In the Witching Hour

by Неизвестный

  "Briana, we must leave, go back to Lochlann," he said in his deep, husky voice. Holding his horse’s reins, he gazed down at her, a look of silent accusation on his face. He wore a black tunic, black trousers tucked into mid-calf boots. With his tall build, his regular features and straight nose, he was as handsome as ever, but an enemy now.

  "Give me a few minutes." Briana sank into despondency, hating herself for her accident, hating him for his vocation as one of the druids’ enforcers. She would not give him the satisfaction of tears, nor would she reveal her terror. He’d take her back to the village now, and her punishment would not be a quick death, for she had defied the holy men. She saw herself at the stake as flames devoured her body. Oh, gods, how could she bear it! Fear froze her stomach.

  She summoned her wits and stared up at him. "How did you know to come for me here?" No use in pretending ignorance, asking why he was here. The druids had obviously sent him. He knew that she knew. "Up these hills, through the forest ... much easier to head south."

  "But not sensible." He stepped forward, the wind ruffling his hair, his black woolen cloak rippling around his legs. "Why would you head for--Greeb Point, was it?--when that village is over a nineday’s journey away, and only ill-served inns lie along the route?" He scratched his chin. "And I don’t recall you ever spoke of relatives there."

  "Just because I never spoke of relatives doesn’t mean I don’t have any." She shifted her position, and a shaft of pain tore through her foot. Her body screamed with pain and her mind screamed with arguments, with refusals, with any means she could invoke to prevent her return.

  He bent over and held a hand out to her. "Come, Briana. I’m taking you back."

  She drew back. "Oh, no you’re not."

  "Oh, yes, I am." He shook his head. "Don’t fight me. It will do you no good."

  "I thought you were my friend!" she blurted. "Since we were children. Is this how one friend treats another?"

  "Enforcer first, friend second." But the look on his face told her he hated the choice, or was that only her imagination? He tapped the leather bag attached to the horse’s saddle. "I have iron restraints that I can use if I must. Don’t make that necessary, Briana. Don’t make this task more difficult for you or me." He reached for her and pulled her arm.

  She shrieked with pain.

  Looking worried, he crouched down beside her, his cloak pooling on the ground. "What happened to your arm?"

  She pointed to her foot. "Not my arm, my ankle. Sprained it yesterday."

  Gently, he felt her ankle and sat back. "No broken bones, but it’s quite swollen."

  "Well, thank you for telling me," she said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. "I surmised that myself."

  "Can you tear off part of your shift, so that I can bind it?

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because pain and depression had clouded her mind. She ripped off a strip from her cotton shift, the fabric worn with age, and handed him the piece. With infinite care, he eased off her shoe and bound the ankle, then helped slip her shoe on again. She wanted to cry with pain, but kept silent, refusing to show any weakness in front of him.

  He gave her a stern look. "This changes nothing. I must still take you back."

  Terror ripped through her. "And see me burned at the stake for defying the druids?"

  "Hardly that. But the Samhain ceremony will be held as planned."

  Did an expression of regret pass over his face as he said those words, or was it only her wishful thinking? Tears flooded her eyes, but she struggled for her natural resiliency, determined he would not see her fear. "It doesn’t matter to you, Weylyn that I’ll suffer death by stabbing, that I’ll be sacrificed to the gods?"

  "What I think is of no importance. The druids speak for the gods, and we must not frustrate the will of those we worship. If you are not sacrificed, the entire village will pay the penalty on Samhain, when the demons will enter our houses and slaughter us all." He tapped her arm. "Is that what you want?"

  She drew a deep breath and shook her head. She would not have the villagers suffer because she failed in her duty.

  "Very well, then, we shall go back now." He slipped one arm under her legs and with his other arm, lifted her and set her on his horse. He retrieved her satchel and handed it to her, then mounted behind her.

