For a while, the Merron had occupied themselves with quiet prayers. Then Úlfnaor and Hallvor had placed a fire-basin of smouldering herbs at Sólmundr’s feet, and taken a seat on either side of their friend. Since then, the Merron had simply sat in calm silence, waiting for their friend to die.
Boro lay with his head on his master’s lap, his eyes fixed on Sól’s face. The warrior was wrapped loosely in his blankets and his cloak, sweating and shivering, glassy-eyed with fever. Thankfully, he seemed to have drifted far from his pain, and as the smoke from the fire-basin twined slowly around his body, Sólmundr lay placidly staring through the gaps in the canopy of the trees, his eyes roaming the stars that trembled overhead.
“I fear that he has not much time left,” murmured Wynter, glancing again at Christopher. He had yet to cross the camp and pay his respects. This surprised Wynter. In the short time they’d known each other, she had thought the two men had become very close, and Christopher’s distanced reaction to Sól’s decline worried her.
Christopher gazed at Sólmundr, then at Úlfnaor, but said nothing.
Frangok crossed from the Merron fire and knelt at Sólmundr’s side, a beaker in her hand. Hallvor tilted his head forward, to make it easier for him to drink, but he did not even try, and the liquid dribbled from his slack lips, running down his neck and staining his shirt. Sighing, Frangok carefully dried his face and returned to the fire with the beaker still full of tea.
“That is the first time I have seen that woman pay any attention to Sólmundr,” observed Wynter. “Until now, she and those brothers have been consistent in their disregard for the poor man.”
“That is because they are superstitious chards,” said Christopher. The venom in his voice took Wynter by surprise and she turned to stare at him. “This is all Ashkr’s fault!” he cried softly. “What did he expect these people to do after he was gone? Did he think that they would forget what Sólmundr was? Did he think they would simply throw their arms about the poor fellow and cry, ‘Ah well, come back home!’ Good Frith. If Ashkr had only once stopped to consider that poor man instead of himself, but no… not the bloody Caora. Not the bloody anointed of God!”
Christopher turned to Wynter in wide-eyed frustration, all set to continue his hissing tirade, but at the confusion in her face, he paused. The anger drained from him at the realisation that she did not understand, and he turned wearily back to face the clearing, his voice dull.
“Sólmundr should have died when Ashkr died, lass. Those people don’t care that it was Ashkr’s wish to spare him.” Christopher stared at Frangok, his face dark with bitterness. “Tá Sólmundr ina ‘Neamh-bheo’ dhóibh anois,” he sneered, apparently unaware that he had spoken Merron. “Walking Dead. Very bad luck. They will only be truly content once Sól is dead and everything is as it should be. They believe that Ashkr cannot make the journey to An Domhan without his croí-eile. They believe he has come back to claim Sól and take him with him as his own.” His eyes went to Boro. “No doubt they’ll cut the poor hound’s throat too in the end. He was Ashkr’s property, after all.”
Christopher flicked an anxious glance at Razi, and Wynter’s stomach went cold with horrible understanding. She remembered Christopher standing in the flame-licked shadows as Ashkr burned and Embla lay crushed beneath that tree. She remembered him telling her, his voice choked with tears, how Razi too should have died; how Embla had spared him, just as Ashkr had spared Sólmundr.
“Christopher,” she whispered. “They spoke of Embla. I heard them say her name.” Christopher turned slowly and they looked each other in the eye. “Frangok asked Sól had he seen Embla. I am certain of it …”
“What did Sólmundr say?” whispered Christopher, his lips almost too numb to form the words.
Wynter shook her head. “He did not answer, he was too far gone… but I think I understand now, why Úlfnaor was so terribly insulting to Razi afterwards. He was sneering, and slyly scornful of him. He called him …” she frowned, trying to recall the words.
“Coimhthíoch?” whispered Christopher, and Wynter hissed in negation, holding up her hand to shush him, still trying to recall the words.
“Guttah …” she tried. “Guttah sport quivheeg …” She looked questioningly to him. “Guttah sport quivheeg?”
“Giota spóirt choimhthígh,” repeated Christopher softly. “A bit of foreign sport.” He glanced at Razi, sitting all alone by his tree, weaponless and distant. “How did the others take that?”
“It seemed to calm them. What…?”
