White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “ ‘Tis the farm gown or nothing, my warrior. Put it on.”

  She eyed his rough woven clothes with envy. “How about you don the gown and give me those brown breeches and tunic you are wearing.”

  He slipped his feet into his boots, straightened, and splayed his hands over his chest, the sleeveless tunic showing the breadth and muscle of his shoulders and arms.

  “Nay, Scota. I like the feeling of finely crafted wool.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “Besides, I doona think the gown will fit me. You are shivering, Scota. Put on the gown and let us eat, rest, and be oft”.”

  “I will not wear a gown.” She stubbornly refused.

  “Put it on before I help you put it on.”

  “Try it,” she challenged, teeth chattering.

  He took a threatening step forward and stopped.

  Outside, the sound of boys returning could be heard, and Scota hastily shrugged into the wheat colored gown. Tying the leather belt under her breasts, she found the cloth surprisingly comfortable, the hem falling to her ankles.

  She tossed damp hair over her shoulder, found a comb carved from wood, and ran it through her tangled mane until it shone.

  “Tá tú go h-álainn,” her mate murmured, watchful, and she turned to him.

  “You are beautiful, Scota.”

  She smiled warmly. “As are you.” She handed him the small comb and gestured to his wild mane while she went and retrieved her boots.

  He put the comb aside. “Aye,” he agreed with low laughter and ran his hands through the tangles. Scooping up the scabbard housing the sword, he shrugged back into it. The dagger returned to his waistband, as well.

  “Come, eat, the two of you,” Nia called from inside the main room.

  “We eat, rest, and leave at dawn,” he said, taking her arm.

  Scota nodded, anxious to return to Amergin and stop the bloodshed.

  CHAPTER 16

  SHE ATE MORE THAN BOYDEN and released a loud burp to prove it.

  He chuckled, squatting down to adjust their makeshift bed of white sheepskins and hay. “You ate enough for two, my warrior.”

  “I was hungry,” she mumbled in explanation, rubbing a slightly bloated stomach.

  “Aye, I saw you were. Stew, roots, mutton, goat’s milk, and drisheen,” he said with bemusement. “I enjoyed the blood pudding, too.” Sitting down on the bed, he patted the edge. “Come and take your rest with me. We leave early on the morrow.”

  She started to untie the gown’s leather belt and paused in thoughtfulness. “We should remain clothed in case of rude awakenings.”

  “Aye, ‘tis my thought, but doona let that stop you.”

  Her eyes narrowed at his innocent look, and she retied her belt.

  “Do you think of nothing else, Boyden?”

  “I am a male.” He grinned and extended his hand, murmuring, “Come, Scota. ‘Tis time for sleeping.”

  She slid her hand in his warmer one and settled down next to him, unresisting and quiet.

  Shifting to give her more room, he lay on his back. When she settled down, an arm wrapped around her, holding her close. She eased her head upon his shoulder, feeling strangely cherished, the strength of him real and solid beside her. His clean scent filled her lungs with whiffs of the simpler’s herbal soap. She probably smelled the same, she thought, smiling. It was a lightly fragrant scent sprinkled with the touch of a wild meadow.

  “Sleep, Scota,” he murmured with a tender press of lips to her temple. “Our day will be long on the morrow, and we may not have another chance to seek our rest again. I wish to reach Amergin soon. Do you know where to find him?”

  “Yes, Boyden.” Warmth from his body seeped into hers, pulling her down into weariness. “He stays at the bend of a large river, near Tailtiu. Do you know this place?” She yawned, covering her mouth.

  “Aye, I know it well. A land of northern hills and a river bountiful with salmon flowing northeast out to sea.”

  “A fine place for battle?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he agreed, “a fine place for battle. We will talk more on the morrow.”

  “Aye.” She yawned, imitating him. Aye sounded more lyrical than a plain old, yes, she decided and snuggled close. After a while, his arm relaxed around her as he slipped into sleep.

