White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  CHAPTER 2

  A SENNIGHT HAD PASSED SINCE the invasion, leaving behind seven days of blood spill and battle.

  In the lee of night winds, Boyden moved silently along the shore edge of the invaders’ camp. Pausing near the looming protection of a gray pillar stone embedded among the trees, he crouched low, becoming shade in waning twilight. A few horse lengths beyond, the trees gave way to sand and a foamy sea littered with anchored ships. Tilting his head, he focused on the argument going on between a black-haired female and an older man.

  “Princess Scota, I want you to remain here with the warriors guarding my ships.”

  “Amergin,” she protested firmly, holding windblown hair off her face.

  The druidic bard leader of the Milesians, Boyden thought, recognizing the name from what he heard. He did not know the warrior princess.

  The man held up his hand. “You may look like a submissive maiden, but I am once more reminded of your outspokenness and stubbornness. You will do as I say.”

  “Amergin, although I accompanied you in payment for my father’s land taxes, I believe in avenging the wrongful death of your uncle Íth. He was always kind to me.”

  “That may be. Yet here you will remain. You will act as my emissary to Captain Rigoberto until I return, and that is the end of it.”

  Without further comment, the leader of the Milesian invasion walked up a rocky path from shore to a camp of fire circles, mounted his horse, and rode away with a group of twelve.

  Boyden looked back at the princess. Pulling the dagger from his waist, he thought she would make a fine captive.

  She remained where she was, windblown and angry, giving the front laces of her white woolen shirt a frustrated tug, unaware of his presence. A brown leather armguard protected her left forearm from the snap of a bowstring, marking her weapon of choice.

  He took a step forward and stopped. Glancing over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footfalls, he backed up into the shadows once again.

  A short man walked down the rocky sand path to the shore where she stood bathed in spray and moonlight.

  “Where is Lord Amergin, Princess Scota? I was told he was here.”

  “He left, Captain Rigoberto.” The princess adjusted her armguard, her manner one of distinct coolness and obvious dislike. “I was told to remain here with you and act as Lord Amergin’s emissary while he is away.”

  “I know,” the captain grumbled with displeasure.

  “May I be of assistance to you, Captain?”

  The captain studied her, openly showing his interest. “You could come to my bed this eve.”

  “I gave you my answer, it remains the same as before, no.”

  “You will regret denying me.”

  She nodded, showing no fear of him. “That may be. Why did you come looking for Lord Amergin?”

  “We captured some of the Tuatha Dé Danann tribe.”

  Boyden muttered a silent oath at the captain’s statement. Returning the dagger to his waist, he slipped back into the newborn night, intent on rescue.

  Princess Scota faced the pig-nosed captain.

  At thirty summers, Captain Rigoberto was a short man, the top of his head barely rising to the bridge of her nose. His features, considered broad and thick among the camp whores, reminded her of a pig, although she maintained that a pig’s countenance was far more pleasing to the eye. He was a man of dark coloring and still darker disposition. She had developed an instant dislike of him upon their first meeting, but his ferocity was not to be questioned. Lord Amergin seemed to favor him, giving him the task to protect the ships.

  “Take me to them, Captain.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “They are worthless, Princess, a blind crone and two children. I would not bother you.”

  “Yet, you found them important enough to seek out Lord Amergin. Show me, Captain. I wish to see them.”

  Captain Rigoberto’s eyes narrowed. “Come, then, if you wish.”

  Scota accompanied the officer back up the curved path into their fire-lit camp.

  Men lounged among themselves, twenty in all, eating and drinking. Whores walked around them, showing their wares to those interested, but looking away when the captain passed by.

  Penned in a paddock of hastily erected wood fences, the warhorses grazed quietly, tolerating the stray wolfhounds.

  A large bonfire warmed the camp, flames crackling in response to the light sea breeze, shooting heat and sparks of blue into the night. Near a single oak at the left, two children clung to an old bent woman who stood in ankle-length brown robes. The two men posted to guard them looked bored by their duty.