“Úlfnaor fears for Razi’s life,” murmured Christopher. “He must have been trying to convince them that Razi was naught but a heat to Embla. Naught but a bit of sport. Nothing worth returning for.”
“But, Christopher,” she whispered. “I think Embla did return. I think I saw her. I think I heard Razi speak to her.” Christopher jerked, as if to get to his feet, and Wynter clamped down on his arm, holding him in place. “No one else saw,” she hissed. “I think even Razi believes it was a dream.” She dipped her chin, staring into his eyes. “We will say nothing,” she said firmly, “and hope that …”
There was a flurry of movement on the Merron side of camp. Hallvor called out in alarm, and Úlfnaor echoed her, distressed. Wynter and Christopher leapt to their feet. In the shadows, Razi pushed himself up and stepped forward.
Sólmundr’s breathing had become suddenly laboured, each breath coming in a long, sawing rasp. Boro stood over him, barking, and Hallvor directed Úlfnaor to pull the huge dog away. She began to move Sólmundr down, preparing to lay him flat on his back.
“No,” cried Razi, his hand out. “Don’t lie him down.” The Merron turned as one and glared at him. Razi faltered, then continued softly. “If you prop him up a little more,” he said, “his breathing will come easier and he… his passing will be that much more comfortable.”
Úlfnaor translated, and everyone looked to Hallvor. She stared at Razi for a moment, then nodded. The Merron leapt to comply, and soon Sólmundr was sitting against the tree, a small pile of blankets and saddlebags at his back, his breathing a little easier than before.
Boro pulled free of Úlfnaor’s grip and ran once more to Sólmundr’s side. Whining, his tail between his legs, the giant hound nudged at his master’s limp fingers, but the warrior did not respond. Instead, he sank against his support, his head lolling back, his eyes fixed on the stars. His face was slack, and his chest heaved laboriously with every breath.
“It is nearly over,” whispered Razi.
Christopher took a step forward.
“Won’t you go to him, Chris?” asked Wynter gently.
Christopher’s gaze dropped to Boro, and he watched as the warhound snuffled desperately at his master’s unresponsive hands.
“Chris? Won’t you go to him?”
Christopher shook his head. He stepped back and took Wynter’s hand, and together they stood and watched, waiting helplessly as Sólmundr struggled towards his end.
“Féach…” Frangok’s soft whisper drew everyone’s attention, and the tall woman got slowly to her feet, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the firelight. “Féach,” she said again raising her hand to point into the shadows. “Ashkr …”
Caora Nua
The roar of flames grew to fill the clearing, and the company rose to their feet and watched as a pale column of flickering light approached through the trees.
“He is here,” whispered Christopher, clenching Wynter’s hand. “Good Frith. He is really here.”
Regal and shimmering, a flaring brightness against the dark, Ashkr’s ghost paused at the edge of the clearing. His handsome face was filled with tenderness as he regarded his dying friend. Úlfnaor whispered something and the Merron stepped away from Sól.
Sólmundr, oblivious to everything, continued to gaze up at the stars, his breath labouring slowly in and out, his body limp. Boro prowled in front of him, whining, his eyes on Ashkr. He barked uncertainly. Ashkr glanced at him, then tilted his hea
d and gestured, stand down. The enormous warhound hesitated, then he dropped by Sólmundr and flattened himself into the earth, gazing at Ashkr’s ghost with confusion and dismay. The other hounds had already slunk into the trees, their tails down, and Wynter saw their eyes gleaming in the darkness as they hovered in the shadows.
Hallvor backed slowly to stand with the others. Her eyes switched between Úlfnaor and Ashkr’s ghost. “Aoire,” she urged, her hand out as if to draw Úlfnaor to her side. “Aoire …”
Úlfnaor stayed crouched by Sólmundr, gazing into his friend’s lax face. “Sól?” he whispered.
Sólmundr did not seem to hear him and, after a moment, Úlfnaor sighed in resignation. He laid his hand on Sól’s labouring chest. “Slán go fóil, a dhlúthchara. Fear maith a bhí ionat i gcónaí. Fear láidir, agus fear saor go deo …”
Christopher’s breath caught for a moment, then he coughed. “He is saying goodbye …” he whispered hoarsely. “He’s telling Sól that he was always a great man, strong and… and forever free.”
