Hours later, she saw a faint lightening at the edge of the woods. She led the horse through the remaining tangle of trees and emerged from the forest, onto the road again. She sobbed then, tears of relief but frustration, too. She had lost precious hours, time she could ill afford to waste. She had to get a grip on herself, for she was scaring the horse, as if the poor thing hadn't been through enough. She took a deep breath and wiped her sweaty arm across her eyes, then rode on.
Dusk was falling, the moon rising again, the first faint stars sparkling in the sky. More than anything, she wanted to rest, wanted to dismount and never get up again. Prudence told her she'd better continue. She'd lost enough time already. She made a quick decision; she would ride through the night and sleep during the day, still giving her and the mare enough rest. If she saw another farmhouse tomorrow, she'd stop and buy apples for the horse before she found a place to sleep.
She patted the horse. "You deserve a treat after what you've been through."
Hours later, as dawn settled over the country again, she found an outcrop that led to a cave, far from any habitation. A good place to stop. After giving the horse time to cool down, to drink and eat, she led it up the incline to the cave.
She removed the saddle and harness from the horse. First making sure the mare was comfortable, she broke her fast, then lay down to rest,. The cold, rocky limestone floor forced her to continually change position, but exhaustion trumped every discomfort.
Stiff and sore, she awoke hours later with no idea of the time. Outside the cave, darkness told her night had fallen again. Stepping onto the outcrop, she glanced up to see the moon hanging low in the west. Early evening, then. Giving the horse plenty of time to feed and eat, she paced back and forth and stretched, exercising sore muscles. She unsheathed her dagger and practiced throwing it, using a mark on a tree trunk as a target. She threw the dagger again and again, immensely grateful she hit her target each time. A short repast and evening ablutions, and she was on her way again.
An hour's ride brought her to an isolated farmhouse, where she looped the horse's reins over a fence post and went to the door to buy apples. She left a few minutes later, pleasantly surprised that the farmer had insisted on giving her a few carrots, besides the apples, and not charging her anything.
"I'll give you a treat next time we stop to rest," she said as she remounted.
The following night, she breathed a sigh of relief. Not far to go, but a myriad of emotions crammed her brain. What if, by some horrible chance, a bandrega arrived at the same time? She recalled her nightmare while sharing Gaderian's cave. Would it prove to be prophetic? What if she or the horse suffered an attack from a wild animal? Nonsense, she assured herself. You have nothing to worry about.
Wood huts and larger farmhouses lined this part of the road, then a forest stretched ahead. The night remained quiet but for a barking dog. Another hill loomed in front of her. The horse scrambled up the cliff, the ground thick with sandstone and tree roots. Her heart pounded with emotions she couldn't identify. Soon, soon, she would arrive at Magh Eamhainn. All this came back to her: the huts and farmhouses, the forest. Ah, she remembered from a time years ago when she had taken this same routed with her family. Clutching the reins, she looked behind her, always fearing another rider.
The full moon gleamed as she entered the deserted hamlet of Magh Eamhainn. The forest lay behind her, a rutted lane leading to the village, another forest beyond. Decrepit houses faced both sides of the road, their overgrown weeds and tangled bushes evidence of the village's abandonment. An eerie sensation crept over her. Chills raced down her arms and legs. Evil. The word echoed in her brain and sent her pulse racing. Shadows wove among the trees. A shutter banged in the wind, making her jump. She wanted to leave now, forget about her mission and get out. She forced herself to remain calm, afraid she would spook the horse. She feared a sinister spell gripped the hamlet, a snare that would not permit her to escape. If her father had assured her long ago that the village wasn't cursed, why was she so frightened now?
Forested hills rose in all directions, dark, dismal shapes, harbingers of doom. All was quiet, not even sounds of night animals. Tree branches and bushes thrashed in the wind, dirt blowing in her eyes. She blinked her eyes and looked to the right. The well! An innocuous looking structure, but the embodiment of evil.
A sound broke the silence. Hoofbeats? Listening intently, she waited long moments. Just your imagination, she consoled herself. But Goddess, she'd be glad when this task was completed. She dismounted, looking all around, from one side to another. With shaky hands, she tied the horse's reins to a tree branch, looping it again and again, tightening it. She waited moments longer, leaning against the horse. Her heart beat fast, as if it would explode from her chest.
She tried to open the saddlebag. Sweat greased her hands, but she finally opened the bag. She withdrew the flask, her hands trembling so she feared she'd drop it.. Her legs quivered as she neared the well, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She stopped, the flask gripped in her hand. What if she had heard another horse? She shook her head. No one else would be coming here, not now. With her other hand, she lightly touched the dagger sheathed at her waist. An awful reality seized her. If an intruder came, she might have to kill him this night, or be killed. To be safe, she eased her cloak from her shoulders to give her better access to her dagger.
She had to get control of herself, had to stop her shaking. She set the flask on the rim of the well and withdrew the stopper with a soft plop. Her fingers brushed against the cold, gritty bricks. She saw the dipper and bucket next to her, attached to a chain on the outside of the well. Now to–
"Fianna, what are you doing here?"
