by Alex Faure
Fionn. The assassin had somehow, with improbable efficiency, dispatched the red-haired giant, who lay facedown in the stream, his blood undulating about him like curls of seaweed. The darker Robogdi had fled—Darius could hear him crashing through the forest, stealth forgotten in his headlong desire to leave Fionn behind.
Five down, one in retreat. Darius let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. Fionn, after a piercing glance in his direction that Darius could not read at all, turned back to the trees, clearly thinking to follow the Celt.
An arrow flew towards his back, and before Darius could even draw breath to shout, it was buried between Fionn’s shoulder blades.
Nothing, in the moment that followed, made sense, even when Darius looked back on it days later. Fionn whirled, and he did not seem hurt. For there was no arrow in his back, no wound—the arrow had hit the trunk of a tree, where it stuck, vibrating. Yet it had quite clearly entered Fionn’s body. Darius had seen it.
The Robogdi man who had fired the arrow had seen it too. He stood at the edge of the stream, the whites of his eyes clearly visible even through the layered shadow of the forest. He nocked another arrow, but Fionn didn’t need to bother batting it aside—it came nowhere near its target. The man pointed the bow again, but before he could get another arrow off, Fionn was before him. Disregarding the threat posed by the weapon entirely, Fionn grabbed the man’s bow and pulled him forward, thrusting his dagger into his chest in the same, practiced motion he had used before. The man was dead before he withdrew his blade.
Darius was trembling. Fionn came to his side, murmuring something, his eyes searching Darius’s face. He placed a hand on Darius’s arm. It was wet with the Celts’ blood.
“Darius?” he said, his strange accent making more of a muddle of it than usual. He was—slightly—out of breath. Darius found himself clinging to that, for some reason. Fionn’s gaze swept over his body, searching for injury.
“I’m all right,” Darius said. His voice was not steady.
Fionn gestured to the woods, in the direction the remaining Robogdi assassin had fled.
Darius nodded. “Go. I’m all right.”
Fionn gave him another piercing look. His hand was still on Darius’s arm. When he drew it back, Darius’s sleeve was bloody. Then he was gone.
Darius was alone. And not alone—the bodies were there, lying sprawled in the dirt or the water. One of them was still twitching. The red-haired giant’s head was cocked at an odd angle. The wound at his throat was deep, so deep it had taken his head half off. It didn’t seem like the sort of injury that could be dealt with a dagger, and yet it had been.
The forest seemed to darken. The red-haired man’s limbs floated in the water, stirred by the current. Some sort of primal terror rose in Darius, a dark thing he had never felt before, even on the grisliest of battlefields, momentarily overwhelming his senses. It took control of him, whispering words in his ear: Run. Run. Run.
The forest began to stir.
Darius pushed himself off the tree, hefting the dagger. His ankle throbbed, but he barely acknowledged it. The forest was whispering. Or so it seemed. Not rustling, the sound of ordinary wind, but whispering. The sound was almost the same, but not quite. In the difference, there was awareness. And something sharp, a cold malevolence.
Darius shook.
Something was moving, perhaps behind a tree. It was either behind the tree or joined to it—a creature of human proportions, but inhuman in all other respects.
It was a pale thing, its skin the colour of rock, half-coated in a fuzz that might have been moss. Branches sprouted from its spine, spiky and jagged. Darius caught a glean of gold as its eyes turned towards him, catching the light. It moved again, and Darius saw it no more.
The creature was not alone. Others were stirring amongst the boughs, surfacing from the forest as if they had been there all along. One hissed at Darius—it had stick limbs, and a pale face that seemed all gleaming emerald eyes under a shroud of white hair. It slithered towards him and away.
