He searched the tall cattails near the forest, found a few more eggs, and ate them in much the same way an animal would, crunching the shells. He discovered that by wandering along the edge of the plateau he could slow the horror down—the reason being that it was ringed by skulls that warded the creature. It also provided a certain challenge for him, since he had to pick his path carefully to avoid being trapped at the edge. The path at the rim was far from even. At times, his forward progress was blocked by piles of rock and he had to double back through the forest, sometimes coming perilously close to the monster. But this gave him an opportunity to study the thing.
It was a wavering column; shadows circled its core. And the sounds it made were almost universally those of anger and sorrow. But it was conscious of him, and when he came close to it, the thing seemed to destroy nearby objects in the hope of burying him in the debris.
A sheet of mud near the swamp fanned out, almost blinding him. But the creature stranded a few fish. When he doubled back to get them, he found himself pelted with fist-size rocks from a dry streambed.
This really frightened him and taught him not to underrate the thing’s clumsy pursuit. If one of those flying stones got him in the head, or broke a leg, he would be finished.
Taking to his heels, he quickly outdistanced it again. After caching the fish, he returned to the rim, thinking he needed a refuge in case he became ill or otherwise incapacitated. Somewhere to hide where the thing couldn’t get to him.
Near sunset, he found the tree. It clung to the plateau at the very edge. The prevailing winds lashed the outermost point of the plateau here. The tree was rooted in the slope at the very edge, just before it fell away into the valley. A skull, the warding skull for this place, was nailed to one of the upper branches.
She? Was it a she? He couldn’t be sure. The skull was gracile, delicate with a full set of teeth. A young woman, perhaps?
Since the tree was rooted in the slope, her empty eyes stared into his directly, on the same level. He saluted her as he had the one on the birch.
A yew, just what he wanted. It was very old, and it looked as though the tree had been dislodged from the plateau by a landslide. Enough roots remained to continue to form a hold fast, even though the remains of the tree jutted out perpendicular to the cliff.
Yews do not give up easily, and over half the tree still sported the narrow, dark, gray-green leaves. It was thickly adorned with red berries. The breeze from over the valley below was cool on his face, and the westering sun was half masked by the haze drifting over the distant mountains.
He went down the slope and climbed out on the trunk. The tree was even bigger than he thought when looking at it from above.
I want … what do I want? he thought, alarmed. Inadvertently, he looked down.
No! All at once he was dizzy and wracked by nausea. He had refused to admit to himself how weak he was, how drained by hunger, exertion, and his wounded hand. The only thing that kept him conscious was sheer will. He trembled violently, feeling his trembling shake the tree trunk, knowing that if he slipped, he would fall to his death in the abyss below.
His hands clutched the small branches angling out from the trunk so tightly that twigs popped through his skin. At the same moment, the horror reached the edge of the plateau above him.
It screamed, voice echoing out over the rim, ringing with inchoate rage, and it seemed to want to drill into the ground. The force of its fury showered him with dirt, stones, twigs, and detritus of all kinds from the ground as it seemed to want to tear through the earth itself, rip the tree’s roots loose, and send it and him plunging to the rocks below.
It might have succeeded, for the thick, knotted roots weren’t that far below the surface, but he felt rather than saw searing rage from the skull. And he knew it had been she and in some sense she was still here. Vengeful and protective of …
The thing gave a truly dreadful scream and fled, just as the sun began to slip behind the peak in the distance. Arthur laid his cheek against the loose scrappy bark for what seemed a long time, until the light turned blue. He remembered what he wanted. She, the woman of the skull, had given him that.
He wondered who and what they had been; and found he couldn’t imagine but knew, whatever their origins, he was not alone. He had allies in his struggle.
Cai! Yes, Cai taught him. Almost his first lesson was how to make fire. They had gone hunting in the omnipresent oak wood that covered their country. They had gone after geese, and they both carried longbows.
They got lost. Not very lost; both boys knew if they followed the coast, it would bring them home. But the night was moonless and the darkness thick under the trees. They had bread and cheese, enough to content them until morning, but no fire. Cai hadn’t been in the least worried. Everyone, he told Arthur in a lofty fashion, carried fire with them at all times.
Then Cai unstrung his long yew bow and demonstrated how easy it was to create a comforting blaze with a bow drill. Hunkered down over the fire in a thickly overgrown hollow near a stream, Arthur immediately demanded that Cai teach him. And he quickly found out it wasn’t as easy as it looked.
After a few tries, his arms and hands were sore and he was winded but no fire. Cai laughed at him.
Then Arthur was seized by rage, a fury almost as forceful as an artesian spring, a kind of evil madness. Nothing as simple as a piece of wood and a string could defeat him. He would not permit it.
He gritted his teeth and went after his task with a vengeful ferocity that frightened Cai. He worked bow and string until he had blisters and the blisters burst and bled. Until his arms felt as though they were on fire and he had a stitch in his side from the exertion. But he got his fire; then in a fury, kicked it in Cai’s face.
They were both children, and Cai forgave him after they put out the fire that was running through the dead oak leaves in a thoroughly alarming way. But Arthur noticed Cai took care never to laugh at him again.
