Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01]

by The Fire Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  "My lady, I do not think the sea will let us wait for the morrow.”

  "What?” She looked at the encroaching tide. "Merde.

  Well, I suppose it’s for the best. I don’t know if we could have launched it between the two of us.” She stood and shook the sand from her garments and shouted for the wolf. Then she began tossing her gear into the ship.

  Wrolf, a bit bloody, appeared in a spatter of gritty blood, eyed the boat with suspicion, and barked loudly. Eleanor interpreted this to mean he did not care for their craft.

  She shrugged. "Suit yourself, old fellow. A paddle. How the... ah, my staff.” She paused for a second, amazed at herself, then transformed one end of the rowan-wood staff into an oar of sorts.

  The sea lapped under the boat, and she and Arthur pushed it farther out into the water. It was lighter than it looked, but it was still heavy work, and they were both sweating by the time it was afloat, up to their thighs in chill ocean. Arthur leapt in first, then reached for Eleanor.

  For all his slenderness, he was strong. He put his arms under hers and lifted her across the lip of the boat, which tilted wildly. She thrust her legs over and clung to him a second, feeling hard muscles and the musky smell of sweaty man. It was good to touch him, and she wanted to continue. Horrified at herself, and shamed by disloyalty to Doyle, she drew back hastily. Arthur seemed unaware of her reaction and set about stowing their gear.

  "What about the wolf?” he asked.

  "Oh, he can take care of himself. Watch.”

  Wrolf jumped into the waves and took on his otterine form as Eleanor began to paddle. The wolf swam around, pressed its great head against one side of the boat, and swam strongly, pushing them out away from the shore currents.

  Beyond the eddies of the shore, the boat still wallowed like a pig. Eleanor went to the side of it, which she thought of as the front, because it pointed where she wished to go, or at least where she sincerely hoped Scotland lay. Yes, there was the otter’s great, sleek shape breasting the waves. She leaned her body against the wood and felt it mold sinuously against her chest.

  "Good old Salacious Sal,” she muttered. An echo of laughter trilled through her mind. Lean out. Eleanor could not tell if the command was from her own mind or from the Lady of the Willows, but she leaned. The wind whipped her face and blew her hair out behind, and the spray stung her eyes, but suddenly she was the prow of some proud sailing vessel. The little boat shuddered, then seemed to spring across the waves. She heard a faint gasp from Arthur, behind her, and then she was aware of nothing but sea and sky. She held her arms before her, using Wrolfs aura as her guide, and willed the vessel across the waters.

  Eleanor thought it a glorious experience, until she realized that she was soaked, her legs shaking, and her arms trembling. After that, it became a grim contest of mind over flesh until, at last, as the sun began to tint the sky a pale lavender, she saw the silhouette of a rocky coast. The sight renewed her a little, and she gritted her teeth and urged the boat onward.

  Huge cliffs loomed up, and a rocky shore, which offered no easy landing place. Eleanor pulled herself back for fear she would send them onto the rocks and slid down into the depression in the middle, an exhausted, sodden mess. The boat whirled like a top.

  She wiped the spray from her face and discovered Arthur bailing with her cooking pot. He gave her a broad grin and continued. The shore lay out of reach but tantalizingly close. Eleanor flexed her aching shoulders, rubbed her numbed hands together, then picked up the oar and stood up again. The power in her staff seemed to penetrate her chill and exhaustion, and she found she somehow had the strength to paddle.

  But it was nearly two hours before she found a cove they could land in, navigated its waters, and waded onto a stone-strewn beach. Then she lay there, too tired and cold to move or care if she ever moved again. She was faintly aware of the young man struggling with something, but it didn’t seem very important as she drifted off to a light doze that deepened into sleep.

  Something was chasing her. It was hot and bright and terrible. The light blinded her, so she stumbled. Great hands grasped her shoulders, and a mouth covered hers.

  Eleanor sat up screaming. She stared blank-eyed at the waves, and cry after cry ripped out of her throat.

  Arthur put clumsy arms around her and held her against him.

  "Sh, shh. It was only a dream. You are quite safe. There, there.”

