen. I smack his hand and snag the knife back. He frowns when I set it down beside the crock.
“I was using that,” he protests.
“Not well,” I throw back. And because I can tell he’s about to argue with me, I steal the buttered bread from his hand and take a bite. “How long have you been awake?”
He’s careful to not mix the butter and jam this time. He’s even more careful in his efforts to avoid my question. “For a while.”
“How long is a while?”
He squints off into the middle distance and tries to look thoughtful. It’d be more believable if his hand and the corner of his mouth weren’t smeared with jam. “An hour or so?” he asks, glancing at the men for confirmation.
They all look away from him.
“Traitors,” he grumbles under his breath.
“Seidhr.”
He glares at me while he eats his new slice. “A while, okay? You were asleep so I got up and gave you a blanket and came downstairs and Cybel woke up and we’ve been sitting down here talking until you joined us.”
I glance across the table at Cybel. He doesn’t say a word, but the way he risks a look at the front door tells me enough. “You were going to go for a ride?”
Lugh’s mouth drops open, exposing the half-chewed bread. It is disgustingly unattractive. “I never said that!”
“You didn’t have to. It’s what you always do. We don’t have time to spend exploring.”
We all look toward the doors at the unexpected sound of hoofbeats outside, our mood changing from relaxed to attentive in a moment. Drest rises, half-eaten slice of bread still in hand, and moves to the door. Whatever he sees outside must be good, because he grins and lifts a hand in greeting. He glances back over his shoulder toward us. “Visitors,” he declares.
“This early?” Lugh mumbles. “Who is it?”
A trio of figures appears behind Drest in the doorway. The moment the leader steps into the dim light of the hall, we all give up hoots and cries of welcome. Voll, the huscarl of this territory, shakes her head at our greeting, as though we’re a group of rowdy children, not the legendary Horned King and his Wild Hunt.
“When I heard rumors that the Horned King had arrived in my lands,” she muses on her way toward us, “I refused to believe it. Surely he wouldn’t come here and steal my glory by killing the creature attacking this village. Surely he wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh,” Lugh says deadpan, “he dared and he succeeded.”
Voll and Lugh stare at each other for a long moment before they both burst into simultaneous laughter. She strides forward to close the rest of the distance and wraps him in a spine-crushing hug, which he returns with equal fervor. Voll’s attendants, two young warriors I don’t recognize, try to hide their awe when they see their leader’s friendly response to the Horned King. I doubt they know the depth of our history.
Voll is one of the most loyal Northern huscarls to Thegn Aage and the closest thing Lugh has to an aunt. She and Aage grew up watching our rise to fame in the Wylds. In the bloody power struggles that arose after Thegn Svend’s death, Voll and Aage were a united force, and the Hunt fought beside them. When Aage won those battles and took on his position as thegn over all the Sluagh, he declared Lugh would retain his title of Horned King. Voll was the first huscarl to stand and declare her allegiance to the old traditions and offices, and her fiery defense of the Sluagh’s ancient practices is likely the reason we’re still revered here in the North. Lugh’s admiration and fondness for her only increased after that moment, and his continued return to explore and defend her lands means his legend is probably strongest here.
She finally breaks away from Lugh to greet the rest of us in the Hunt. Drest hugs her, murmuring something quiet in her ear as they embrace. She nods at whatever he says and moves on to Armel and Cybel, who greet her with equal warmth. Armel even dares to press a kiss to her cheek, which makes her flush like a maid from the old tales. By the time she reaches me, I’ve already stood. Her blond braid shimmers with silver as it swings when she tilts her head up to look at me.
“Poet,” she says, voice warm and fond, “have you already spun the story of yesterday’s battle?”
“Of course,” I answer. “Perhaps sometime we could visit you and share it.”
“You’re always welcome in my hall. You know how my people love your presence in our lands.” Her mouth purses slightly. “Though it sounds as if you don’t expect to stop by so
on.”
“Our duty is to the thegn,” Lugh remarks. He takes his seat once again and gestures to an open space in invitation. Voll accepts the offer after dismissing her attendants to care for the horses.
Once they’ve left and the hall goes quiet once again, she glances quickly at all our faces and asks somberly, “Does he know you ride to Eyjar?”
“We haven’t sent word ahead,” Lugh admits. “Our decision to visit arose recently.”
Voll makes a thoughtful sound. “Have you planned your route yet?”
Armel glances toward me. Something in Voll’s seemingly casual question sets both our senses off. He dips a hand into his jacket and pulls out our main map, unfolding it and laying it across the table where Voll can see it too. “No. Is there something we should be aware of?”
For the first time, she looks uncomfortable. She shifts in her seat and attempts to shrug, but the frown twisting her mouth doesn’t leave. “I’m not sure. Some traders recently returned from the Mainland and brought...troubling rumors with them. It may be nothing, but I sent a messenger to Aage to see what counsel he could give.”
“What kind of rumors?” Lugh asks. He prepares another slice of bread, but his methodical movements give away his thoughtfulness.
She draws a short seax, one of the blades we gave her ages ago in battle, and taps at one of the areas we’ve frequented in the past while traveling. “The trade in Bouchard’s territory was poor. Fewer items available. And the hospitality was lacking, my traders said. Closed ranks against visitors. The land gave little for the harvest, so food wasn’t offered freely.” Voll sheathes her knife, accepts Lugh’s proffered slice of bread, and takes a delicate bite. “We may need to find new trade partners to ensure we’re prepared for winter.”