  They rested within an unfinished cottage next to Nia’s home. The interior smelled of freshly downed trees. Aedan, the village leader, commanded they sleep here. Although she preferred the outdoors, she was too full of food to argue with him. Through the unfinished roof of twigs and labor, she watched a half moon waning in a black sky dotted with tiny stars. Warm light winds crossed the lands and lochs in a wooing of nightly enchantment. Eyes fluttering closed, she listened to her mate’s slumber. It was a soft snoring, which slid into the silence of nightly animal sounds. Peace settled within her body, and she slept for a few precious hours.

  Scota did not know if the nausea or the insistent whisperings of a dark dream were what woke her. In either case, it mattered not, and she eased from her sleeping mate to take care of her necessities outside the cottage. She refused to vomit in a villager’s unfinished home. It would be a bad omen.

  Placing her hand over her mouth and with her stomach cramping, she slipped quickly outside into the cool darkness. She made it to a grouping of three trees before the delicious meal she had eaten last eve decided to leave her stomach.

  Shivering with inner chills, Scota pressed back against the rough tree bark, her body soaked in a cold sweat. After a few more dry heaves, the queasiness released her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, having a greater appreciation for what females endured while breeding. She hoped this was the end of it. Never did she feel sick, never weak-kneed or trembling, and attributed it to the finicky demands of the growing babe within her womb.

  “No more of that, little one,” she pleaded silently on shaky legs. She took a deep breath of recovery, reluctantly admitting to a fleeting feebleness. Tucking strands of hair behind her right ear, she lifted her gaze to the horizon. Dawn trickled across the distant peaks, a gift of solitude in floating pinks and gold. She stood at the ragged edge of a wild and enchanted land, marveling at the beauty of it, and wondering if Amergin, the great druid bard, would listen to her words and end an invasion that should never have begun. “MacCuill, MacCecht, and MacGreine,” she whispered the kings’ names aloud and vowed to find them.

  Slowly, she became aware of the absence of bird songs, and the hair on the back of her neck bristled. A blast of cold wind nearly pushed her off her feet. The word SHARE floated inside her mind, a lingering demand of lust and desire.

  Scota straightened, searching for the ancient wind.

  “SHARE HIM.”

  “Show yourself,” she demanded.

  The air glimmered, and a reflection of herself materialized with a silvery blast of air. The Gaoth Shee stood in a sheer white gown woven of crystals, mist moving in circles around her.

  “Show your true self, not a version of me.”

  An answer of emptiness invaded her mind, of presence and need without form. The Elemental presented reflections of her intentions. She did not have a real body.

  “SHARE.”

  Scota shook her head. “We agreed, and I allowed you to enter my body and share my senses when he touched me. I will not do it again.”

  The air around her vibrated with the anger of a primordial being.

  “No, I will not betray him again.”

  “WANT HIM.”

  “You can not have him,” she snapped.

  “Oh, but I intend to,” Captain Rigoberto said, grabbing her hair and thrusting the tip of the Darkshade dagger against her throat.

  “I intend to have him and his fey treasure.”

  Foul breath brushed her cheek. In the corner of her eye, Scota saw the reflection of herself fade, abandoning her to the fanaticism of the pig-nosed captain.

  “I did not recognize you in that simple farm gown, Princess Scota.” Superfici
al charm rolled off his tongue. “You look quite young,” he murmured, “like one of the girls from my village.”

  His lips pressed to her ear. “I like innocence. I find it exceedingly attractive to my tastes, you know.”

  Instinct warned her to caution. She could feel the magical babe within her womb coiling away from the press of the Darkshade dagger to her skin. Scota knew debauchery when it stood before her and unconsciously calmed in the warrior way.

  “If we had more time, I would show you exactly what I like from a female.” He moved behind her. “I can assure you that you would enjoy it, too. All females like what I do to them. But this morning my interest is for far richer fare. The fey treasure will bring me great wealth. Wealth to do with as I wish, for as long as I wish, and you are going to help me find it.”

  “Release me, Captain. You have no right to hold me with a dagger. I am Amergin’s emissary.”

  “You are Amergin’s whore.” He drooled on her neck. “I care little for what you think you are.”