Chapter Seventeen
Stilo! Fianna looked at him closely. Every nerve ending tingled with fear. Her body shook from her head to her feet. She said a quick prayer to the Goddess, but she was on her own.
Stilo? His voice sounded like a growl, and oh! Look at his face! A demon's face. In a tunic and trousers, he strode her way. He glowered at her, every step measured. Fur dotted his face and fouled his hands, his ears and nose elongated.
"What are you doing here?" Anger defined his face, but puzzlement, too. Shame touched his face, also, for surely he must feel humiliation that she would see him like this, as a monster.
Quickly, she shoved the flask into the well. It went down, down, down, echoing with a loud splash.
"What was that? What did you do?" He raised his furred hand, his fingers showing talons.
She'd never get out of this village alive. Keeping her distance from him, she stepped to the far side of the well. She trembled inside, but assumed a brave face.
Her mind worked fast. "Look what you made me do! I came to fetch water from the well, since I was thirsty from riding. You made me so nervous, I knocked the flask over." Her eyes moved frantically over him, looking for a weapon. Then she saw it–a sword at his side, its jeweled hilt glinting in the moonlight.
He scoffed. "You were thirsty? You'll have to come up with a better answer than that." He nodded toward the bucket that rested on the rim of the well. "There's a dipper and bucket right in front of you. So I'm asking you again–what did you do?"
"Poison!" No use lying now. No way out. "Just look at you! You don't even look human. I know your secret, no use denying it. I poisoned the bandregas' well!"
"Why, you bitch!" He lurched drunkenly for her, but she jerked back several steps. She had to keep the well between them. He circled the well, his eyes glittering with malice, his face a picture of fury.
Step-by-step, she inched away. Surreptitiously, she felt the dagger at her side. No backing away now. She'd have to kill him.
He snarled, "Let's end this game now, Fianna. You won't get away from me, so stop trying. And let me tell you this. When I kill you, it won't be a quick death. It will take you a long time to die. You think I can't do it? You won't be the first person I've killed, nor the last. Give up now."
"Never!" Her
heart hammered against her chest. Sweat poured down her face and drenched her clothes. Her breath came so fast, she feared she'd choke. She unobtrusively wiped her right hand on her dress, lest the perspiration make her drop the dagger.
Stilo laughed, a sick, mocking laugh. "And after I kill you, I'll take your mutilated body back to Gaderian Wade." He rubbed his furry hands together. "What fun I'll have showing him your body. Oh, I won't take it to the tavern, of course. I'll lure him to the outskirts of Moytura, where I'll leave your corpse." He touched the sword at his side. "This game has gone on long enough. I grow weary of it." He jerked his sword out with a soft rasp, the weapon gleaming in the moonlight. The sword gripped in his hand, he lunged for her.
She darted back, at the same time, snatching her dagger from its sheath. He stepped quickly, his gaze on her, and hers focused on him. She would have one chance and one chance only to kill him. With one fast fling, she hurled the dagger at his side, aiming for the kidney.
A startled look seized his face, then his mouth twisted in agony. Hand pressed to his side, he crumpled to the ground with a hard thud.
Leaning against the well, she breathed a long, slow sigh of relief, shaking all over. She had done it. She had poisoned the well and killed Stilo. Now, she must dispose of his body. No one must know what happened here, at least not for several days, when decomposition would set in. By that time, the bandregas would have come and gone, and she'd be safe in Moytura.
The wind howled and whipped her cloak about her. Every bush, every tree tossed in the wind. She shivered and drew her cloak closer about her.
Stilo lay face up, his eyes gazing at the sky. Fianna knelt beside him to pull out the knife. No, wait. She'd withdraw the weapon later. For now, the dagger would act as a plug and keep him from bleeding. After she disposed of the body she'd get the dagger.
Grabbing his legs, she dragged him along the dirt path. His boots came off, but she left them where they lay. First, she'd hide his body, then fetch his boots. She breathed hard as she tugged, his body bouncing with each step. For one moment, she stood straight to rest her back, then pulled again, dragging him into the woods, several hundred feet away. A cluster of hemlocks and earthberry bushes provided ample concealment. Gasping for breath, she left him there, then returned for his boots. She stood back several feet from the trees and bushes to gauge how well the foliage concealed the body.
Satisfied he was well-hidden, she knelt to pull the knife out. Rivers of blood flowed from his wound onto the earth. Her breath coming quick and fast, she wiped the dagger on the grass and tucked it back in the sheath. Goddess, forgive me. I never killed a man before. But Stilo was a demon. Or had been.
The ground tilted around her. Sour bile rose in her throat. She pressed her hand against the ground and swallowed convulsively. A wave of faintness washed over her body, her face hot, then cold. She gagged and bent over to vomit. Tears filled her eyes as she waited for her nausea to pass. In the background, she heard her horse neighing in the distance. Stilo's, too.
