by K. C. Julius
As the sun peeked over the mountain ridge, he closed his eyes against its brilliance and allowed his thoughts to stray to a certain young lady whose father’s farm lay beyond the Bren Pass.
Maura. The girl with violet eyes and flowing, sun-streaked hair. He had ached for her ever since he’d seen her at the Gathering last year, a newly blossomed young maiden. She was proving an elusive quarry, though, since she rarely came down to the village, and he’d had to make do with mere glimpses of her at the trade fairs and, on rare occasions, the market.
To make matters more difficult, when he did manage to spot her, she was always with one or the other of her parents, and she kept her star-kissed eyes on her lapins, which she sometimes brought along to display for breeders. Borne would jostle his way to the front of their stall whenever she appeared, but she had remained oblivious to his presence, which was an irksome novelty. His rugged features, dimpled cheeks, and broad shoulders generally attracted more than his share of admirers from among the females of the valley towns. He’d been initiated into the pleasures they generously offered by Mistress Veren when he was just shy of his fifteenth birthday, and he had not since lacked for opportunities to hone the carnal arts in which the young widow had instructed him. He wasn’t used to being ignored, and Maura’s indifference only served to whet his appetite for her attention.
He’d finally garnered it a few days ago when he’d succeeded in enticing the maiden to his secret garden. How delectable she’d looked among all the hellebores! He wondered what it would be like to have her lying in the soft meadow grasses beside him, to caress her blushing cheek, to watch the slight parting of her lips, and to press his own against her luminous skin. To hear her breath quicken and see the rise of her high breasts against her bodice…
Borne groaned softly. No sense in following that lapin down its burrow, he thought. He’d been rebuffed in the chase. He had moved too quickly, and she had fled.
To cool his blood, he turned his thoughts to Frana Lemarl, a Bren wench with a sunken chin and a nose as sharp as an axe, who tended her father’s vegetable stall. Frana was forever fluttering her stubby eyelashes at him and finding excuses to throw herself, often literally, in his path.
“Thank the gods I’ll never be that desperate,” he muttered.
A more pleasurable recent conquest had been Jurra, the young barmaid at the Boar. Her father, Gleg, ran the pub, and the mother, Zanra, had been a famous beauty in her time. Although she’d broadened over the years, Zanra could still light up the room with her provocative smile, and Gleg, knowing what was good for business, turned a blind eye as his wife flirted and sashayed between the customers. It had not gone unremarked by village gossips that Jurra bore an uncanny resemblance to Helger, a regular patron at the Boar.
Jurra seemed to be treading her mother’s path, and when she’d made it clear to Borne that she was more than willing, he’d accepted her offer. She was attractive enough, but she lacked wit, and although she’d been a lively tumble, she was showing signs of attachment that were not to be encouraged. Borne preferred his liaisons with the married matrons of Bren, which satisfied both parties without tiresome expectations.
Stretching his arms above his head, he gazed up at the wisps of clouds drifting past. But he couldn’t get Maura out of his mind for long. He’d felt sorry for the family when her brother disappeared not long ago. Just never came home to supper one evening, the talk was. He’d been a funny little fellow, agile as a monkey, tagging after his parents at the fairs, turning cartwheels and walking about on his hands. When he went missing, Borne joined in the search with some of the Bren men on their side of the mountain, but the boy was never found.
Borne looked up at the bari birds wheeling high overhead, their shrill piping cutting through the stillness, and felt his eyelids flutter. The grassy scent of dung was mildly pleasing, and the sun warmed his face as he hovered on the edge of sleep.
A shadow fell over him and an acrid smell assaulted his nostrils. He opened his eyes to a hawk’s talon dangling from the ear of a man leaning over him. A Lurker with a sharp blade poised in his filthy hand, his dark teeth bared.
Borne jerked sideways, thrusting out his arm just in time to deflect the assailant’s knife away from his throat. He felt its sharp bite in his forearm, and gave a piercing whistle.