He looked up at the remains of the tree and saw a nice section that would make a bow—heartwood on the outside, sapwood on the inside. He got to his knees, still trembling with fatigue and strong emotion. The stave—because that’s what it looked like, a stave—snapped off in his hand.
The light was gone, as was the terror that pursued him. He crawled back up to the rim, stave in hand. He saluted the skull again. He spoke aloud. “I thank you, my lady.”
Then he stumbled back the way he had come to his bed under the holly bush. He collapsed on his stomach on the dead leaves and slept for several hours. Hunger and cold woke him.
The stave he had chosen was practically a bow. It didn’t take long to rig it with a cloth string from his leggings, and he had good reason to be thankful for his long practice with the bow drill as a boy. He was highly skilled at bringing fire into being. And in a short time, he had one going in the dead leaves under the holly bush.
He swept it out, away from his improvised hearth, and surrounded it with a circle of stones. Then he added some knots of oak he’d found nearby.
Then he simply sat, looking at what he had wrought for a long time.
Then he went back to where he had cached the fish, improvised a grill from green branches, and cooked them. He was starting on the second, cleaning the ribs with his teeth, when he heard the yell of rage.
Arthur began laughing, because he knew he had baffled his captors and infuriated them by being far better at taking care of himself than they had expected him to be. He felt an ugly sense of self-satisfaction, and then the lights went out.
FOURTEEN
OW! I THOUGHT. NOW!
I don’t remember drawing the bow and nocking the arrow. I felt only the sting as the bowstring snapped past my wrist and the sinew slashed my knuckles.
Then, almost without willing it, the second arrow was in position and the thing was coming fast, right toward me. The creature, running on his hind legs, was clear of the darkness under the oak. I saw the sheet of spray rise as its feet hit the water
. I could see it now clearly, as yellow-and-green-striped as the sunstruck foliage around it, with two arrows in its midsection.
Odd, some part of my mind commented. I never felt myself loose the second one.
But the third was in position, and I felt the bow fling it free, even as it fell apart.
Just as well it did. I might have remained rooted where I stood and fired the fourth, and so met my doom. Because as the third landed, it penetrated the lower abdomen, near the thing’s left hip.
The first two were only making streaks of red, crossing the creature’s stomach. But when the third struck, the fish eater staggered, let out a terrible scream, and the scarlet blood gushed.
I threw down what remained of the bow and ran.
Down! Down toward the sea.
The thing was on my heels, propelled by its fury at the savage violation. And I knew it would overtake me soon, for it was faster than I was.
I cleared the forest. Just ahead and downhill was the massive driftwood pile. As I saw it, I felt the creature’s claws on my back. Felt them slip on the armor given to me by my father.
I leaped for the brush pile. This was taking a horrible risk, but no worse than slowing down. If ever there was the devil on one side and the deep blue sea on the other, this was it. The deadwood in the brush pile might give way, sending me down into its depth where broken branches waited like sharpened stakes in a pit, ready to impale me. Or drop me into the deepest part, where I might suffocate under the windblown sand and years of compacted dead leaves.
But somehow, if I wanted to live, I must slow the creature down. I might be its last meal, but meal I would be if I failed.
I landed on the thick trunk of a broken oak, weathered to silver by wind and rain. It held, and I sprang into the air again when I felt the dead tree shudder as the creature landed beside me.
I felt, I swear, its breath on my neck and the claws on my shoulders as it tore away my old shirt.
I gave a fighting yell as I sprang into the air, again to land on a network of broken willow withes. They gave under my weight, but sprang back and didn’t break. I heard my own whoop of delight when I realized the creature wouldn’t be so fortunate.
And indeed, it wasn’t. I was in the air again when I heard the willow branches shatter and the creature’s bellow of fury as it was plunged down into the deadwood.
I aimed for the thick trunk of a decaying log near the bottom of the pile. It was both rotten and slippery. It gave way under my weight, pitching me forward and down.
I rolled to my back just in time to avoid the jutting, broken branches that might have put out my eyes, torn my breasts, and slashed my face to ribbons. As it was, the armor of fairy wasn’t enough to protect me, and I fetched up on the beach, my back torn and bleeding and with deep scratches on my arms and legs. But I no sooner hit the sand than I was on my feet and moving.
Above me, the creature fought to free himself from the tangle that surrounded him. I turned and, heedless of further injuries, thrust my arm into the brush pile, seized a broken branch with my fingers, and thought, flame!
And I got it.
I had to jump back to avoid the inferno I created. Again, I turned and ran along the beach toward the cove where I had landed and spent the first night. Beyond it, the beach turned rocky, and beyond that, I didn’t know.
I wasn’t fool enough to believe the creature would be killed by the fire. The stuff in that brush pile might make a monstrously hot fire, but it was so dampened by sea fog and rain that it would take some time to fully ignite. And I was pretty sure the thing would manage to free itself before then. So I flew along the beach, running as fast as I could.
And indeed I was right. Halfway to the cove I glanced back in time to see it emerge from the smoke and begin trying to overtake me, running with long, bounding strides.
