by Alix Labelle
“I trust not the eyes of men I have not met,” Mairead said, straightening to her full height as she made her decision. “So I will go and see with my own if this be true.”
Her boots made a decisive sound against the wood as she crossed the room and took up her bow, swinging her quiver across her back. The arrows rattled against each other in its confines. She glanced once more at the stranger, and allowed herself a smile, wide and a little wicked.
“I think, though, that I will wait until the heavens are not dumping the waters of the inland sea on our heads.”
A chuckle ran through the gathered men. Vreden only shook his greying head at her, his expression grave. Mairead lifted one leather-clad shoulder in a shrug. It was more likely that there was no dragon in the Wyndwae than that there was. Undoubtedly, some over-excitable townsperson had laid eyes on a drake, one of the relatively little firelizards that occasionally set up home too near a village and harassed the locals, raiding their livestock and burning their fields. Such creatures never grew beyond ten feet from nose to tail-tip, and Mairead had found them easily dealt with.
Turning her back on Vreden’s warning look, she climbed the stairs to her rented room, laying her weapons with her pack against the wall. Her things were already prepared. She needed only to take them up in the morning. In the flickering glow of the fire, she stripped out of her hunter’s leathers and stretched herself out on the bed, asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Chapter Two
Dawn came clear, stretching itself out along the horizon all gold and pink, chill with the first touch of winter. Farther north, Mairead knew, the summer would be ended already, and in the mountains beyond the northernmost border, the first snows would be falling.
The stranger who brought news of the dragon in the Wyndwae had already ridden out. Though the message he shared with them was but rumor and speculation, the rider himself was a king's messenger bound once more north and east. He, and news of her coming, would reach the Wyndwae well before she did. Vreden too was gone, in the grey light before morning, taking his two young apprentices with him.
Mairead rode out as dawn turned on toward morning, slinging her pack over the back of the fine-blooded bay stallion that had been a gift from a grateful lord. There were, after all, some perks to being a hunter of monsters. She was in no hurry to reach the Wyndwae. If the dragon had razed a village already, they would have heard of it. For now, at least, the beast seemed to be leaving well enough alone, another indication that it was more likely to be a drake than one of the great white dragons of the west. Of course, there was little treasure to be found in the poor villages of the Wyndwae, so perhaps it was only biding its time until a shipment of gold came through. If so, it would be waiting long. For a beast rumored to be so intelligent, it had not chosen its lair well. Only a hundred miles west, the king's city sat in a low, open valley, its houses and its people gilded and jeweled.
The land through which she rode as morning became midday was familiar, the low, rolling hills of the southern province. It was said that once there had been unicorns in the lowland woods, but if there ever had been they were gone long ago. Mairead had certainly never seen one. It seemed, at times, that Lyndoun had all of the darkness and none of the beauty. It was for that she hunted down the creatures that terrified the simple people only trying to go about their lives. Surely they had right to some light in their lives, to some escape from fear and worry.
Her father had taught her the use of the war bow which she carried behind her. Though her own was modified, its draw much lighter than those carried by the king's rangers, it was a formidable weapon, capable of piercing an armored hide at a hundred yards. She had turned her first herself, under the guidance of her father’s hand, when she was only seven summers old. This was her fourth, each of them her own work. Her father had always said that the first step in using a weapon is to know it from end to end.
He had never spoken of it, but Mairead sometimes wondered if he had expected a son, but had taken what he could get when he was given instead a daughter who grew too tall too quickly, all lanky, ungraceful limbs. If he had, he had done well with what he was granted. She had never missed the mother who died in her birthing bed. Her father had been all she needed.
When the sun was at its zenith, Mairead stopped to let her horse feed, settling down on a flat-topped rock set into the side of one of the hills with her own lunch. It was pleasant, the chill of the morning worn off in the light of day. She sat enjoying the breeze and the little noises of creatures moving through the grass for some time, the quiet, contented sounds of Embarr grazing a welcome companion. When she mounted once more, she rode slowly, eyes searching the landscape. To her left, an arm of the forest rose, trees lifting banner upon banner toward the horizon. In time, it would curve westward, and then she would turn into it. It was slow going, but faster than the days it would take to go around. The king's road, which the messenger would have taken, lay farther west still, and she did not wish to take the time to follow it up toward the royal city before turning toward the Wyndwae. Nor, in truth, did she much care for king's roads or his city at all. She preferred the solitude of the woods.
---
On the third day since she had set out from The Dancing Mer, Mairead made camp at the edge of the forest. She lay in her bed roll, looking up at the scatter net of the stars in the sky over her head, so bright it seemed she might reach up a hand and take one in her fist. Among the noises of night in the forest, she could hear the occasional soft snort from her horse, the sound of his tail swishing away the flies. Her eyes slid shut, and she slept.
She woke abruptly, sitting up and looking out into dim grey dark of the night. Beside her, the fire had burned to ashes, and the coals were a faint glow beyond the edge of her sleeping place. The sound that had taken her from sleep came again, high and frightened, the sound of her horse throwing back his head to call out in panic, and his hooves drumming against the ground in impatient attempt to escape. Mairead flung herself from her blankets and to her feet, but she did not run.