  * * * *

  With Briana’s soft body so close to his, Weylyn tried to think of his duty, tried not to realize he was returning her for sacrifice. She would endure a horrible death at the hands of Druid Ahearn. Gods! he asked himself yet again, why had those learned men chosen him for this task? Any other enforcer would have headed south, thus permitting Briana to escape. Perhaps he should have followed that course, even knowing his trip would have yielded failure. But he could not forsake his duty, could not obstruct the gods’ will.

  Inhaling her lilac fragrance, he wished, more than anything, that this trip was a joyous ride they shared, that she was his betrothed. He tried to concentrate on his mission as the horse descended the rock-strewn path, and he shoved tree branches out of the way. He knew now--as if he needed a reminder--how much she meant to him, how much she had always meant to him since the gods knew when. He fought the need, the yearning, to draw her near, to kiss her neck and tell her how much he loved her. In her blue dress, her woolen cloak riding her shoulders, she was the loveliest woman he’d ever known, the only woman he wanted now or ever. Her blonde hair blew back and teased his face, and despite his torment, he smiled to himself, wanting to caress her locks, let them slide through his fingers like sand.

  He sought to say something, reluctant to continue the trek in silence.

  Riding astride, she spoke first, turning her head slightly. "When we reach the village, will you lock me in a cell?"

  No! Gods forbid! "I fear so. You have already shown we can’t trust you. You may try to flee again."

  "Even if I promise not to?"

  "It’s not my decision." His gaze on the rocky path, he reached past her and shoved a branch aside, his eyes ever alert for wild animals. Yet the woods remained eerily quiet, as if all life had died. A pale sun tried to pierce the gray sky, the air colder but less windy. He felt the bunch of the mare’s muscles beneath him as they clambered down the trail, thick with tree roots, the ground studded with shale and limestone.

  This trip is sweet torture, he thought, and not only because he was taking her back for sacrifice. His body warmed, his desire near unbearable, a longing to take her now to the hard ground and make love to her. But he couldn’t do that to her, even had she wanted the same, and he knew she didn’t. Why should she, when he was returning her to certain death? For that reason alone, he couldn’t make love to her. Besides, her ankle must ache--

  "How is your ankle since I bound it?"

  "A little better, but it still hurts."

  "When we reach the temple, the druid physician will give you an herb for the pain."

  She scoffed. "So I won’t hurt when the druid stabs me to death."

  He remained silent, at a loss for words. After a moment, he found his voice. "Briana, surely you know I don’t want to do this."

  She turned her head again. "Then why are you?"

  "You know why. It’s as I said. We must not frustrate the will of the gods."

  He said no more, both of them quiet as the woods surrounded them, the forest thick with evergreens. The trail looped and doubled back, following the slope of the ground. Her hair blew back and brushed his face, and he kissed a strand, wanting to kiss her body. He wondered how he could endure this honeyed torment, this passion that drove every thought from his mind, except the desire to make her his own. Ah, and if he wasn’t the enforcer, if she wasn’t the woman chosen for the sacrifice, could he truly make her his own, his wife? Did she care for him as he longed for her? Would she willingly go into his arms and surrender to him?

  Surrender. The word haunted him, for she had truly surrendered to him, had not even been able to struggle against her capture. Her s
prained ankle had rendered her helpless. Are you proud of yourself? Does it give you a sense of accomplishment to know you have taken this dear woman prisoner--one who could not even defend herself--to return her to a cruel death? And yes, he had to admit, she would suffer a cruel death, one he must witness, as was the duty of all the villagers. In his mind, he heard her screams, saw the blood spurting from her body, saw her writhe on the ground. Gods, he prayed, help me to bear it.

  They covered miles, the air growing cooler, a thin mist draping the trees. He focused his eyes on the winding trail, where trees and bushes appeared as vague shadows, and moisture dripped from branches. He bit his lip, hoping the fog would lift soon, and yet he knew a heavy fog was common this time of year. He must hasten the journey and reach the village within the next day, for Samhain would arrive soon. He must reach the temple long before the holy eve, before the veil that separated the Otherworld and the real world disappeared, and demons and evil spirits sought humans to consume.