The Lurker hissed. He was thrown off-balance by the unexpected move, giving Borne a moment to scramble into a crouch. Ignoring the blood seeping through his sleeve, Borne kept his eyes trained on the knife.
The Lurker’s eyes went eerily flat. He lowered his blade and retreated a few steps.
Borne didn’t consider dropping his guard. “What do you want?” he asked, slowly circling his attacker.
The Lurker hunched his shoulders and continued to back away. “I meant ye no harm,” he croaked, his knife dangling forgotten in his hand. “’T’were only fer yer trinket! If ye hadn’t jumped so, ye wouldna been cut.”
Borne’s fingers sought the iron disk that hung on a cord around his neck. It had been a gift from his mother, and had, according to her, been in her family since “Blearc first blew breath into us.”
“It were yer own fault!” the Lurker complained, then bolted toward the stand of oaks bordering the meadow.
Borne heard a low rumbling from above. For a terrible moment, the memory of the avalanche came thundering back. Then Magnus’s baying signaled that it was the coilhorns, not snow, racing downhill at breakneck speed. The earth trembled under their thudding hooves, and then they came over the rise, the great hound pressing them toward the broad meadow. Magnus flew to Borne and nosed him briefly before harrying the herd into a circle around him. Then the dog veered off in the direction the Lurker had fled.
A wave of dizziness forced Borne to his knees, and the throbbing of his wound demanded his attention. He was startled to see a deep crimson stain saturating his sleeve. It seemed an alarming amount of blood. As he tried, unsuccessfully, to stanch the flow, he realized he’d have to get help.
Around him the coilhorns grazed, their silky coats ruffled by the slight rising breeze. A bari shrilled overhead and circled lazily on the updrafts.
Raising his sound arm, Borne pressed his hand against a coilhorn’s haunch. His legs felt leaden, but he dragged himself upright using the animals closest to him for support. The herd grudgingly gave way, as though reluctant to release him from their protective ring. He tried, several times, to mount one of the coilhorns, then sank in defeat to the ground.
He heard the distant crack of bracken as Magnus continued his downhill charge.
Borne lay down on the cold ground and watched the trees recede and darken. The cries of the bari birds echoed overhead.
I mustn’t fall asleep, he thought.
* * *
He blinked awake to cold sweat dripping down the side of his face. A deep chill bit him to the bone. What happened? It seemed important to remember. He lay on his side, watching the herd quietly grazing around him. He started to count them, as was his habit, but he kept losing track.
And then the memory of the attack came back to him. With an immense effort, he turned his head. His heart lurched when he saw that the entire left side of his tunic was soaked in blood.
Then Magnus’s broad snout descended, and his warm tongue licked Borne’s cheek. A woman he couldn’t see was speaking to the dog in a reassuring voice. He felt the touch of cold fingers on his wrist as he was gently rolled onto his back.
It was Maura.
He blinked, and she was still there, staring down at him gravely.
“No light doth shine in heaven’s skies, as lambent as my lady’s eyes,” he murmured, and slipped again under a shroud of oblivion.
Chapter 14
Maura
At first the dog wouldn’t let her near the body, but Maura, skilled in the art of gentling, spoke soothingly as she walked slowly toward him, her eyes downc
ast. “There now,” she murmured. “There, there.”
The dog gave way. Falling to her knees beside the unconscious man, Maura took in the shocking quantity of blood on his tunic. His pulse was weak and rapid, his skin clammy to the touch. As she gently rolled him onto his back, her gasp provoked a low growl from the hound.
It was Borne.
He was conscious just long enough to quote the chanson of Guiliard de Courty, but she had no time to wonder how he came to know her favorite poet. She located his wound, a deep gash in his arm, and tied it off with a strip torn from his cloak. Then she retrieved some yarrow from her saddlebag, applied it with pressure to stanch the bleeding, and expertly bound it. When he began to shiver, she covered him with her cape as well as his own, but to little avail. She knew that if he was to have a chance to survive, she must warm him before she could go for help.
