Shadow Over Avalon

by C. N Lesley

  Puffy white clouds hung motionless in an azure sky. A pheasant flapped from cover, squawking with fright, to clatter skywards at the thunder of hooves. Lush pastures peppered with cattle flowed by. They were headed south, away from higher sheep hills.

  The company slowed on approaching a small thicket, and a whistle shrilled. Ten mounted soldiers in red tabards bearing a sable dragon device emerged to join the group. Each clean-shaven man also had his hair neatly trimmed to his shoulders, showing a disciplined fighting unit. They led five laden pack animals and two unburdened beasts. Every newcomer’s face reflected disbelief, anger, and a trace of fear. Not one man dared look at the black rider behind Ashira.

  When wild moorlands replaced meadows, the pace settled to a steady trot until the trail dropped down to wetlands showing signs of habitation. A small community of peat cutters had set up summer camp, plying their trade by carving into the brown, water-filled trenches. Marsh marigolds raised defiant heads, bright yellow sunbursts near the banks, and farther back, mounds of dark, rolled slabs dried in the sun, a source of sweet-smelling winter fuel much preferred by forts. Far above, a peregrine falcon spiraled up on a thermal, screaming his lonely challenge.

  A peregrine for a prince, the order of falconry dictated. Hope flew with that bird for a second until she recognized it was a wild one without dangling jesses. Kieran wasn’t looking for his despised half-sister.

  The company took the trail into high moors visible beyond acres of coppiced willow trees. She craned round to see more, trying to guess their destination.

  “Those are harvested for cane work,” the rider said, his voice deep as he tightened his grip on her. “See that smoke over there? Craftsmen are boiling shoots for darker contrast shades. They’ll be cutting withies all this month. We’ll trade here. Know that I couldn’t care less if you make a scene, but these simple folk will be embarrassed.”

  A few minutes later, the company reached a crude collection of daub and wattle huts thriving with industry. The man dismounted, giving his reins to a soldier. He stalked off without a backward glance.

  Craftsmen brought finished cane-work out, and soldiers unloaded copper cooking pots from one packhorse before a rapid bargaining began. At the finish, two pots changed places for a wide variety of baskets and one screen. When the company set off, she tried to push aside thoughts of her fate, but it became more difficult with each passing league.

  She no longer had a place at Menhill, her father having traded her in a bride price. This man, duped into the union, would lose face with fellow rulers if he kept her. If he looked weak, his fort would come under attack – that was a given. These wild lands they crossed held many places for losing bodies. Still they rode at a steady pace.

  Sunset cast long shadows in a musty valley with ruins from ancient times. Most resembled mounds of rubble, but one large stone structure remained intact, except for the roof and half a wall. The horses trotted into one huge hall with symmetrical, smaller rooms against the two longer sides. At one end, a small opening gave access to a square chamber with higher walls than the rest. The tension radiated from the iron circle of her captor’s arm around her.

  Soldiers picketed their mounts at one end of the central portion and started to unload packs, all under the black rider’s curt direction. When sentries began patrol, he dismounted, hauling Ashira down beside him. Grabbing a bottle from his saddlebag, he pushed her to that enclosed square room. Inside the roofless structure, the ground was studded with fallen stone blocks. One area by a corner remained clear, and here he threw her down. She lay still, sending a prayer to the Harvesters for this warrior to make a quick kill and not take time to pleasure himself first. During their journey, the hard muscles of a fighting lord had pressed against her; he would use a blade, not his hands, to finish her.

  He took a long pull from his bottle, as if seeking an excuse to delay. Light shone on black hair, like a raven’s wing at rest the way it hung down in folded waves. A straight nose jutted over firm lips, a strong square jaw beneath them. He towered over her, watching. His deep-set, pale blue eyes bored into hers. Here was a man who had treated her with respect up till now, but he was fated to be her executioner. She shuddered, praying he wouldn’t force himself on her before he killed her. She would fight him if he tried, but would she risk the afterlife if she died in contention?