  As she came closer, Scota stopped in her tracks. “The crone has no eyes.”

  “I told you they were worthless.”

  She agreed about the crone and quickly dismissed her as useless. The children, however, were another matter. Dirt-smudged, a boy of about ten summers and a girl of about seven summers would make good slaves, once cleaned up.

  Along the perimeter of the camp, one of their guards bellowed in surprise and sounds of a scuffle erupted.

  “What now?” the captain growled and ran over to investigate, leaving her alone with their prisoners.

  Scota felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Remaining where she stood, she glanced at the crone. Twigs of dried rosemary stuck out of white plaits. She heard the herb symbolized knowledge and protection from the crone goddess. Hag of the night, bless me with wisdom’s sight. The first phrase of the old blessing lingered in her thoughts. The blessing was performed outdoors when the hazel moon of the harvest month, Lughnasa, August, began to wane, but Lughnasa was far away.

  Scota dropped her gaze to a lined face set in masked stillness. The ancient continued to watch her, if one considered a sightless being capable of watching anything. She seemed haggard and weighed down, but there was an eerie quality to her, a seeping of threat and understanding unsettling Scota’s nerves.

  Her study dipped to the children. They were indistinct, with brown hair and very pale skin. They stood in quietness next to the crone, faces downcast in submission. From what she could see of their features, they looked to be brother and sister.

  “What are their names?” she inquired with authority.

  “Cavan and Nora,” the crone answered with a voice surprisingly smooth and youthful for one so exceedingly old.

  “Are you their mother?” she asked.

  “Nay. I am the village druidess. They became separated from their parents in the disorder you wrought.”

  Scota ignored the crone’s accusation. “They are brother and sister?”

  “Aye, they be thirsty and hungry, too.”

  Scota motioned to the closest guard. “Bring them water, bread, and meat to eat.”

  “For the crone, too?” the man asked with displeasure.

  “For the crone, too. Let them sit and take ease. It has been a long day for us all.”

  The guard walked back into camp to do her bidding. The crackle of flames filled the silence. She could feel the crone’s focus on her back.

  “What do you want, crone?” she prompted.

  “Beyond the fire, your destiny comes.”

  Scota glanced over her shoulder. “What did you say?”

  The ancient woman pointed her finger in response.

  Scota turned back and stilled.

  Three of the captain’s men were dragging a half-naked warrior by the heels toward the fire circle. A wild mane of tawny plaits flew about hard features. Covered in the blue dye of the woad plant, his upper body strained against the ropes binding his wrists. He was big, and she quickly reasoned him to be one of the warriors of the Tuatha Dé Danann tribe.

  Four guards attempted to contain him. He fought them, but it seemed to Scota that his efforts were crafted to create disturbance, rather than to gain release and freedom.

  “He be your destiny,” the crone repeated behind her and Scota walked over for a closer look, dismissing the sightless a
ncient from her mind.

  Boyden caught sight of Derina and two of the village children, Cavan and Nora. They were all dirt-smudged and unharmed, thank the winds. Over the past few days his tribe had been too few in number to battle the new enemy and so retreated to their fey brethren. Some made it, and some did not.

  Being fey born, he knew Derina could easily evade capture. There was another reason for her delay and now he understood. In the chaos of retreat, the children had become separated from their family and the druidess stayed behind to help them. The children were idir, like him, caught in the between.

  Although he did not plan on being captured, he was exactly where he wished to be, near them. He kicked out, clipping one of his captors on the side of the leg and bringing the thin man down.

  “Hold him,” someone of authority bellowed and Boyden thought the whiny voice came from the short man with the pig nose.

  He allowed himself to be flipped onto his stomach and his face pushed into the dirt. Knees followed, pressing weight into his back. He ceased struggling and waited, feeling a strange whisper of presence, a delicate fragrance of wildflowers in the air …

  “Captain, I did not realize four of your men are needed to bring down only one of our enemy,” a female taunted with a voice low and soft.