The branch above him gave a shiver. Darius felt sharp, grasping fingers against his scalp, and jerked away. He lifted his dagger towards the hideous creature crouched upon the bough, its sharp, unnatural frame barely causing it to sag. This creature was like a shard of moonlight, pale and gleaming, apart from the leaves sprouting from its head and the palms of its hands. Hands that were too long, limbs that bent backwards like a cat’s—
Darius stumbled into the stream. He nearly tripped over one of the bodies. Another creature crouched on the chest of one of the dead men, dipping its fingers experimentally into the severed throat. It let out a low growl, its eyes—red-gold pools in a face full of teeth and jutting bones—gleaming into Darius’s. The creatures circled, taking position above Darius and on every side, closing off his escape. He felt claws bite into his leg, and whirled, slashing with his knife. But the creature was already gone.
“Darius.”
He turned. Fionn was coming towards him. His eyes were so bright, in that dark forest—they reflected the light as the fey creatures’ did, as human eyes did not. He seemed to hiss something at one of the creatures, but Darius could not say for certain if the sound came from his mouth or theirs. Darius suppressed an urge to take a step back, but Fionn caught his arm, and then, before Darius could stop him, placed his other hand against his face.
Darius’s body reacted instantly to that cool touch. He felt as if every inch of his body reoriented itself in Fionn’s direction, even as his mind rang with warnings. Fionn’s thumb was against his cheekbone, soft as rain.
One of the creatures darted past, stirring the boughs and leaving in its wake the sickly sweet smell of sap. Darius tensed, anticipating another attack, his eyes trying, unsuccessfully, to follow the creature’s progress. Why was Fionn just standing there? But Fionn took his jaw in hand and drew Darius’s gaze back to his own.
Fionn murmured something that had Darius’s name at the end. Darius felt himself caught in Fionn’s gaze as an insect in a web, or a fish in a frozen pool. Fionn’s expression was calm and steady. His cool hand warmed against Darius’s skin. Darius smelled the creatures again, heard the leaves rustle, but his gaze didn’t wander from Fionn’s. The forest’s murmur sank to a whisper, and then all was stillness.
Chapter Seven
He couldn’t stop shaking.
Darius sat by the fire Fionn had built back at the cave. After leading him there, Fionn had disappeared into the forest. He didn’t reappear until after the sun set and the stars flickered into being like candles in a distant temple.
When he did, he was covered in blood. His pale hair was splashed with it, as well as his hands, neck, arms, legs. Fionn alighted on the rock, a horrifically red figure. Calmly, he stripped off his tunic and boots, revealing skin like moonlight. He placed his weapons by the fire, the bow and arrow, the bone dagger. Then he dove into the river.
He was awhile in surfacing. When he did, he was like some river creature, pale and sleek, undulating easily in the rapids. He turned to Darius, and the firelight flashed against his silver eyes.
He disappeared again, then resurfaced close to the rock. He glided out, dripping, his thin trousers clinging to his body. Fionn shook the water from his hair, then knelt easily beside the river. He sat there for a moment, frozen.
Was he overcome with emotion? Darius wondered. Unwell? Then his hand slashed into the water with that eerie speed, and he was gripping a fish.
Darius watched Fionn clean and gut it, which he did with sparse, habitual motions. He attempted to rise to help him, but Fionn said something in a sharp tone. The meaning was clear, even if the words were not. Darius settled back against the rock.
“At least let me gather herbs,” Darius said. Fionn ignored him. He generally paid as much attention to Darius’s attempts to communicate as he did the chatter of birds, but now it rankled Darius as it hadn’t before. When he tried to rise, he was ordered once again to sit.
After Fionn set the f
ish on a spit over the fire, he went to Darius to examine him. Darius, in an ill humour now from the shock of all that had happened and the disconcerting ease with which Fionn ordered him about, suffered his attentions stiffly. Fionn cleaned the blood and dirt from his palms, then rubbed them with a bit of the same moss he had used to treat Darius’s leg. He examined Darius’s ankle, which was swelling again. He tsked when Darius winced at his touch.
“How did you survive that arrow?” Darius said. His voice was hoarse as he gazed into the assassin’s sharp, pale face. Sodden and half-dressed, the water on his pale skin glinting faintly in the starlight, he looked barely human. “Why are you protecting me?”
The Celt gave him an unreadable look before turning away. Darius felt something bubble up inside him, a fury he hadn’t known he was capable of.