  “Scream as loud as you please, girl. Not one man out there will interfere.” He set the bottle to his lips again.

  She closed her mind to the thought of him, of what he might do to her. Sunset faded down through yellow to red. Pink-tinged clouds, shot here and there with gold, floated like fluffy down. A flock of geese flew honking, black and white, a homing arrow to their roost. Ashira took a deep breath, willing calm, savoring the smell of damp loam and crumbling stone. A faint whisper of honey-sweet scent rode on the air, and then his shadow fell across her as he knelt, bringing the aroma of horses, sweat, leather and liquor close.

  Metal hissed on leather when he drew a short blade. He straddled her and, snatching up her right arm, he cut through the fabric of her sleeve. The dark-clad lord held her wrist to his, comparing status bands. Both gleamed reddish gold in the dying light, identical.

  “I am Uther, Duke of Tadgell. Heard of me?” His eyes narrowed.

  A sudden worm of fear gnawed at her vitals. This man didn’t live by the rules. “I’ve heard stories.” The Black Dragon Duke. Now she knew why he had hidden his identity. Some said he encouraged the dark Brethren to winter at Tadgell in exchange for weapons practice. He’d earned a reputation as lethal duelist, moving with a fluid grace found uniquely in seasoned Outcasts, or Brethren, whichever name they called themselves.

  “So the weasel’s get has a voice.” He pulled on the liquor bottle again. “I thought Hald disposed of a bastard, but I see the gold band of a legitimate daughter. Why discard legitimate blood kin?”

  “My father’s device is a polecat, not a weasel.” Ashira didn’t care if she angered this man more. He looked as if he intended to drink himself insensible. Drunken soldiers made clumsy killers. She’d as soon goad him to act with speed before he had other thoughts.

  “Weasel, polecat—stinking vermin, both. Did Hald have cause?” Suspicion or anger narrowed those ice-blue eyes.

  She understood: rulers never traded daughters away to strangers. Marriages arranged for strategic alliance, to improve status, or for territory, were the way Gold Band ladies left their families. Clearly her father’s hatred of her had become so bitter that he could no longer tolerate her presence.

  The silence between them grew into a thing of menace. The duke’s expression set into hard lines as he sheathed his knife. Every instinct warned her to conceal her battle skills from this ruler.

  “You’re what? Sixteen summers?” The duke’s eyebrows rose. “Probably never let out of the women’s quarters except by Hald’s orders, judging by the lack of a face veil.”

  Still she stayed quiet, sensing he wanted something from her.

  “Silence speaks louder than words. Do you know this, girl?”

  His eyes returned to her band, and then narrowed as if beginning to question. Ashira balled her fists seconds before he caught first one wrist, then the other in an iron grip, forcing them together. His speed threw her off balance when he stood, forcing her to kneel in front of him.

  “Swear an oath of fealty. Accept my protection, girl,” he said. She would have to place her hands in his while she swore. An act to gain life would betray her training calluses when he felt her palms against his. Her fists remained closed; her head came up in a gesture of pure defiance.

  “I could force you to repeat your defiance in front of my men. You do understand no other ruler could then question my right to order an execution?” The duke waited for an answer. “One last chance. Will you give me the kiss of peace?”

  This vowed her not to harm him, and she wouldn’t have to betray her sword callouses. She kissed his hands. The duke startled her with another swift
movement, kneeling to join her, he forced her arms behind her back. Almost in a whisper, he said, “Girl, you’ve got a look about you. You remind me of someone I think I would do well to mistrust. I’ll have the kiss on my lips.”

  Now Ashira could see his motives: this kiss would mean vowing to protect his life from enemies. He suspected treachery from Menhill. His arms tightened around her, bringing her into a rough embrace. His lips hovered over hers while he waited for her move. What did she have to lose? She closed her mind from the thought of what she did and just brushed his mouth. Moving away, she caught one of his eyebrows quirked up and the trace of a smile hovering.