  Needing to divert his mind, he thought back to years past, time spent with his family. Memories flooded his mind, of his parents, younger brother and sister. A furniture maker, his father had managed well, making enough money to feed his family and pay for his children’s education and even pay for Weylyn’s sword practice. Then his father had caught a fever and died, followed two weeks later by his mother. Twelve at the time, Weylyn was forced to quit school. He found a position as a carpenter’s apprentice, using the money his father had saved so that his brother and sister could continue their education and pay for their needs. Although he enjoyed woodworking, life was difficult with the carpenter, long hours of unrelenting labor from dawn to dusk. Even then, he still found a few spare hours during the nineday to keep up with his fencing. But he suspected the carpenter of cheating his customers. Frequent disagreements over that matter led him to quit, with no remuneration for time spent.

  With no job and no money, he’d heard that the druids needed enforcers, and that’s where he’d been ever since. He found much about the job that displeased him, but it afforded him free room and board, not to mention ample time to continue fencing. He often visited his brother and sister, both of them married. He wondered if he’d ever marry, for the only woman he’d ever loved rode with him now, as he took her to her death.

  The horse slowed, its coat shiny with perspiration. They’d ridden for hours without food or drink, without resting the mare or themselves. It would be foolish to continue. He looked all around, searching for an adequate resting place. After a pause, they would keep on riding through the night, if the fog didn’t thicken. And if it did? That possibility didn’t bear consideration.

  Through a thick mass of evergreens, he spied level ground and a stream a few yards distant. Reaching the spot, he raised his legs and slid off the horse, then lifted Briana from the mare. Neither speaking, he carried her over to the stream and set her down carefully, then went back for her satchel. The horse trotted over to the stream and sucked up water, visibly relieved it could satisfy its thirst.

  Weylyn sat down beside Briana, stretching his legs out, easing his sore muscles. "We’ll stay here for a short while then be on our way."

  She sighed but said not a word, wincing as she shifted her position to lean over and drink from the stream. After she finished, he picked her up and carried her over to the grass. He glanced around, dismayed to see the fog had remained, indeed, appeared to be thickening.

  Silence pervaded the evening meal, for he had said all he needed to, unable to say what he wanted to. If only he could tell her all she meant to him. If only he could escape with her. Why, yes, they could backtrack, travel to Magh Mell together and.... He halted his traitorous thoughts, as once more, he reminded himself of his mission.

  He finished the last of a peach and tossed the seed aside. "We will have to stay her for the night. Doesn’t look as if the fog is going to lift now. We’ll continue first thing tomorrow morning. Surely by then the sky will be clear." He hoped and prayed.

  She gave him a sullen look. "You know best."

  Catching the sarcasm in her voice, he ignored it. He thought of all the riding they’d done today, and not once had they stopped to.... He stood and faced her. "Shall I...? Do you want me to...?" He turned his head in the direction of a thick growth of evergreens.

  "Later," she said. "I’ll manage."

  "Very well." With a slight bow, he walked off among the pines then returned to her. "Let’s get some sleep now."

  Obviously exhausted, Briana sank down on the ground and curled on her side, drawing her cloak close to her body. He slipped off his cloak and placed it on her, wanting nothing but to lie down beside her and hold her close throughout the night. His fingers lingered on her shoulder as he tucked the garment around her. He wanted to let his fingers roam, slide down her hip, touch every part of her body.

  She raised herself. "But you’ll need your cloak."

  He indicated his tunic. "Long sleeves. Besides, I’ll lie close to the horse, keep warm that way." He could think of better ways to keep warm, but dared not express his wish. He unbuckled his leather belt and dropped it, along with his scabbard and sword, to the ground. The horse grazed on the fern and grass then returned to the stream to suck up more water. Its hunger and thirst relieved, the mare returned to him.