“Do you protect me because I’m your prisoner? Because you want to petition General Agricola to make concessions in exchange for my release?” His voice grew louder as Fionn continued to ignore him. “He won’t. I may have had Agricola’s trust, but I am only one man. Rome will not exchange territory for my life.”
Fionn added more wood to the flames. Darius felt like the wind howling at an indifferent tree.
“You killed your own people to protect me,” he continued. He couldn’t stop the words pouring out of him, though he knew their futility. “Why? How do you move the way you do? What are you? What were those—those things in the woods?”
He forced himself to his feet. Fionn looked up at that, and said something in a warning voice, but Darius ignored him. “I’m not staying here,” he said. Dimly he was aware of how out of control he was. His words echoed off the trees.
With that, he turned and hobbled into the forest. He had no idea where he was going. His fever-ravaged body, weakened further by the events of the day, shook in protest. He needed to eat, to sleep. But he couldn’t spend another moment with Fionn. The man wasn’t even human, and he was all the more dangerous because Darius had no idea what he wanted from him. For all Darius knew, he was keeping him alive just to sacrifice him in some barbarian ritual. He had seen such rituals before in Britannia, men cut to pieces or bled to death while priests chanted to their gods. Hysteria turned his thoughts into a whirlwind.
“Darius.” Fionn was in front of him suddenly, his hands held up in a calming gesture. Darius shoved his hands aside, and Fionn let him. He staggered on without any idea where he was going.
“Darius,” Fionn repeated. This time he took Darius’s hand, and Darius felt an odd shiver trace his spine. He tried to wrench free, but Fionn held on, pulling him back toward the river. Darius seized his shoulder and shoved him.
Fionn stumbled back a few steps. Darius kept going, staggering over the roots and rocks of the darkening forest floor.
He tripped over something, and fell with a thud onto a patch of moss. Then Fionn was on top of him, and he realized he hadn’t tripped—Fionn had knocked his legs out from under him. Taking advantage of his larger size, Darius rolled onto him, pressing the Celt into the ground. Silver eyes winked in the shadows like coins, and Darius felt unexpected warmth bubble in his chest at the feeling of Fionn’s body beneath his. Then, relying more on his feral grace than strength, Fionn hooked his leg around Darius’s and flipped him onto his back.
Darius’s head hit the ground hard. Fionn murmured something that might have been an apology. Darius was breathing heavily, his chest moving against Fionn’s, who barely seemed to be breathing at all. He gazed down at Darius as if struck. Darius struggled, taking advantage of his distraction, and nearly escaped. With a curse, Fionn drew a knife from his sleeve.
Darius froze. Fionn growled something. There were leaves tangled in his hair, and he looked more annoyed than anything else, as if Darius were a disobedient mutt rather than a trained officer of the Roman Empire. He tilted Darius’s head to one side. Then he cut off his ear.
Darius screamed. He fought, but Fionn skilfully shifted his weight and held him in place like a boulder. He hadn’t actually cut off Darius’s ear; he could still feel it, because Fionn was jabbing at it with the knife over and over again. What sort of evil barbarian ritual was this? Warm blood coursed down his neck and into his hair.
Darius managed to land a blow against Fionn’s stomach with his knee, and the Celt’s grip briefly weakened. But then he struck Darius in the throat, and his vision darkened.
When he came back to himself, Fionn was chanting something. His hand was pressed against Darius’s lips and there was a horrible taste in his mouth. Blood. Darius choked on it, the sharp tang bringing bile to his throat. Fionn had cut himself—Darius could feel the blood dripping from his hand onto his lips—and was now forcing Darius to swallow the blood.
As soon as the horrific realization came to him, he was struggling again. Clearly, Fionn was mad. Likely he had been from the very beginning, and there was no grand design behind his decision to save Darius’s life—or at least, none that a sane person would understand. Fionn was muttering under his breath, trying to keep his hold on Darius, which was proving increasingly difficult, as Darius’s horror gave him new strength. Finally, he managed to roll Fionn onto a rock, which jabbed into his stomach and forced his breath out.
