Second Night

by Gabriel J Klein

  Sir Jonas was waiting for them on the path under the lamp by the front door. White flakes clung to his hair and over the rough weave of his jacket.

  ‘You’ll be catching your death of cold, Master,’ said Alan.

  ‘I fancy we’ll all be cold enough before this night is done, Guardian Armourer. Shall we agree to meet in the study at ten-thirty for the stirrup cup?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Alan.

  Caz nodded. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Is everything prepared to your satisfaction, Guardian Spear-Bearer?’

  ‘The fire’s lit in the Selerest. There are a couple of rugs for the mares in the top room and several jars of fresh spring water. The water buckets are full and there’s brandy. I’ve filled the big stone jar in the cellar with spring water as well.’

  ‘What of the conditions at Thunderslea?’

  ‘There’s a lot of snow. I’ve cleared the way to the tree and around the firestones, but the other end of the tunnel is blocked. We’ll be glad of the Medustig tonight.’

  ‘Then we can do no more. I would be obliged if you would join me for supper in the library, Guardian Armourer, as soon as you are ready.’

  Sir Jonas strode up the steps and returned to the study. All will be decided before dawn. The son will have his moment of glory and the division in Council and in the family will be done with forever.

  CHAPTER 89

  They came together at the appointed hour, each resolved in his own way to face whatever the night would demand of him. Uniformly cloaked and helmed and bearing a seaxe stamped with the first of the Runes of the Deathless, they had otherwise armed themselves according to their strengths and needs.

  Sir Jonas had agreed to wear the moulded leather breastplate Alan had prepared for him and carried the seaxe on the belt at his waist. He wore thick brown woollen trousers and a matching tunic over several layers of warm underwear, and bore his grandfather’s sword.

  Alan’s sword and seaxe were sheathed at his waist. Dressed for warmth while he kept the watch, he wore a black thermal bodysuit under a black leather tunic and trousers that were similar to Caz’s chosen uniform. His breastplate was reinforced with bands of steel and the sleeves had been overlaid in riveted chain mail. He bore a full-sized shield and a heavy, double-sided axe.

  Caz carried the spear lightly rested on his shoulder, the mail shirt shining in the candlelight. The red shield was slung on a strap on his back with the seaxe sheathed behind it. He stood impassive, the expression in his eyes unreadable while he registered the diversity of energy around him. Alan was in a good space and ready to run. Sir Jonas stank of fear – and guilt. Caz set himself aside from his mind’s conditioned need to ask why. The old man’s scheming was no concern of his, as long as Freyja came out of it alive and unscathed. The call to arms would be answered. Battle was declared and would be decided. The heady bubble of fear and adrenalin was about to burst.

  Grudgingly, Sir Jonas found himself impressed by the quiet professionalism of his companions. Sir Saxon would have been proud to stand beside them, he thought, these sons of the fourth and fifth generations, so well prepared and willing to do their duty.

  Drawing his seaxe, he laid it before the bronze figure of the God on the window ledge and filled the silver chalice with mead.

  ‘I propose that we dedicate our blades in the formal rite,’ he said, noting the look that flashed between his companions.

  It was Caz who challenged him. ‘Did the God speak to you? Is this his idea or yours? Answer truthfully, knowing what we may soon be facing.’

  Sir Jonas glared. ‘I am Master of the Guardians and the true representative of the God in Council!’

  Caz turned his attention to a point of light where a candle flame was reflected in one of the diamond-shaped windowpanes behind the old man’s head. ‘Then we will continue as in Council.’

  Sir Jonas drew himself up. ‘Draw your blade! Oath-takers are bound to obey as they have so sworn.’

  ‘I have sworn no oath to you.’

  ‘We are Guardians with common cause. It is fitting that we share the mead of our veins before we go out to meet what we are fated to endure this night. Guardian Armourer, Defender of Thunderslea, the Master bids you draw your blade.’

  Alan drew his seaxe, kissed the blade and returned it to the sheath.

  The blue eye blazed. ‘At this hour, do you deny your oath?’ he cried. ‘Do you turn your back on your own sworn loyalty and that of Henry Crawford, the first of your family to observe the rite before you?’

  Alan quoted the Law of the Guardians as laid down by Sir Saxon when Council was first inaugurated: ‘The Rite of the Oath is shared by common consent. Unless all raise their blades, none may do so.’