  “Such a vow holds true on our lives until we both agree to part company,” the duke said. “I have your vow, and now you shall have mine.”

  Drawing her close, he kissed her. Ashira had not guessed a man’s lips could be so soft. By the time he had finished, she was blushing, to his obvious amusement.

  He became serious once more. “Speak the truth now, are you betrothed to another?”

  She looked down and shook her head.

  “Are you sure? Have you any pieces of jewelry you received from your father and not your mother that could be betrothal gifts?”

  “None.” Hald aimed high for Syril without stirring himself for her . . . until now.

  “Then I have all that I need to know.” Releasing her arms, he cupped her chin, compelling her to meet his eyes. “All arguments will be reserved for journey’s end. You will obey my orders instantly, and I’d prefer if you could manage to uphold the dignity of our status by refraining from any whines, or complaints. The lives of all depend on strict discipline in the wilderness.”

  She nodded.

  He let her wait, as if daring a stream of objections to burst forth. Hearing none, he released her, rising to his feet to execute a short, formal bow.

  The duke offered his hand to assist her. “I think I will not permit Hald to reacquire you, whatever the outcome of this mess. Gold Band ladies are not treated thus. Besides, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  Sympathy from this unexpected quarter chipped at her resolve. Her bottom lip began to tremble.

  “No tears.”

  Ashira stopped at the savage tone. The Dragon Duke still sought to trap her off guard with his false kindness, a thin veil over anger and outrage.

  “That’s better. Now, are you composed enough to rejoin others, or do you need more time?”

  “I’m ready.” A shiver tingled through her. She no longer doubted he encouraged Outcasts for more than predator slaying. He seemed to have more than his share of their ruthlessness. The Black Dragon Duke operated by his own individual set of rules.

  Chapter 3

  Earth Date 3874

  A campfire burned bright, the yellow flames licking at the laden spits sizzling and popping with gobbets of meat. The smell of smoke and roasting mutton wafted through the cool night air. Head held high, Ashira ignored curious men and the small pockets of nervous laughter. She stalked to the edge of the firelight to sit on a flat rock. The duke joined her, sitting close without touching, his look daring her to move away.

  A soldier brought a water bottle, returning soon after with slices of roasted lamb resting on wedges of waybread.

  “Hald raises good stock.”

  “He didn’t trade with you except . . .” she started, aware far too late that this subject should be left alone.

  “The beast tripped over one of my soldier’s swords. It managed to impale itself through the heart. I’m sure every care would’ve been taken to heal it otherwise.” He glanced down at her, a hesitant smile lighting his stern features. “We couldn’t just leave it there to draw predators, could we?”

  “That’s theft. You should’ve given the animal a decent burial.” She couldn’t help looking at his lips, remembering how soft they felt.

  “Oh but we do!” He laughed, taking a large bite out of his portion.

  This was a show for his men; he played his part well. Hunger and thirst hit her after a full day of fasting. Ashira didn’t care who had rightfully owned the animal, a prime specimen, and she hoped it had been valued breeding stock.

  Some soldiers began a game of dice while others rose, stretching, to take turns on patrol. A few rolled up in their cloaks to catch some sleep. Ashira yawned as the events of a disastrous day caught up with her. She stared into glowing embers, getting sleepy.

  The duke unfastened his cloak, lying down to cover himself with it.

  “Lie beside me,” he said. “I need you well-rested for tomorrow.”

  She settled as far away from him as she could while still sharing his cloak.

  “Ashira,” he said, quietly. “Did I mishear . . . is that your name?”

  “Yes, my lord.” She wondered at the hesitation in his tone. Her father never bothered checking details like a person’s name.

  “I’m not used to being around Gold Band ladies. I forgot how isolated you all are. Did I hurt you? Shall I order a litter made for the morning? You rode well for a lady, but must surely ache.”

  “I’ll ride. I learned as a child.” She wasn’t going to show this man one trace of weakness, despite his apparent kindness.