  After removing the saddle and bridle, he patted Epona’s back. "Now, girl, we’re going to lie down together." He pulled the horse’s front leg up and eased the horse toward him. The beast sank down to the ground without complaint. Weylyn settled down as close as possible to the mare, back to back. He closed his eyes but sleep would not come for a long time. Much later, as his eyes began to droop, he wondered what tomorrow would bring. If the fog didn’t lift ... if it thickened.... Gods, protect us!

  * * * *

  The knife glinted in the bright sunlight, flashing downward. Pain ripped through her, a pain like nothing she’d known. Blood spurted from her chest and soaked the ground. She writhed in agony and....

  "Briana!"

  Someone shook her shoulder, and she jerked awake, staring around her.

  Weylyn crouched down beside her. "You were having a nightmare, crying out in your sleep. Want to talk about it?"

  She shook her head. "No." Too soon, the nightmare would come true, and Weylyn an accomplice to her death.

  "Very well." He pressed a hand to her shoulder and went back to the mare, turning away from her.

  Briana lay awake, her arm across her forehead, and stared up at the dark, cloudless sky, through the haze that drifted among the trees. Her ankle throbbed, another hindrance to sleep. Earlier in the night, after Weylyn had fallen asleep, she’d managed to relieve herself with much awkward maneuvering, and reminded herself to drink less water. She’d slept intermittently after that, too afraid to think of what would happen when they returned to the village and Samhain arrived. Gods, she prayed, save me from death by stabbing.

  She looked toward Weylyn as he lay next to his horse, and even through the mist, she saw his scabbard on the ground. He was never without his weapon, he, the best swordsman in the village, who hadn’t lost a match in over five years. She wondered how old he was now--twenty-three, twenty-four? She smiled grimly, for what did age matter? He was taking her back to her death.

  She raised herself on her elbows as optimism burst within her. If she could rise, she could steal his sword and slip away. She could disappear among the trees, go into the farthest reaches of the forest where he would never discover her. There was a cave close by, if only she could find it. Lying sideways, she tried to rise, but pain shot through her from her ankle all the way up to her leg. Fighting her tears, she cursed with frustration. She remained as helpless as an invalid. The hours passed, and she dozed the rest of the night.

  She awoke, stiff and sore, unsure of the time, for the fog still veiled the woods, with no sun in sight.

  Weylyn sat up and looked her way, then stared around him. "Fog’s still with us," he said unnecessarily. "Let’s eat qu
ickly and be on our way."

  The horse trotted over to the stream and trotted back to Weylyn. The mare snorted, as if to say, let’s go.

  With no time to waste, they finished their breakfast, sharing the food they had brought. Briana drank from the stream, aware that the food and water must last for days, for they must continue, must reach Lochlann before Samhain.

  Samhain. Pure terror sent shivers along her arms and down her back as her mind grappled with the prospect that she must die a horrible death. She could not bear it. Could not. But she must. Gods, give me strength. Help me to bear the coming ordeal.

  Weylyn bridled and saddled the horse, tightening the girth, then gathered all their things

  together. He approached her, looking sympathetic, as if he could perceive her fright. Did he have any idea of the fear that drove every thought from her mind? Didn’t he realize her whole body trembled with terror, with only the thought of the fate that awaited her?

  He knelt beside her. "Briana, we must be on our way."

  "Yes." She wrapped her arms around his neck to make it easier for him to lift her. After picking her up, he walked over to the horse, the mare munching placidly on the fern. Carefully, he set her on the horse and brushed his hand over hers. She jerked her hand back, not wanting his sympathy or his touch. This was the man who was returning her to a cruel death.

  Sighing, he nodded, as though he understood her dread.

  They clambered down the rock-strewn slope as the fog drifted among the trees, first thinning then thickening, like clouds floating in the sky. Hours passed and they lost track of time, neither speaking. The fog was dense, until they couldn’t even see their hands in front of them.

  Weylyn cursed. "Can’t see a damned thing. No point in going on. We’ll only get lost." He turned his head in every direction, looking for another place to stop, but they couldn’t see a thing.