Her gaze fell on the dog.
“Down!” she commanded, and to her relief the beast obeyed. It lay beside Borne, against his injured arm, and rested its great head on his shoulder, whining softly.
Maura stretched out on his other side and drew him close, the dog’s breath warm on her face. They lay together, the three of them, as the rising sun lent them its heat. Gradually, Borne’s trembling abated, but his rapid, shallow heartbeat under Maura’s cheek frightened her.
She was debating where the nearest help might be when the dog suddenly leapt up, snarling. At first she thought it intended to attack her, but its fierce glower was directed toward the trail she had just ascended.
A line of horsemen was trotting toward them. Their livery had no device, although to Maura’s trained eye, the fine weave of their wool uniforms marked them as an elite company. She scrambled to her feet and stood beside the great hound, barring their way to the wounded man.
“Call off your dog, mistress. We mean you no harm,” said the first rider, an older man with close-cropped grey hair. He reined in his horse a few yards from Maura, and signaled a halt to the men behind him.
Maura laid a tentative hand on the hound, who stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with her. “This man is near death,” she called. “He needs to be taken to a healer immediately.”
To her relief, the leader turned to his men. “Dirgin. Arth. See to the man’s wounds and bear him to Bren at once.”
The soldiers dismounted and approached, only to stop short when the dog bared its savage teeth.
Maura shared the hound’s distrust. “How do I know you won’t cause him further harm?” she demanded.
The older man placed his fist upon his heart. “I swear it on my honor as the High King’s man. May I be banished from the realm ’ere my oath be proven false.” The earnestness with which the soldier spoke was not lost on Maura. In any event, she had no options.
She nodded curtly, and stepped around to gaze into the hound’s intelligent eyes. “Your master needs help,” she said quietly, placing her hand under the dog’s muzzle and stroking it. “We must trust these men to provide it. Lay down now. You’ve served him well.”
The hound whined, but did as she asked.
The men lifted Borne gently and hefted him onto a horse. Maura remembered then what he had told her in the garden. “He should be taken to Windend,” she said. “He’s connected to Sir Heptorious’s household, and there’ll be a doctor in attendance at the castle.”
“I know the place,” one of the men said. As two of the soldiers started back down the trail with their unconscious burden, the dog leapt to his feet and padded after them.
Maura was left alone to face the remaining riders. Her hand crept to the knife hidden in her kirtle, for she guessed they were not finished with her.
The grey-haired man dismounted and gave a swift bow. “I am Sir Cord. You have naught to fear, Mistress Maura.”
“How come you by my name?” she cried in astonishment.
“I’m under orders to escort you.”
“Orders? Whose orders? Escort me where?”
“Alas, mistress,” Sir Cord signaled for a bay mare to be brought forward, “I’m not at liberty to answer either of those questions. But I can assure you that you’ll suffer no mischief in our custody, and that your safety is of our utmost concern. Allow me to assist you to mount.”
Maura didn’t care for the implications of the word custody. “And if I refuse?”
Sir Cord gave her a rueful smile. “I fear a refusal is not to be considered.” He cupped his hands to offer her a leg up.
Maura weighed her chances of making a run for the trees, and found them discouraging. “What about my coilhorn? She bears my personal belongings.” Her voice sounded pleasingly haughty to her ears, but her knees were trembling.
Sir Cord obligingly gave the order for Azta’s saddlebags to be transferred to the bay. Then he removed the coilhorn’s traces so she wouldn’t become entangled in brush, and slapped her flank to send her, hopefully, home to Fernsehn. This lessened Maura’s anxiety slightly, for it would alert her family that something had gone amiss.
“Now,” said the knight, once again presenting his cupped hands, “will you mount, mistress?”
Ignoring him, she placed her foot in the stirrup and swung herself lightly onto the bay’s back. “It seems,” she said grimly, “I will.”