  A chill coming up through the hard ground seeped into Ashira’s bones. Her muscles did ache from travel, despite her training. Without rest, she wouldn’t last long tomorrow, and then he’d make her take a litter. She moved nearer, turning her back to him. The duke fitted to her contours. Warmth and a sense of safety seeped from him. Whatever his reputation, he had been honest with her so far.

  Yet a feeling of a threat persisted, not from him, but from something else in the night sky, where two falling stars streaked from west to east. The sense of wrongness became unease. The Outcast and his warning swam across her mind. What had he meant by saying she would come into his grasp soon? Did he speak of a raid on this trading party, foreseen by one so damned that the future lay open like a fresh wound?

  “What is amiss?” the duke whispered in her ear.

  “Sentries will patrol all night?”

  “We are safe enough here. There’s not sufficient game to attract many predators.” The duke reached up to grasp something from behind in the darkness beyond firelight. He thrust his liquor bottle in her face. “Drink. It’ll bring sleep.”

  “I’m not permitted strong—”

  “Hald has no authority over you now. It’s my choice.” His hand squeezed her shoulder in warning. Ashira pulled the stopper, propping up on an elbow to take a very small sip. The fumes went up her nose. She choked.

  “Again,” he said.

  “It’s making me feel strange. Why would anyone in their right mind want to drink this muck?”

  “A criticism, lady? Very brave, considering your position. I imbibed because I’ve never killed a girl. I had no wish for a clear memory of the deed.”

  “Why didn’t you . . . kill?”

  “Let’s say I prefer proof of ill-intent. Is Hald planning a night raid?” He took back the liquor, tensing against her as he waited for answers.

  “He didn’t tell me. I heard the horn calls to warn of strangers and was summoned into his presence, where he traded me away. I didn’t see him outside of your company for more than a few heartbeats.” Ashira didn’t think Hald had any plan. She considered telling the duke, but decided against it. How could she tell him about the Outcast’s threat without revealing that she was a War Maid? No other Gold Band lady was allowed outside the fort unless in the company of the ruling lord.

  “Now I’ve unsettled you again. Still frightened by strange sounds in the night?”

  “Something isn’t right.” Ashira examined her feeling of disquiet, wriggling a fraction nearer to him. Again Copperhead’s warning stirred her. And falling stars meant death; each star took a soul into the great abyss. In the distance, a lone wolf howled a message, answered by a dreadful chorus.

  “Night terrors,” he said, tensing despite the calm tone of his voice. “The Wild Hunt rides
.”

  “We’re in danger?” Ashira said. “Will it attack? I once heard troopers talking of it. They went closed-mouthed when they saw me.”

  “I’m not surprised. The Wild Hunt is not a subject for ladies. Have no fear, we are not targets.”

  “It takes people, doesn’t it?” Why the secrecy, if the rumors weren’t true? Fear jangled her nerves.

  “Ashira, if I tell you of this thing, it is not to be shared with other ladies, any females or children. Is that agreed?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” He paused as if collecting his thoughts. “Harvesters protect us, care for us and receive absolute devotion in return. Should any individual betray the teachings of priests, the punishment extends to both this world and the afterlife. Outcasts cease to be children of the Harvesters at the instant of sentence. When they die we assume they go to one of the seven hells.”

  “Don’t they?” Ashira shifted in his arms so that she lay on her back.

  “Being godless is a terrible wound. Some of them have reverted to pagan beliefs. They worship the Horned One, a hunter riding at the head of a fearsome pack in the silence of night. Each kill made by an Outcast is dedicated to a god who wallows in blood. In return, they believe they will join the Wild Hunt in an afterlife. The pack is supposed to appear just before a dark one dies, if you want to believe that nonsense.”

  “Do you?” Relieved and curious, she tried to see his expression in the firelight. Too many flickering shadows spoiled her attempt.

  “Were I an Outcast, I might be tempted. Now do you understand why this subject is restricted by our priests and why we are safe from harm?”

  “Yes, my lord.”