  The rustle of bushes sounded behind them. “My men grow anxious with our delay.” He pressed into her, rubbing his arousal into her buttocks. “If only there were more time to show you what I like, but, alas, I must wait.” He sighed. “Greed calls insistently to me, and I must answer.” His hand tightened in her hair, and he pushed her forward. From the bushes, ten men emerged and followed them silently.

  “Tell me where the yellow-haired faery is.”

  Scota refused to answer, and he gave her hair a hurtful yank, causing her to nearly lose her balance.

  “A sudden thought puzzles me. I do believe we have done this before. Did I not have one of my men shoot you with an arrow?” His brows joined together as he examined her body in detail. “Why are you not dead, Princess Scota?”

  “Your bowman’s aim was off,” she countered, seeking his anger. Anger made men foolish. “You ran away like a coward before confirming it. You are not a leader of men.”

  “Do not tempt me to kill you again,” he sneered. His hand wrapped around her throat while the other continued to press the dagger under her jaw.

  “Walk, Princess.”

  “You are a coward,” she hissed. “Sneaking up behind me while I vomited in weakness. Give me a sword and meet me on the honor field as a warrior.”

  “Warrior?” He snickered in hearty disagreement. “You are not a warrior. You talk to the air and nothingness, your mind touched by the fell winds of this boggy land.”

  He forced her to walk into the center of the sleeping village. In the distance, an orange dawn brightened into blue skies.

  Captain Rigoberto called over his shoulder to his men, “Wake the entire village. Drag every yellow-haired male of age, out of bed, and bring him to me. I will have the faery.”

  “Leave these people alone,” Scota said.

  “Shut up!”

  Hearing the commotion outside, frightened families emerged from their homes with the mothers clutching their children close.

  Scota hated to see fear on their faces. “Leave them be, Captain. They are innocents.”

  “No one is innocent in this land, especially females. Now shut up before I make you shut up.” Fingers dug into her neck, and he forced her to walk forward.

  “Where is the golden faery?” he demanded loudly, clasping her tightly in front of him. “Where is he?”

  “I am here, Captain,” Boyden answered, his tone radiating the menace and dark power residing within him.

  In hurried whispers, the villagers parted to let him pass, more afraid of what he might be than of the mortal males threatening their village.

  Panicking, her captor dragged her backward a step before regaining his composure.

  Scota’s heart went cold with what she saw.

  It was Boyden, and yet not him. He appeared to be a primordial hunter of the long-ago times, one of those pledged to the dark powers, and that darkness was now stalking them. The wind swirled in gusts all about the invaders. It was a mystical guarantee of deadly purpose.

  Scota lifted her gaze to eyes of amethyst rage radiating promises of retaliation. She had seen many gazes in times of battle, none compared to this.

  “Titim gan éirí ort,” Boyden said the ancient oath aloud, letting the curse roll off his tongue. May you fall without rising. He took full note of the Darkshade dagger pressed to his mate’s slender neck, and the fury within coiled to strike.

  “If you fear meeting a warrior woman on the honor field of battle, mayhap you willna fear me,” he taunted. “Come, Captain, show your men you are not a coward.”

  “I am not a coward!”

  Boyden tilted the tip of his weapon in response. “Prove you are not. Come and test my sword.”

  Air slashed the skin with sudden chill, and a child cried out in fright somewhere to his right. Boyden felt the Gaoth Shee lingering near, a companion of death, waiting for his summons. He could end it all with merely a thought and struggled to contain his torrid fury.

  “Come, Captain.” Boyden smiled invitingly. “Come meet me like the warrior you pretend to be.” He circled the bastard holding his mate captive, the rogue band of males giving him room. He knew what they saw, a male of dark and dangerous enchantment, his hair blowing in wind gusts they did not feel. It had been a blast of wind that awoke him, a blast of bone-chilling howling and warning of his mate’s endangerment.

  “I can best you, faery,” the captain said violently, “if you do not spell cast me.”

  “There is no need for spell cast,” Boyden replied firmly, though he knew not how to weave one. “If you hurt her, I willna tell you the location of the fey treasure ever.” Because I will impale you with my blade, you coward!