Oh, but I had marked it. I could see enough to tell that. The magnificent striped yellow and green hide was darkened by soot and smoke here and there. I saw the charred, red-black burns on the neck, shoulder, and forearms. Blood sheeted down the thing’s stomach, and it left a trail of it as it ran—big, scarlet splashes on the bright sand.
Well and good, but I was leaving a trail of blood also. And it was bigger and stronger than I ever thought about being. If it was mortally injured, and I hoped it was, did I stand a chance of outlasting it?
FIFTEEN
HEN ENA WOKE, HER BLADDER WAS FULL and the baby was kicking. She had been thrilled when she felt the first stirring last night, but she knew the joy would probably be succeeded by annoyance. She sat up slowly to find that Cai was already up and, with some of the other men, outside. They were saying their good-byes, since most lived hereabouts and would return to their families before attending the court ceremonies Uther would hold at Morgana’s stronghold.
A serving woman brought Ena a towel and some warm water. She washed her face and hands, then brushed her teeth with a twig.
Niamh called that a dream. But Ena didn’t remember it the way she remembered a dream. The touch of the flower petals on her cheek. The aroma they gave off when her fingers brushed them. The taste of clear water. The look of morning beyond the linden tree.
But then when Cai came, it was all gone and she felt a stir of anger that he had awakened her and taken her from such comfort and beauty. A second later, she found herself crying and tried to compose herself before Cai returned.
It was nice she had beautiful dreams, because today was going to be horrible. They must ride to Morgana’s stronghold and bring her the report that Arthur was missing. She hoped Gawain had gone on ahead and prepared the old woman for the bad news.
And then there was the matter of the child. God! Couldn’t anything go right for her? Couldn’t she do anything right? She knew when her consciousness touched the thing in her womb that it was the wrong sex. She was torn by the sorrow she felt. She loved it and wanted to love it more. But she didn’t dare. It was a girl. And she might find herself abandoned when it was born. Then what would she do? And to her horror, she began weeping.
Cai came in. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Everything! Nothing!” she spat like an angry cat. “Being pregnant! Being sick to my stomach and not able to eat!”
He went to call Niamh, who came and dosed her with something surprisingly good-tasting, with mint in it. Then she served her sliced boiled chicken and plain porridge with bread and fresh butter.
When it was time to mount their horses Ena felt better.
Once on the road, she calmed, feeling better than she had in a long time. Now in her mind she was able to analyze the night’s events. No, she thought stubbornly. That was no dream. The tree had been there, and Cai had pulled her away from a real place. Someone called her, and she had followed the voice.
She had no idea if it was a trap or not. Cai might have thought it was, and Niamh, too. But she was no baby to be soothed by comforting words. What she had seen and experienced while she was there had been real, more real in a way than anything she had known before.
My child! she thought. My child. How can I care for it alone?
She was trailing the rest, since it was safe here, so close to the Silurian stronghold. No one had bothered to order her to close up with the rest, as they had riding through more perilous lands. Instead, they lazed along, much as she did, enjoying the cool breath that whispered over the forest from the nearby sea and luxuriating in the golden morning. Cai and the men rode in a knot in front of her.
She was chewing over the problem of parenthood, worrying it the way a dog does an old dry bone—thinking that when Cai knew the baby was female he might not want to acknowledge it even as a bastard. Then she saw the rider leave the woods, move easily through the roadside brush, and pace her horse, riding beside her. He was unremarkable-looking, dark as many of these people were, and he carried no weapons. This alone surprised her. She knew of no one, man or woman, who went about unarmed. He carried a harp in a case strapped to his back.
Oh, she thought, that explains it. She had heard many times that the poets and singers belonging to these people were sacred and even the vilest brigands would not harm them. For to do so would call down the most damning curses from both gods and men. Those who committed such a crime were as dead to their closest family and friends. Left without shelter, food, or clothing and driven from place to place without mercy until they died. This as much as anything else guaranteed the safety of bards.
She seemed to hear in her mind the trickle of silver notes wrought by the instrument under the player’s skilled fingers. Ena smiled and forgot her worries in the joy of the moment, wondering as she did if he was traveling to Morgana’s stronghold, and if so, might he perhaps sing for them tonight.
She was surprised that no one had greeted him or spoken a word. She caught his eye and smiled as if to make him welcome. He looked wary and increased his pace until he drew slightly ahead of her. But he returned the smile.
Just at that moment the party rode out of the dappled leaf shadows and into a patch of golden morning sun. And Ena saw clearly that the sun shone through him.
Then she began to wonder. Being exposed to the spells Merlin and Igrane wove around themselves; the strange semblance of Arthur that she had broken, revealing the truth. The violent casting out of Merlin’s magic by her and Cai at Gawain’s instigation. The pleasure of it thrummed in her body yet.
She stretched these new, strange senses toward the child. It was fine, enjoying the rhythm of the ambling mare she rode—as much as it was doing anything. It was far from awareness yet and therefore content.
Then she stretched her senses toward the man riding ahead. He was dead, long dead. But he would wake, half wake, from some pleasant dream and try to go home.
Once he had lived nearby, down a road. But he couldn’t find the road; the countryside was greatly changed.
She knew where the road was.
The Dragon Queen Page 32