Gasping for breath, she rubbed her hand across tear-brimmed eyes. Slowly, she rose to her feet. On quivering legs, she headed back to the mare. Its frantic neighing rang in her ears, Stilo's horse thrashing in the distance. She found Stilo's horse several feet from her own, hidden among the hemlocks, thrashing among the trees. She untied the reins and slapped its rump, hoping it would find its way home.
Returning to her own horse, she rested her head on its back. Relief poured over her, mingling with other emotions. But it was done, thank the Goddess, her mission a success.
She felt as if she had aged thirty years. She agonized that she'd never be the same again. Her legs shook as she tried to mount the mare. Falling back, she was forced to try two more times before mounting. She flipped the reins and left Magh Eamhainn, headed for Moytura. Back to Gaderian.
* * *
Able to sit up, Gaderian leaned against the cave wall. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows on the streams of calcite, revealing the eerie beauty of the cave. Fianna taunted his mind every waking moment. She haunted his dreams while he slept, a vision of beauty, her spunk and courage an added allure. No other woman like her, this one who had come into his life and revealed how empty his life had been. Oh, to be sure, he had wealth, a splendid mansion and friends. Yet how fleeting happiness can be, how unfulfilled life can be without the one you love to share it. But would she be willing to share her life with him? If only he knew. And Goddess! When would she return? He raked his fingers through his hair, afraid to even consider that she might not come back. To think of all the dangers she may have encountered was torture. It was madness to have let her go. He cursed himself again and again; he should never have permitted her to go by herself. He allowed himself a little smile, knowing too well that Fianna had a mind of her own, and once she determined on a plan, she followed through on it. No denying her. Tormented by countless possibilities of things that could go wrong, he pressed his hands to his aching head. She might not come back.
And if she didn't return? The long, lonely years stretched ahead, years without the woman he loved. No, he couldn't live without her. Goddess, he prayed, please bring her home safe to me. He wanted to ask her to marry him, but questioned the kind of life he must offer her. He wondered if she could learn to live by night and sleep by day, to adjust her life to his. All the things he had to give her–wealth, a lovely home, the ability to visit any place they desired–would all that matter to her if she had to make the necessary sacrifices to live with him?
His keen hearing detected footsteps coming his way. Within moments, Moreen sank down beside him, pushing her silvery hair from her shoulders and tucking her legs to the side. As much as he wanted to hear about the meeting, he thought of nothing but Fianna. He forced his mind to focus on the gathering of the undead.
"She'll be all right," Moreen said, as if she could read his mind. "Try not to worry."
"Easier said than done." Yet hope blossomed inside him. Surely Fianna would return soon.
"She should be back any day now. You'll be so happy to see her again, you'll wonder why you ever worried."
He clenched his hands. "So many things could happen to her." He must deflect his mind from the woman he loved. "Now tell me about the meeting."
"I thought you'd never ask." An apologetic look came over her face. "But I do realize your concern for Fianna, believe me, I do." She clasped his hand. "She'll be fine. Now, the meeting. First of all, everyone asked about you. I told them you were sick and why. That naturally led to a discussion of the bandregas, the main purpose of the meeting. Before I told them about the well, they all wanted to know how the bandregas gained the ability to make themselves invisible. I told them about the rings. But let's hope their invisibility is a moot point by now. Let's hope they are all dead."
Enthusiasm crept into her voice. "But wait 'til you hear their reaction when I told them the bandregas' secret, and how they gain their power from the well water. The infernal regions broke loose! And, of course, Orrick was highly indignant that he hadn't been apprized of this discovery. I told him we hadn't had the time, that we'd had to develop a plan ourselves. You and I both know this wasn't the real reason he wasn't told ahead of time, but rather that he would have dithered and dallied until nothing was done. And we didn't want him to know our plan beforehand." She smiled. "I didn't say that either, of course."
She paused, as though collecting her thoughts. "I had to tell the gathering that we sent a mortal to poison the well. No use trying to keep that a secret. And when I told them–well, you could scarcely hear for the chatter and screaming." She opened her hands wide. "But it's done, or so we hope. Too late for them to protest."
Gaderian pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. "If only we knew! If only I'd see Fianna again!"
"It may be a day or two before she returns," Moreen said judiciously.
Gaderian wondered if Moreen was really so sanguine, or only pretending to be. He was crying inside, out of his mind with
worry for his loved one.
"And Orrick?" he asked. "Do the undead still want him as their leader?"
"I believe his days as leader are numbered. When you're well again–"
"I'm getting better every day. When I'm recovered, I intend to challenge him for the position." He grinned. "And win!" His mind shifting to Fianna again, he sighed. "If only I knew that Fianna is safe, that she is on her way back."
Moreen squeezed his hand. "You'll see her again any day now."
Above all, he wanted to believe her.
* * *
Traveling at night, singly or in groups, the bandregas arrived at the well, some of them by horse but most on foot, a long walk from Moytura. Those who had walked had taken side roads, escaping detection by mortals. Mothers and fathers led their children by hand, and babies were held in their mothers' arms. The women wore long woolen dresses, the men clad in tunics and trousers, for the weather was much cooler now.
Night Shadows Page 18