  Eleanor sagged against a comforting shoulder and wiped tears away from her cheeks. "It was awful. I couldn’t... get away,” she mumbled. "I’m so tired. Cold.” "Yes. We both are. I’ve gathered some wood. If you could manage to start a fire, we could get warm and dry our clothes.”

  "I don’t think I could make a spark,” she answered as she gently disengaged herself from his embrace. She crawled to the pile of driftwood and begged for fire. To her surprise, it appeared, and in a few minutes, a cheery blaze crackled on the beach. It was, she realized, dark again. "Have I slept the day away?”

  "Indeed, you have. I spread out the cloaks to dry, but the sun doesn’t get in this cove much, and everything is still damp. I pulled off your boots, though. I was afraid the leather would shrink and hurt your feet.”

  Eleanor wiggled her toes toward the fire. "It’s all right. I have resigned myself. I’ll never be warm, dry, and well fed again.”

  Arthur gave her a toothy grin. "When I am restored to my throne, you will have anything you wish.”

  She gave him a shrug. "I don’t think you can give me what I really want. But it doesn’t matter. Really, I’ve become quite accustomed to being soaked to the skin. But the salt has dried, and I itch terribly. That’s the worst part. I wonder where we are. There are times when I wish Wrolf could speak, though I don’t think map-reading is one of his talents.”

  The wolf, resting on one side of the fire, lifted his head at the sound of his name and lolled his tongue out. Then he flopped back down and returned to his slumbers. Eleanor envied his cheerful disposition. Her stomach rumbled, but she knew she had no strength left for magic, so she curled up and closed her eyes.

  Dawn found her refreshed and itchy. Arthur was feeding the dying fire with bits of wood and singing softly to himself. "Did you sleep?” she asked, standing up and shaking sand and rimed salt from her now dry garments.

  "A bit. I do not seem to need very much.”

  "Well, you were sort of asleep for twenty years. And your grandfather apparently didn’t need much, either.” "Really. I never knew him or my father. Lots of stories, though. And tales of my Uncle Richard. I have often felt that they were giants and that I would never be able to follow in their footsteps. And my grandmother! She is more alive than other women. Like a comet or a falling star. My mother used to get a terrible rash all up and down her arms whenever Grandmother came to visit. I almost expected Eleanor to have wings like a dragon, but she was always bright and kind.”

  "I had never thought much about it, but I guess they must be fairly formidable as a family. My father was, too, but hardly in the same class. We’d better do something about breakfast.”

  "I... found these. Do you think they are good to eat?” He displayed three slightly speckled eggs beside him on the sand. "There was another one, but it broke.” He reminded her of an overlarge and anxious Irish setter.

  "I have no idea, but if there isn’t a baby bird inside, I guess it won’t kill us. Actually, I think there are people who eat unborn baby birds. I’m just not ready to become one.” She took the cooking pot, filled it with seawater, and set the eggs into it. Twenty minutes later, they were eating hard-boiled and slightly salty eggs with the enthusiasm of the ravenous.

  They packed up the gear, the willow cup having returned to its normal state, and the staff as well, and started searching for some way up to the cliffs above. It took an hour, and Eleanor was wet to the knees again before a path revealed itself. It was rocky and so narrow at one point that they could barely squeeze through, and Arthur tore his tunic, but eventually they reached the
top.

  XXIII

  By midday, the sea was well behind them, and Eleanor found a small stream. The desire to get dried salt off her body was irresistible, so they decided to stop there. Arthur went off to see if he could discover another stupid rabbit, and she happily discarded her clothing and washed her body, scrubbing until she was pink, then sitting on a rock to let the sun dry her.

  A large hand covered her mouth and another pulled her hair, dragging her off the rock, cutting her legs in the process. Baird grinned down at her, his bright hair glinting in the sunlight. He covered both her mouth and nose as she clawed at him, then laughed as she ceased to struggle.

  "That’s better. Much better. Glare at me all you like. You are going to be mine. I’m much nicer than Doyle, a better lover. You’ll see.”

  She bit his hand as hard as she could, and he slapped her until her head rang. Then he grabbed one breast and twisted it until she cried in pain. Eleanor clawed at him, but his longer arms gave him an unfair advantage. All she could reach was his shoulders, encased in soft leather.