  ‘Aye to that,’ said Caz. He stepped forward and took up the silver chalice.

  The old man’s hand went to his sword hilt. Alan gripped his arm. ‘There’ll be time enough for bickering when this night is passed, Master. Let Guardian Spear Bearer propose the stirrup cup and let us get on with what’s got to be done.’

  Caz raised the chalice in salute, first towards the hills and then to Alan and Sir Jonas, but it was to Alan that he spoke. ‘Go with the blessing of all good men, that the High One look well upon you and favour you, and be not treacherous.’

  Alan grasped his axe and gave the response. ‘Aye to that and good hunting!’

  Caz sipped at the fragrant liquid. The mead had a strengthening effect. He swallowed several mouthfuls before he realised that the cup was half emptied and passed it to Alan. Sir Jonas drained the dregs in bad grace. Silent, raging with impotent anger, he pulled on his gauntlets and strode out of the study. They are both equally expendable!

  The fresh fall of snow had smoothed over the tyre tracks and footprints in the yard. The cobbles had disappeared once more under a gleaming carpet that crept over the piles previously swept up and heaped against the walls. The sky was clearing, the cloud cover lifting and dispersing. The moon reclined, bright against the stars in the western sky. Frost glazed the water in the trough. The snow crunched under their boots.

  Alan sniffed the air. ‘It’s a good night for it,’ he said, grinning.

  The mares were looking out over the stable doors. Kyri tossed her head and called out to Caz, a long clear call in the quiet winter night. Freyja laid her ears and refused the carrot that Sir Jonas had brought her. She retreated to the back of her box, baring her teeth and snorting.

  Rúna pawed at her door, calling out until Alan went to her and stroked her nose. He longed to mount her, to ride again and share the passion – night-riding free across the hills. Instead, he put his mouth close to her ear, whispering, ‘You stay home tonight where it’s safe and warm, but we won’t always be left behind, don’t you fret now.’

  ‘Time to go,’ said Caz. He touched the head of the spear to Alan’s breastplate. ‘Good hunting, brother.’

  Their eyes met in the flash of shared understanding. We are brothers-in-arms, I watch your back, you watch mine – to the death!

  Alan felt a renewed throbbing where the weapon had pierced his flesh. He drew his sword and saluted, first to Kyri and then to Caz. ‘I’ll keep the watch.’

  ‘Be on your guard every step you take. Challenge every shadow, even in the Medustig.’

  ‘I will.’

  Jealousy and suspicion gnawed at Sir Jonas. The blue eye was cold as Alan made the salutation. ‘Good hunting, Master.’

  ‘Guard and defend, Guardian Armourer,’ he replied formally, reminding him of his oath. He did not return the salute.

  Rúna snorted and stamped and kicked the partition. Alan heard her calling after him, high and shrill as he lit a flaming torch and entered the long Path to the Mead Hall and whatever destiny lay at its end.

  The tack room was warm, the fire banked up and roaring in the stove. Sir Jonas took off his gloves. ‘I will see to my horse.’

  Caz pointed to the chair by the desk in front of the window. ‘No, sit there and watch. Shout if you see a
nything. I’ll do the horses.’

  He stood the spear and the shield against the wall in Kyri’s box. She whickered eagerly, nosing his ears and face. He gave Rúna and Nanna more hay and closed their top doors, bolting them firmly from the inside. Freyja snorted angrily and rolling her eyes when she saw him with her tack. She lashed out as he pulled off her rug and backed in circles around the box, holding her head high, forcing him to stretch up to push the bit between her teeth. He slipped the bridle over her flattened ears and fastened the straps, talking to her in the gentle tones he always used to calm her.

  ‘Good girl, you’re my good girl. Don’t you worry now. We won’t let anything bad happen to you. Do this one last time and I promise I won’t let that old man ride you ever again. After tonight you’ll be free, and in the spring you’ll go to stud and be a broodmare again and run on the hills with Kyri and me.’

  He stood in front of her, pulling gently but firmly on the reins, compelling her to look down at him. ‘Trust me, Freyja. No matter what goes on, you’re my good, brave girl and I’ll be there for you. We’ll fight them together, you and me and Kyri, and we’ll win. I promise we’ll win. I promise I’ll bring you home.’