Chapter 15
The soldiers and Maura backtracked east toward Bren, then veered off on a rough footpath that skirted the village. Sir Cord, although unfailingly courteous, remained enigmatic as to why and where she was being “escorted,” but with the lowering sun at their backs, Maura realized it was in the opposite direction from Tyrrin-on-Murr.
“My family will be looking for me by now!” she insisted loudly, although in truth that would only be so if and when Azta made it back to Fernsehn.
Sir Cord offered no response, leaving her to glower at his horse’s rump.
There was little chance they might meet other travelers on this narrow track, and its winding ascent through the dense firs offered no glimpse of the valleys below. It seemed Maura was forced to resign herself to her captivity until an opportunity for escape presented itself.
In the meantime, she had much to think over. In the past few days, she’d learned that she’d been sired by an unknown noble cad and a deceitful Lurker. Maura had seen Lurkers at the Gatherings, where they sold silver trinkets and performed to wild, mournful music. Some of the women were beauties, dark-eyed and seductive, and there were tales that they could enchant a man. Maura couldn’t help but wonder if her own mother possessed such powers.
Thinking of her mother made her blood boil, so she tried to banish her from her mind. Instead she fretted about Dal, wondering where he was, and whether he was being ill-treated and longed for home. She prayed to the gods that somehow she would survive to find him and bring him back to Fernsehn.
With no one to speak to, the journey soon grew tedious, and she alternated between anxiety and impatience. Now and then, her thoughts turned to Borne. When the men who had delivered him to Windend rejoined their company, she was relieved to hear that he’d still been alive when they’d left him.
“What about his dog?” Maura asked.
The soldier who answered looked surprised by the question. “The hound? He ran with us the whole way, and followed his master into the castle.”
She was heartened by this, but still she wondered if Borne would survive the loss of all that blood. It troubled her to think he might pass from the world. It would grieve the dog terribly.
As the sun began its early descent, the wind stiffened at their backs. They were now high up in the Mynnd Range, and there’d been a recent snowfall.
“We’ll shelter here for the night,” Sir Cord called back to the men trailing them.
In less time than Maura would have believed possible, the company had made camp under an overhanging ledge and had a fire crackling. Dried meat and bread were distributed
, which Maura accepted, preserving her own stocks for the time when she was free of her abductors. The men spoke quietly, as though uneasy in her company. After the meal, they huddled together in their blankets. Warm in her lapin cloak by the fire, Maura succumbed to the strain of the day’s events, and dropped into a deep sleep.
* * *
She was awakened before dawn by the aroma of oat porridge. The company ate in silence, and they were mounted and on the road at the first hint of light.
The trail no longer ascended, but spiraled across several passes at roughly the same altitude throughout the day. It was cold but windless, and Maura found the crisp air invigorating despite her uncertain circumstances. After a few futile attempts to glean information from Sir Cord, she fell once again into her own brooding thoughts. Where were they taking her, and for what purpose? She couldn’t help but speculate that her abduction was somehow connected with Dal’s disappearance, which kept her spirits from flagging too low. Maybe they would bring her to him.
I’ll bide my time, she thought, as the hours passed. At least for now.
* * *
They had been traveling for five days before the trail began to descend. The sound of rushing water hinted at hidden waterfalls tumbling down the mountain’s face. Once a herd of Rasdell deer leapt before them, their striped coats gleaming in the pale sunlight before they disappeared into the thickets lining the track. Maura wished she could spring astride one of the graceful creatures and flee into the woods with them.
She had to admit, however, that by this time she was feeling more exasperated than fearful. There had been no occasions to break for freedom, but it had become clear that these men meant her no immediate harm. So she had grimly settled into a tedious routine. Each day they rode all through the short daylight hours, and each evening as the men set up camp, Maura groomed the bay. Although she had no prior experience with horses, she had ridden coilhorns since before she could walk, and the mare was biddable and sweet-natured. Maura named her Winnie, and slipped her bits of apple from her private stores.