  Baird put one hand around her throat and the other between her legs, manipulating the flesh. She gasped and fought her body’s responses, trying to think of some way to defeat him. There was nothing. She was still too weak from the sea voyage.

  The grip on her throat tightened. "Stop fighting me. I am going to have you and the sword. Surrender, little slave.” The blue sky overhead seemed to darken, and she knew that she must not lose consciousness, whatever happened. Instead, she fluttered her eyelids and feigned a faint. He loosened his grip on her throat and pushed her legs farther apart. Then he was inside her.

  Her body responded a little, and she felt betrayed. No one but Doyle should make her feel like this. Remembering her husband was a mistake. Her muscles quivered at the thought. She must not think of anything remotely sexual. It was amazing, she discovered, how little was free of sexual connotation. The sea was like waves of pleasure. Fire was full of passion. Music was languorous and sensual. Earth was hard, like a man. Animals, plants, they all brought images.

  She could reach his face now, his eyes, but it was hard to wish to. Her body desired release, and it wasn’t particular how it achieved it. But Eleanor knew if she allowed herself to climax with the grunting brute atop her, he would indeed win the sword and be her master. She gouged at his eyes halfheartedly, and he slapped her again and again. She cried out to Bridget and Sal but heard no answer.

  Eleanor forced herself to one more effort. She slowly quelled her body, denying each response, until the image of a still pool of water rose in her mind. Sal was there! Nothing ruffled the smooth surface of the pool, no breeze, no emotion. She felt herself become part of the glassy waters. Faintly, far away, she heard his roar of triumph, and she felt his moisture enter her, but she knew it to be a hollow victory for him.

  Then Wrolf landed on his back and sank great teeth into the exposed throat of the man. For an instant, she was almost crushed beneath their combined weights, then Baird rolled off with a bellow. He yanked a knife from his belt and tore into the wolf’s belly.

  Eleanor staggered up on trembling legs as they rolled into the stream, locked in mortal combat. She gasped for a moment, then got her staff and waded into the pinkish water to smash Baird across the skull.

  Wrolf’s coat was bright with blood, but he continued to rip at the man. Baird sank the knife into the wolf s throat just as Eleanor brought her staff down a third time.

  There was silence. Wolf and man lay in the shallow stream, unmoving. One side of Baird’s face was ruined, and the eye was gone, but she gave him no more than a glance. She tugged his flaccid arms from around the animal and felt the wet coat at the chest. Nothing.

  Eleanor sat down in the stream and took the dead head of her companion into her lap. The waters swirled around them, carrying the gore downstream as she wept.

  Arthur found her there, stroking the head of a dead wolf with the huge body of a man beside her. He goggled at the carnage, then waded into the water and drew her away to the shore.

  Eleanor stared down at them, the man still alive by the rise and fall of his chest. She wanted to go over and stab Baird in the throat, as he had killed Wrolf, with the same knife. A cool voice in her mind said, "No. It is not his time to die.”

  Her tears ceased, and she removed herself from Arthur’s light embrace, suddenly aware that however young he was, he was perfectly healthy about having a naked woman in his grasp. Ignoring her bloody legs, she pulled her salty tunic on.

  Baird sat up and groaned. He lowered his head to his hands, then vomited violently into the stream. Eleanor watched icily as he heaved and retched. I hope I gave him a terrific concussion, she thought. He tried to stand up, but his legs gave way, and he fell back into the stream. Finally, he crawled to shore moaning. Baird flopped on one side and lay panting. She could see a line of red seeping from his scalp where she had struck him. There was a slight feeling of pleasure that she had marked him, though Wrolf had done the greatest damage.

  "Help me get Wrolf to shore,” she told Arthur. It was an awkward burden, but they carried the wolf onto the earth, and Eleanor removed the knife that remained buried in his throat. She washed it off, dried it on her tunic, and stuck it into her belt.

  Baird gave a bellow that rang through the vale. "My eye! My eye!”

  "It should have been your throat, you bastard,” Eleanor answered. "Count yourself lucky I don’t cut off your balls!”

  "You...bitch! I’ll make you pay. No one can treat

  me—”

  "Silence, churl,” roared Arthur, kicking Baird with a damp boot. "Should I kill him for you, my lady?” He had an expression that left no doubt in Eleanor’s mind that he meant it.