  “Get off him,” the one called the captain snarled.

  The three guards digging their knees into his back moved off and Boyden rolled to his side, breathing heavily and taking a moment to regain his perspective. He sat up, looking for the owner of the seductive voice and his heart stilled.

  By the winds!

  It was …

  … not her.

  He forced himself to remain motionless, to not show emotion.

  Not her, his mind reasoned, but one fashioned by the goddesses in similarity.

  This black-haired beauty with delicate winged brows appeared more a maiden than a hard-edged warrior. It was as if the gods and goddesses blended her features and added or forgotten a missing ingredient of his nightmare.

  The woman in his nightmare did not make him subservient.

  This princess with the dimpled chin would not succeed, either.

  “He looks at you with lust, Princess,” the pig nose said slyly.

  Scota looked from the captain to the bound captive. The warrior watched her, the wind blowing a wavy mane over a strong shoulder. She could not help but stare back. The touch of the warrior’s angry gaze sent a swirling heat through her blood. In the light of the fire, his eyes reflected the peculiar color of silvery gray storm clouds on a windy day. He had a strong chin and angular features, his nose streamlined and perfect, but his lips were what caught her attention. They were humorless and extremely sensual. They parted, an enticement just for her it seemed, and she heard his inward breath, her own trembling in response. He appeared physically perfect, muscular and lean in the way of wild animals, and she guessed him to be around twenty-five summers. She was twenty summers; a five-season difference set between them. Her gaze moved to the bronze neck ring resting on his collarbone. She heard the adornment referred to as a torc. Most of the Tuatha tribe wore them, along with bracelets and cuffs on their wrists. The torc was the only adornment he wore, except for the blue paint on his sweaty flesh.

  Her gaze lifted to his face once again and collided with stormy gray. The smell of fire-laced air burned in her lungs and she took another deep breath. The captain was watching her and the bound warrior with a strong attentiveness.

  She took a step back, putting distance between herself and the warrior. His eyes did not blink once since settling upon her. This rough-hewn captive would never submit, would never be a slave. His only use would be the information he could provide about the Tuatha Dé Danann tribe.

  “I wish to question him, Captain.”

  “Why? Do you fancy him?”

  “Captain, your lineage is showing. I want the information he can give me about his tribe, not the bulge between his legs.”

  “I will question him about his tribe and tell you what he says. There is no need for you to remain and not seek your rest.” A slight smile of anticipation played about the man’s mouth, giving her a feeling of disquiet.

  “I prefer to remain,” she countered.

  “I prefer you did not, Princess. In the presence of a female, males fight harder to preserve their pride.”

  She nodded reluctantly. “As you wish. Lord Amergin will no doubt want him alive.”

  “Understood.” The captain fingered a jeweled dagger at his waist.

  Turning on a heel, Scota strode away, her heart heavy for reasons she did not comprehend.

  Captain Rigoberto studied his captive with a critical eye toward gaining what he most wanted, wealth and power.

  He hated large muscular males almost as much as he hated females. From early on, he liked to hurt the girls from his village. It started out as tripping them when they walked by and moved on from there. The first girl took a season’s worth of planning. He followed her into the woods when no others were around, came up from behind, and hit her on the head. He grew hard thinking about it, and about the other five girls he took in the months that came after. He brought them into the moonlit fields beyond the village, stealing their precious innocence while they were barely conscious. He relished defiling them. Before long, suspicion fell on him and he ran away to seek his fortune elsewhere. He tried satisfying his needs with the local whores he came across. It was not the same. As he considered the whores already ruined, he turned to other means of gratification. No one cared how a whore died, no one listened to her cries.