Darius staggered to his feet, stumbling away from him. Fionn drew himself slowly to his feet, holding his stomach and breathing hard. They stared at each other.
Darius cast a glance over his shoulder, wondering how far he would get before Fionn recovered. Not far, he wagered. He again saw his men falling on the beach, Fionn darting among them like a fish undulating through a river.
“Go then, you perfect idiot,” Fionn snapped. “See how far you get on that ankle before the wolves sniff you out. I warrant I’ll have to rescue you from dismemberment before you make it half a mile.”
The words were precisely enunciated, delivered in a lilting accent. Darius felt as if he had been knocked over the head.
“You speak Latin,” he said stupidly.
Fionn laughed. The sound was as startling as the words had been, a birdlike trill. “Of course I don’t speak your oafish language. By the gods, it’s like listening to sheep in rutting season. Happily, you’re not speaking it either at present.”
He winced, still holding his stomach, and leaned against a tree. They watched each other for a long moment, Fionn warily, Darius in stunned shock.
Fionn let out another breathy laugh. “You look like you swallowed a ghost.”
Darius didn’t know what to make of that bizarre image. His hand went to his ear. It was still bleeding, though not as freely.
“What did you do to me?” he whispered.
Fionn gave a grim smile. “Gave you new ears.”
“By cutting them off?”
“Not quite. My, you Romans are delicate. It’s just a bit of blood.”
“You made me—” Darius spat, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of Fionn’s blood.
“It’s the only way.” Fionn shoved himself off the tree. He looked weary now, as if the battle with the Robogdi had at last caught up with him. Moving with less grace than usual, he walked back to the river.
Darius trailed after him, his desire for flight utterly forgotten. He felt as stunned to be conversing with this strange creature as he would with a fish. “You put a—a spell on me.”
“What of it?” Fionn didn’t slow. “Would you prefer to continue babbling in your own tongue? If it pleases you, feel free.”
Darius’s mouth opened and closed. He saw the Latin words rise in his mind—which, he now realized with a shiver of terror, he hadn’t been speaking before. He had spoken another language without realizing it. He didn’t know which one, but the oddly jagged words that had fallen from his mouth weren’t Latin—nor did they sound Celtic.
“I don’t understand,” he said, the Latin comforting to his ears.
“There you go,” Fionn said. They had reached the fire again, and he pulled the fish off the flames, wrinkling his nose at its blackened state. �
�Perhaps you should go back to shouting at me. I’m sure that will help my understanding.”
“You—” Darius felt himself slide back into that other language, as if Fionn’s words had drawn it out of him. “You’re a witch.”
“If you like,” Fionn said indifferently. He tossed the burnt fish into the river. He waded out into the rushing water, then shook his head. “The run’s almost over. I’d have to stand here an hour to have a chance at another. I’ll find us a rabbit.” He emerged, shaking the water from his sandals, then slung a satchel over his shoulder.
“Wait,” Darius said. But he may as well have spoken Latin again. Fionn slipped into the forest without a backwards glance.
Chapter Eight
It was full night before Fionn returned, with a sickle moon lurking somewhere behind the trees. Darius sat in a stupor at first. Then weariness wrapped around him like a cloak, and he nearly fell over. He managed to drag himself to a pool at the edge of the river and wash the blood off himself.
His ear had stopped bleeding—not only that, but it felt almost healed. There were small raised scars along the lobe, as if the injury was months old, and no evidence of scabbing. It was far from the strangest thing that had happened that day, and Darius forced it from his mind.
He returned to the fire, shivering, and wrapped himself in one of the sheep-scented blankets. He didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep until Fionn touched him on the shoulder.
“Here,” he said, looking almost awkward for the first time since Darius had known him. He put a bowl in Darius’s hand, steaming with a coarse rabbit stew. Darius ate hungrily, doing his best to ignore the chewy taste of organ meat that Fionn had included—Roman custom was to use only the flesh. Fionn sat cross-legged on the rock across from him, picking daintily at his own portion.