  "No. It isn’t his time to die yet. Let’s gather stones for Wrolf.” She bent and picked up two hefty rocks and began to place them around the carcass. It was mid-afternoon before the cairn was completed, and Baird seemed to have fallen asleep. Eleanor heaped the last stone into place, then turned and gathered her staff. She walked away from the grave and the man without a backward glance.

  By sunset, they had walked south a few miles, and Eleanor felt the anger and adrenaline that sustained her fade as quickly as ice in a fire. Her feet suddenly refused to progress another step, and she sat down on a nearby rock.

  Arthur looked at her, nodded, and broke some dead-wood off nearby bushes. Then he removed the rather battered rabbit he had caught from his belt and began skinning it clumsily. Eleanor made a tiny fire and sat back again. The fire sword lay across her back like a yoke, and she released it. She took it onto her lap and stared down at the bright sheath. Fingering the interlace patterns in the twilight, she wondered if it was worth the lives of her husband and Wrolf. Bridget, she decided, had a great deal to answer for, but who could call the gods to task? A faint Sal echo in her mind said, "Only themselves,” and she felt some content in that.

  Eleanor fell into a light doze after they had eaten, sitting up against the rock, tense for any sound that might herald Baird pursuing them. He would follow them, she was certain. She woke suddenly from a dream of a banquet table groaning with her favorite foods— salmon mousse, tacos, bloody beef, and German chocolate cake.

  Two coals seemed to glow beyond the fading fire. She stared at them until she realized it was a cat with an aura darker than night. It lay sphinxlike and regarded her with feline insolence. Was it some creature of Darkness, to have so somber a light?

  As if it caught her question, the animal stood, stretching gracefully, and she saw it was much larger

  than she had assumed. It moved slowly around the fire, and she realized it was a panther. It came and sat Bastlike before her and stared at her with golden eyes. She returned the look until the animal gave a slow blink.

  Carefully, Eleanor extended a hand slowly. The panther sniffed at it indifferently, then stretched out on its stomach until its front paws almost touched Eleanor’s hem. It made a low noise in its throat, which she
took for a purr, though it was very like a soft growl. "Hullo.” She wondered if Elliot’s instructions on greeting felines included black panthers. "How do you do?” It gave a low grunt, which Eleanor took to mean, "Well enough, thank you.”

  It inched closer, until its sleek head was beside Eleanor’s lap. Then it leaned its chin against her thigh and gave a slight sigh, as if it derived some obscure pleasure from human contact. Eleanor slowly lifted her hand and gave the beast a tentative stroke behind the ears. It snuggled closer.

  "You are overlarge for a lapcat,” she said very quietly. The panther just gave her a blink of golden eyes. "I suppose you are my guide now.” She leaned back against the rock, thinking sadly of Wrolf, and continued to pet the animal while she stared into the fire. Her mind was a tumble of odd bits of memory, the story of the Great Cat of Pulag that had held terrible sway over a portion of Wales in some misty past, her meeting of Wrolf in the woods, the avatars of the Goddess Diana as bear, wolf, and cat. The wolf was winter, and the cat summer, just as Doyle and Baird were tied to those seasons. Bridget had said she would find helpers along the way, and she supposed this must be one.

  The grief she had walled up behind some invisible barrier in her mind flowed out. She longed for Doyle’s touch and Wrolf s cheerful disposition. Tears dripped down her cheeks.

  The panther turned and raised its head, putting one paw on Eleanor’s breast. It regarded her steadily, and there was comfort in its touch, so she rubbed the tears away. "You realize you have absolutely no business in Scotland,” she told it. The cat yawned, as if matters of geography were quite irrelevant. "I shall call you Sable, if you have no objections. I never was very clever with names. I had three dogs, all called Prince, even though one was a princess, but that was in another country, and a white cat called Fluffy. I guess we are both strangers in a strange land, because this is very unlike Africa, isn’t it? Were you sitting on a tree limb, contemplating the sunset, when you were whisked to my fireside? Or were you prowling the halls of Olympus?” The panther gave her a playful butt of head against chest, as if to say it did not matter.