Úlfnaor pressed his forehead to Sólmundr’s, then he rose abruptly and crossed to stand with the others, his head down.
Smiling, Ashkr’s ghost drifted forward. His eyes never left Sólmundr’s face, and Wynter understood that no one else here mattered to him, no one else even existed. In death, as in life, Sólmundr was all there was for Ashkr.
Ashkr passed Razi and for a moment the young man was illuminated by spectre-light. His eyes were wide as he watched the spirit pass, his cloak clenched tightly around him, as if to protect himself against the supernatural. Then the ghost moved on, and Razi was thrown into shadow once more.
Ashkr came to a halt at his friend’s side. “Sól,” he whispered. His voice was gentle through the violent roaring of the flames, and it wrung Wynter’s heart to hear the love in it. She moved closer to Christopher, held his hand a little tighter.
Ashkr leant down. “Sólmundr,” he insisted.
Sólmundr tore his attention from the ragged stars above and focused on the face that he had loved so well. He twitched a weary smile and whispered something too dry and low to hear. Ashkr regarded him gravely and sank to his knees by his side. “Sól,” he said. “Mo mhuirnín bocht …”
Sól’s lips tugged up at the corners. His eyes slipped shut and struggled opened again as he fought to stay awake. He whispered again, and Ashkr nodded, reaching to almost touch Sól’s hair.
How unjust, thought Wynter, how unutterably sad that they should have been parted. Her mother and father rose unexpectedly to her mind, and the brief pittance of time that they had enjoyed together before death tore them apart. She hoped that they were together now. She fervently hoped that her father’s ghost did not wander the palace, a thin shadow of his vibrant self, doomed to become nothing but a single-minded shade. She glanced toward Razi—a shadow among shadows, raw and burning still at the loss of Embla—and she squeezed Christopher’s hand, overcome with dread that they might lose each other.
Wynter glanced up into Christopher’s face, about to whisper his name. But, to her surprise, he was not looking at Ashkr and Sólmundr. He was staring into the trees, and even as Wynter turned to him, he snapped to attention, his eyes widening in anger and in fear. She spun to follow his gaze.
A second pillar of light was travelling smoothly towards them through the darkness of the forest. Ashkr glanced in its direction and smiled. He turned to look at Razi. “Tabiyb,” he said, “Embla is coming for you.”
“NO!” howled Christopher. There was a flurry of movement, a sudden, yelling rush of men and women, and Christopher dithered, momentarily torn between leaping backward for his sword and leaping forward to protect Razi.
Wynter drew her knife and dashed forward, followed by Christopher, who stooped and snatched his dagger from his boot as he ran. There was a series of shouts. Frangok’s voice rang out, then Hallvor’s. Úlfnaor yelled. There was a clang of metal on metal, and Wynter ducked instinctively.
Out of the corner of her eye, Wynter saw Thoar dive for his sword. She swerved in his direction, but to her amazement, Hallvor leapt on him, knocking him to the ground. The redheaded warrior exclaimed in shock, and the two Merron rolled into the bushes, grappling for the sword. With a yell, Wari dived to Hallvor’s aid.
Frangok surged forward, her knife in hand, her eyes on Razi. Wynter veered for her with a cry. But almost immediately Úlfnaor flung out his massive arm and hit Frangok hard across the throat. The blow stopped the tall woman in her tracks, and she dropped at Úlfnaor’s feet, gagging and writhing, clutching at her paralysed throat.
Surtr was halfway across the clearing, advancing on Razi, his face set. But Christopher was already heading for him, running full tilt. Even as Wynter spun towards them, Christopher leapt into the air and flung his legs forward in one of his spectacular flying kicks. He caught the warrior on the shoulder, his soft boots impacting the man’s muscular body with a meaty thud, and the two of them flew sideways, slamming to the ground in a flurry of leaves.
They slid to a halt near Sólmundr’s feet, instantly rolling apart. Surtr whipped his knife around and Christopher curved his body into an abrupt arc, barely avoiding the slim blade. Wynter saw the tip of the knife catch the cloth of Christopher’s dark tunic and her heart skipped a beat at how close he’d come.