  For several long moments her eyes searched his face. Then she lowered her head and put her forehead to his. I love you, Freyja, he told her. I will bring you home.

  She whickered softly, allowing him to saddle her and pick out her feet. Then she stamped and turned, cantering around the box, her ears pricked, her neck raised and arched. She threw back her head, calling her challenge, while Kyri strode up and down the length of the partition, shaking her head and snorting, her coat gleaming silver-white under the light. Caz raised the spear, his heart bursting with love and pride. They are my battle mares! Bryn’s daughters! I will bring them home!

  The church clock chimed midnight in the distant village. He led Freyja into the passageway between the loose boxes and put her in with Kyri. He turned out the lights and stood at the stable door, watching the yard. Freyja stood at his shoulder, her ears pricked, listening. He felt her warm breath against his neck. Kyri’s eyes were glowing in the snowy light.

  ‘Where are the warriors, Valkyrjan?’ he asked her. ‘How will they come?’

  To the east, the sky was bright with stars over the white hills. The lights of a plane appeared. He heard the droning as it passed overhead, heading westward to where the moon was sinking into the orange glow of the village lights shining above the trees. There was no wind and no sound from the copse beyond the lake. It was too much like any other night, even with the snow.

  The clock chimed the half hour… then the hour… and the half hour again. Kyri and Freyja were restless. Rúna was still calling for Alan. Nanna was her normal placid self, eating her hay. She was used to being left alone through the night, now that the colt was gone.

  Even she went nuts when they turned up last time, Caz thought despondently, eyeing the gibbous satellite taunting him over the distant tree line. We had the red moon with us two years ago. Last year we waited in the dark of the moon and that didn’t work, and this one’s going down too fast. They should be here. Have I got it all wrong again?

  A scattering of snowflakes drifted past the stable door. He looked up and saw the black edges of another weather front bearing down a bank of heavy cloud from the north.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this!’ he exclaimed. He strapped on his helmet, slung the shield on his back and picked up the spear. The mares whickered eagerly. ‘That’s right, we’re not waiting any longer. I’ll get the old man and we’ll go out and see what’s happening. If the spooks won’t come to us, we’ll go to them.’

  Sir Jonas was huddled in the chair, asleep. His helmet and gloves were on the desk. He had let the fire burn down low. His hands were white with cold. Caz poured some brandy into a mug and shook him roughly by the shoulder. ‘Wake up!’

  ‘What? What?’ he cried, looking around in astonishment. ‘Good heavens! I must have fallen asleep!’

  ‘You did.’

  He took in the fact that Caz was armed and ready. ‘Is it happening? Are they here?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ Caz pushed the mug into his hand. ‘Drink this. The horses are getting fed up. We’ll go out and give them a run.’

  He shut down the stove and locked the door. Sir Jonas gulped the brandy and checked the time. It was nearly two o’clock.

  ‘It’s getting very late,’ he said anxiously. ‘Shouldn’t we content ourselves to wait a little longer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So be it.’ He peered out of the window, chaffing his cold hands and pulling on his gloves. ‘Do you think it’s wise to leave the gate open at this time of night?’

  Caz clenched his teeth. ‘I have not left the gate open! I locked it.’

  ‘Well, it’s open now. Wide open.’

  Caz pushed past him to look. The gate had swung back towards the fence and was stuck fast in a bank of snow at the side of the drive. The moon had disappeared. He threw the old man his helmet. ‘Come on!’

  They ran down the passage. Kyri called out, a glad greeting. She lifted her head and called again, this time deep and resonant – a clear ringing call, splitting apart the deep snow silence and echoing far into the expanse of the wide heavens, summoning those who served her, summoning those dared to ride.

  At the threshold of the Shadowed World, Caz responded. In a lightning blur of ecstatic energy, he threw Sir Jonas onto Freyja’s back, kicked open the stable door and vaulted onto his Galdramerr. She charged out into the yard. A blinding, crystal brilliance flared all around them. Caz raised the spear. Valkyrjan shook out her shining mane and stamped her mighty hooves. The shadows fell back. All save one.