  “You vow to battle me fairly?”

  Boyden spread his arms wide, his right hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword in a lethal balance. “I always vow to play fairly, Captain. ‘Tis the way of the fey. Best me and I will reveal to you what you seek.” The untruth left his lips easily.

  “I knew it,” the captain said excitedly, never noticing the golden shards of the fey in his captive’s lovely turquoise eyes. “I knew you were one of them.” He shoved Scota hard to the ground and threw the Darkshade dagger at him.

  “You are mine!” the captain roared.

  “No!” Scota cried.

  With a quick turn and swipe of his sword, Boyden battered the ancient dagger aside. The weapon flipped, end over end, the tip embedding in the rocky soil behind him.

  On the ground, he heard Scota breathe a sigh of relief. Only she knew the true threat of the dagger should it find his flesh again.

  “You missed, Captain Rigoberto,” he said calmly.

  “I will not miss with this.” The captain launched at him, his sword drawn.

  Boyden easily sidestepped his opponent, centuries of swiftness pulsing in his blood. With a downward thrust, he slashed the shorter man across his ribs.

  Sucking in his breath, the captain came back at him, face contorted in frenzy, yelling for his men to help him subdue the weakling faery. “Help me, and you will have more treasure then you can imagine!”

  The men stepped forward, faces pale, yet assurances of wealth overriding their trepidation.

  Boyden bared his teeth and attacked.

  Scota did, too. Grabbing the Darkshade dagger, she slashed the back of a male’s leg, bringing the aggressor down to his knees and cut his throat swiftly. She reached for the dead man’s sword, climbed to her feet, and tripped on the hem of the infernal gown. Recovering quickly, she advanced to protect Boyden’s back.

  “It is me,” she yelled, giving him notice before she met the swords of two of the captain’s greedy companions. Gripping the bronze hilt with both hands, she feinted at one and slashed the neck of the other. She dropped to one knee and propelled her sword upward as the other sought her death. He held his blade high above his head with the intent of slicing her in two. A mistake. She plunged her blade into his heaving chest, a quick thrust in and out. Jumping u
p, she pivoted on the balls of her feet, and met the downward sword thrust of the spineless captain. Parrying his blade, she forced the furious pig nose to back up.

  “I knew you would attack me from behind, Captain.” She deflected his next attempt bringing her sword down to protect her stomach.

  “Whore, I do not wish to fight you,” he said, seething with anger. “It is him I want. Him! Get out of my way.” He sought to slash at her. “Give me the magical dagger, whore, and I will not kill you.” He was sweating profusely in the warm air.

  Jammed in the belt beneath her breast, the Darkshade dagger throbbed with sickly darkness through the cloth of her gown. She could feel the essence of power threatening her womb.

  Battling against the ill sensation, she regarded the captain steadily. She knew that as long as the blade did not cut her flesh, it could do no harm to her or her babe.

  The captain attacked and she deflected all attempts to remove her head from her neck.

  “Give the dagger to me, whore.”

  She advanced, extending her sword arm. “Try and take the dagger from me. Come, Captain Rigoberto, see if you can best a mere female.” She goaded him, wanting him to strike. She would not be bested, not by him.

  “Scota!” Boyden called from somewhere behind her, the clang of swords ringing in the air.

  “I am fine,” she reassured, her eyes never leaving her enemy.

  The captain feinted right, intent on impaling her heart. Knocking his foolish effort aside with a quick swipe of her sword, she stepped around him, forcing him to balance on his weaker side. She had seen him in battle and knew how he fought. She counterattacked with serene ferocity, a warrior true in heart and diligence, a female shielding her mate.

  “You stupid bitch!” He came after her, his face mottled in rage. She evaded, deflected, and dodged with accuracy and grace.

  “I am the stronger here!” he yelled. “You are worthless.” All his charm had long ago disappeared. His cheeks grew more crimson, and he changed tactics, plunging to avoid the engaging force of her sword and … she had him.

  With a loud chink, their weapons met. Forcing his blade high, she reached for the Darkshade dagger at her waist …