Christopher rolled and Surtr rolled, and both came to their knees, snarling at each other, their knives poised. Úlfnaor came forward, a massive, dark shape striding between the two men, and he knocked Surtr’s weapon from his hand. Wynter had just time to see the shock in Surtr’s eyes before Úlfnaor kicked him in the chest and sent him into the dirt. Surtr sprawled onto his back and Úlfnaor stood over him, his face sharp with threat, his sword pressed to Surtr’s neck. The redheaded warrior stared up at his leader, stunned and hurt, all his fight gone.
Wynter skidded to a crouching halt, breathless.
There was a moment of bewildered stillness.
On the opposite side of the fire, Wari stood over Thoar, his foot on the dazed man’s weapon hand, his sword at his neck. Hallvor, kneeling by Frangok’s side, spoke urgently to her and massaged her throat.
Shakily, Wynter took all this in. She began to straighten, and Christopher, still on his knees, relaxed slowly, his hands dropping to his side. He looked about with the same dazed confusion as Wynter. Their eyes met. Then Christopher’s attention slipped past her and Wynter saw his face slacken in shock. She spun on her heel, following the direction of his gaze.
Soma was striding towards Razi, a knife in her hand, and Razi, trapped by the unwavering attention of his lover’s ghost, was oblivious to the danger. Embla stepped from the trees, staring into his eyes. She placed a shimmering hand on his chest. Razi gasped and jerked his arm upwards, as if trying to push her away.
“Nuh .…” he said. “Don’t …”
Soma raised her knife.
“Razi!” screamed Wynter. “Razi.”
At her voice, Embla tilted her head and looked past Razi to Soma.
“Ar fad do Chroí an Domhain,” whispered Soma, staring at the ghost, her eyes wide with fear. “Ar fad do Chroí an Domhain.”
She drew back for the fatal blow.
Dreamily, almost slowly, Embla lifted her hand, and Soma jerked to a frozen halt. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes bugging in distress.
“Soma an Fada, daughter of Sorcha an Fada,” murmured Embla, her lips curving fondly. “You are released from your duty.”
Embla spread her fingers and the knife dropped from Soma’s hand and tumbled to the leaves by her side. Embla glanced at the weapon and it shot away through the leaf-mould, slithering out of Soma’s reach, coming to rest against the fire-stones. Soma dropped to her knees with a moan and clutched her knife-hand, rocking as if in great pain.
Embla smiled at Wari. “Wari an Fada, son of Sven an Fada, come forward and tend your other-heart.”
Wynter gaped at the beautiful apparition, unable to comprehend the difference in her speech. All th
e fractured hesitance had gone from Embla’s voice, and she was speaking with an unprecedented fluency, no trace of her drawling accent remaining. Wynter was certain that Embla had spoken Southlandast, a language that Wari did not understand. But the huge man was already striding forward, his face twisted in concern for his wife, and Wynter understood at once—Embla wasn’t speaking Southlandast. She wasn’t speaking Merron. Embla was speaking some other language, at once strange yet familiar, unknown and yet known to them all.
Wari helped Soma to her feet and she retreated into the sanctuary of his arms, cradling her hand and whimpering. Cautiously, his eyes fixed on Embla’s ghost, Wari led his wife back to the others.
“Rise up,” murmured Embla, gesturing to the Merron. “Rise up now, and cease this struggling against one another.”
The warriors did as they were told, the former combatants helping each other to their feet, and Embla once again focused her attention on Razi. She smiled her slow, heated smile, her eyes roaming his face. He seemed suspended by the shimmering hand she had pressed over his heart, and his body was vibrating slightly out of his control. He still had his hand up, the fingers spread, as if to ward Embla off, and he stared at her, wide eyed, his face twitching in distress.
Christopher came to Wynter’s side. “Let him go, Caora,” he said softly. “He ain’t yours.”
Wynter raised her knife, though she knew it was useless against this kind of threat. “Let him go, lady,” she whispered. “Please.”
Embla ignored them both. Only Razi mattered to her and she gazed at him with yearning tenderness. “Tabiyb,” she breathed. “My good man.
At her voice, all Razi’s pain seemed to leave him and his body relaxed against her supportive hand. He blinked at her as if seeing her anew. “Embla …” he whispered, amazed. He reached as if to touch her translucent face. “Em …” he said. His dark eyes shone suddenly brighter, filled with the broken reflections of Embla’s pale light. “I would have taken care of you,” he whispered. “Why would you not trust me to take care of you?”
The Crowded Shadows Page 40