  A dark shape stood black against the bright snow in the open gateway. A dark shape balanced on four clawed feet that left no mark, its great head swaying from side to side, scenting mortal blood. Valkyrjan called once more. The hound grovelled on its belly before her. It threw back its head and howled. Howling, it turned and ran, leading the mares at a furious pace through the orchards. Above them, the bank of cloud opened and discharged its weighty burden, flinging down a blizzard of driving snow.

  Rúna hurled herself at her door, screaming to be let free. Nanna kicked frantically. The heavy wooden partition between their boxes shuddered and cracked. The light went out. The yard fell silent. The hound leapt over the old iron gate and vanished into the forest. Splendid in her bright, ethereal brilliance, Valkyrjan lifted up and cleared the garden wall. Freyja followed after. The spear burst into flame.

  CHAPTER 90

  The hound took its own course into an alien world where all the familiar landmarks and tracks had vanished. Ghostly limbs and branches of trees reached down into the white mass of snow heaping up over the tangled undergrowth, barring the path to the mares. Caz held up the burning spear. Bolts of flame blazed a fiery trail before them. Sir Jonas drew his sword. Freyja did not falter. Caz glanced back over his shoulder to see her tracking Valkyrjan step for step.

  Good girl! Brave girl! Stay with us!

  Ultra-alert, he strained his senses, questing for any sign of the presence of the warriors, listening for the sounds of drums beating, horns blowing, the clash of spears on shields. Ahead of them, the hound kept up the relentless pace into a wider, clearer area where the ferocity of the snowstorm was momentarily hampered by the density of the branches overhead. Caz recognised the columns of the stately beech trees on either side of them as they ran.

  Sir Jonas called out from behind. ‘Isn’t this the Beech Walk?’

  ‘Yes! We haven’t made the transition!’

  ‘We must prepare ourselves to meet them at Thunderslea!’

  ‘If we can get across the bridge!’

  They chased after the indefatigable shape. Shadows stalked them, flying between the trees – shadows with great wings and bright eyes that gleamed in the light of the spear blasting a fresh passage through the snow. Others pressed in closer, snarling, thirsting to feed, as y
et few in number and wary of the presence of the Galdramerr and the deadly fire of the spear.

  They crossed the bridge over the first ditch into the labyrinth with the hounds closing in behind them. They had no choice but to follow the leader loping unhesitatingly through the twisting paths to the narrow gap in the hedge. The rest of the pack came leaping to attack the mares as they raced along the narrow track between the hedge and the edge of the second ditch. Sounds of a desperate struggle going on in the tunnel greeted them as they careered down the slope into the dell and turned to fight.

  ‘Stay close!’ Caz shouted ‘Don’t get separated!’

  ‘It is not my intention,’ replied Sir Jonas grimly.

  The mares stood back to back in front of the entrance to the tunnel. Stamping, kicking and lunging with teeth bared, they fought the hounds pouring down from every side upon them. The beasts shrank back from the spear and the fury of the Galdramerr, but for every one that Caz ran through, another slipped under his guard and attacked Sir Jonas and Freyja. The blue eye gleamed, moved with malevolent purpose for the fiends that would keep him from his destiny.

  Freyja fought, heedless of the blood flowing down her shoulders and flanks, heedless of the sword flashing back and forth severing their enemies’ heads and limbs. One great hound leapt up and sank its jaws into her neck. She reared, doing her best to shake it off while Sir Jonas hacked desperately at its cold eyes, until she stumbled and he feared they were lost.

  At that very moment Alan broke out of the tunnel and felled the hound with a single blow. His sword was red to the hilt. The axe was dripping in his hand. He threw himself into the mêlée, opening up a great circle between the hounds and Freyja. They attacked with renewed determination, forcing him back towards the bank where the greatest of their number crouched unseen along the rocky over-hang, waiting to spring.

  Howling, it leapt onto his shoulders and dragged him down, crushing his head between its iron jaws. Gasping, Alan wedged the fingers of one hand under his helmet strap, working to loosen it as he stabbed the sword into the weight on his back. The blade found its mark. The hound screamed, jerking backwards and falling with the helmet wedged in its mouth. Several more leapt upon the body, ripping at the broken entrails. Another threw itself at Alan as he staggered to his feet, ripping away his right ear before he swung the axe and hacked off the snarling head. Sir Jonas pushed Freyja forward to help him.