  Upon being introduced to the highly spirited princess, a deep craving took hold, keeping him up at night. He wiped his sweaty forehead. He thought about what he would do to her when he got her alone. How he would force himself into her while tightening his hands around her throat. He would anchor her wrists above her head. Tie her ankles, spreading her long white legs wide while he ground himself, hard and fast, into her.

  He licked dry lips.

  The only thing staying his lust was the thought of Amergin’s wrath. It prevented him from acting out his intentions with the haughty princess, for now. A new plan took form in his mind. With wealth, he could buy worthless village girls who looked like the princess, defile them as he wanted, then sell them to the whorehouses.

  He met the hooded glare of the bound warrior.

  He needed only capture one of this land’s mysterious fey creatures.

  One who could lead him to the great faery treasure he had heard of.

  One formed of perfection.

  His hand rested on the hilt of the dark magical dagger at his waist.

  CHAPTER 3

  BOYDEN DISMISSED THE WARRIOR PRINCESS from his mind and focused on the shorter man called the captain.

  The round black eyes above the pig nose were full of menace and excitement. He wished he could see into that one’s depraved mind.

  “Take him to the sea and clean him up.” The captain motioned to the four guards who stood aside, waiting. “I want to see what he looks like beneath the blue paint.”

  Boyden’s gaze narrowed. What possible difference do my looks make? he wondered. The guards swooped in, akin to birds of prey. Their hands clamped around his body, fingerlike talons lifting him.

  The pig-nosed man stepped forward and grabbed a chunk of hair.

  Pain sliced through his scalp.

  Sour breath scorched his face.

  “The way you look at the crone and children leads me to believe you tried to rescue them. Be warned, warrior. If you struggle, I will order the crone killed.”

  Boyden bared his teeth at the coward. Hiding behind an old woman, this enemy captain played at being a leader of men. The pig nose released him and gestured toward the sea. “I want him clean and unharmed. Make sure of it.”

  The guards carried him through the fire-lit camp, a piece of meat ready to be butchered. He fought the urge to struggle, fought the urge to take them all down, and
decided to make it as difficult as possible for them. Arching his back, he tossed his head and managed to rake his teeth over a guard’s exposed flesh, drawing blood.

  Scota stood in a small ditch near the abandoned circular house of stone and wood, examining broken pottery and gathering her thoughts. The Tuatha warrior unnerved her in a way she had never experienced before.

  In the camp, a man squealed in pain. She looked up at the disturbance, the sound of the sea no longer a gentle lull in her ears. Through a small grouping of moonlit trees, beyond the penned horses, she saw four guards carrying the Tuatha warrior toward the sea.

  Her hands tightened about the clay pottery as she watched the procession. She had retreated to this broken-down home of thatched roof, plank, and willow supports to clear her mind of the enigmatic warrior. Never did she allow a male to affect her so.

  She tried to refocus on the broken piece of clay pottery in her hands. Since coming to this land of mist and stone, rest eluded her. She did not know why, only that she could not sleep. Across her feet lay a tree’s tall moon shadow. The illumination provided enough light to easily see and walk by. She looked at her surroundings. The round house was buried among the oaks as if the builder sought protection from the sea. Located a hundred paces from the camp, it smelled of age and mold. Branches of thorny bushes invaded the doorway behind her, climbing inward and seeking shelter. She heard said thorns belonged to the faery creatures. Scota dismissed it. Thorns were thorns as trees were trees. Yet, she could not shake the strange feeling of presence lingering among the dark shadows. Brought in by the breezes of the night, the shade felt warm with another’s breath, whispers urging her to …

  One of the guards carrying the warrior yelped loudly in pain. Scota dropped the broken shard of pottery. She turned toward the sound and instead found a peculiar shimmering in the trees. It felt almost alive with magical threat.

  A gust of wind nearly toppled her and she braced herself, reaching for her dagger.

  Green leaves shivered softly, undersides upturned in silvery gray.

  She swung around, dagger drawn, searching for the menace.