"Hush, my love," she said, moving slowly toward him, one hand outstretched. The other was curled around the hilt of a dagger. He tossed his head, rolling his eyes so the whites showed, pulling against his tether. "Hush," she said again, her own eyes searching the grey shapes around them, but she could see nothing except the trees and their shadows.
Embarr let her lay a hand against his neck then, and the beast seemed to settle somewhat, though she could still feel him trembling against her touch. She stroked him with slow, even motions of her hand over his flank, and he let his head drop forward, still at last. Though she listened, she could not hear any sounds that told her what had frightened him, still could not see anything moving through the night. Whatever it had been, it was long gone.
Chapter Three
In the morning, Mairead searched the earth around the campsite for some sign of prints, but there was nothing, and she gave up the hunt. Whatever had frightened her horse in the night had not been large enough to harm either of them if it was not large enough to leave prints behind. She saddled Embarr in the dawn light and rode out once more. In the afternoon, she met another traveler.
He rode in from the west on a great black horse, and when he saw her he lifted one hand in greeting. Mairead lifted her own in return, and he drew nearer, reigning in only a yard from her, and moving along parallel to the course she rode with Embarr.
“A fine day to you,” he called across the little space between them.
This close, Mairead could see that he was tall. It was not only the horse that made him look so. He had enough height, she thought, that he could look down on her easily, and his shoulders under his tunic and leather vest were broad. Hair so pale it seemed almost white in the sunlight that fell across them. Mairead found herself wondering what he looked like beneath the layers of his clothing, and when she met his gaze, she let the thought edge her smile.
“And to you.”
She saw the beginnings of a smile in the curve of his lips, and his eyes, brown to her green, swept her from head to toe with a single look.
“I confess that I noticed you from some distance,” he said, drawing nearer and letting his voice drop low, though there were none around to hear them. “And I thought perhaps I might offer myself as company, for I find myself grown weary of lonely travel.”
Mairead herself had not, but he was pleasing to look on, and across his back he carried a heavy blade with an intricately worked hilt. An expensive weapon. A warrior’s sword. It seemed that he was the type of man who could make himself useful in a fight. And so, after a moment, she simply nodded. Some company might not go amiss for a time.
“If we are to be companions, I would know your name.”
He smiled over at her, a wide, genuine sort of smile that set her somewhat at ease though she hardly knew him. “It is Fintan.”
She took note that he did not give a surname, but did not press for it. It he wished to give it, he would have.
“And mine is Mairead Curran.”
His brows lifted. “The Mairead Curren, I presume.”
“The one and only.”
“A true pleasure indeed to meet you, then. I have always followed your exploits with interest.”
She cast a sideways glance at him, uncertain whether he was mocking her or not. Some did, when they knew who she was, and the tall, muscled warrior type was the most prone to such an attitude. But when she turned enough to look at him, she found the expression on his face was as genuine as his tone.
“And what have you discovered?” she asked. “In your scholarship?”
His laugh was low and warm. “I have discovered,” he said, “that I would be a fool to cross you.”
Mairead flashed a grin in his direction. “Then you have learned your lesson well.”
In the evening, they made camp, and Fintan offered to share bread from his pack. Mairead shared cheese from hers, and they sat together in companionable silence as they ate. The horses too were settled down, grazing quietly side by side, their tails swishing. It was a peaceful night in the glow of the fire, the wind rustling through the leaves overhead.
When they had finished their fare, Mairead unrolled her blankets and slipped off her high leather boots, settling down cross-legged in the center of her bed roll.
“Where is it you travel?” she asked, meeting Fintan’s eyes across the space between them. In the fire’s glow they seemed almost amber, and his pale hair was chased with gold.
“Northward,” he replied. “To the Wyndwae. Beyond that? I cannot say.”
“Do you go to see the dragon, then?”
He grinned, then, wide and full of teeth. “Is that what you seek in the Wyndwae? To slay a dragon?”
“We shall see.” Mairead lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I am not certain I believe the tale. It seems far-fetched. Most likely it is only a drake, and as I have heard no stories of towns burning, I am not much inclined to do any slaying.”
His head tipped slightly to the side, and then he nodded, his manner seeming to offer respect for her words as well as agreement. The conversation for a moment ended, and he unlaced his own boots, dropping them to the side of his bed roll. Mairead pulled the leather jerkin she wore over her head, then stood to shimmy out of her leather trousers, not caring whether Fintan watched or not. Beneath, she wore green tunic and hose.
When she looked up, he was watching her. A faint flush rose in her cheeks. She was not some shy maiden, to be so flustered by a look, but there was something in the intensity of his regard that heated her blood and her face. She dropped her gaze.
“Do you look away because you wish me to stop looking, or because you wish me to continue?”
He sounded nearer. She looked up once more to watch him move carefully around the fire, and then he was stepping onto her bed roll to reach out and brush the hair back from her face. She turned into the touch, and when she lifted her eyes to his, she saw that he was smiling, slow and hungry.
“Say it then, if you wish it.”
She answered his smile with one of her own. “I wish it,” she said.
Chapter Four
His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her toward him with a sudden ferocity of desire that made her gasp. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, drawing him nearer with the same urgency. He laughed as his mouth closed over hers.
It was the kiss of a man who knew not if he would see the next sunrise. A warrior’s kiss, fierce and giving no quarter. They broke for only an instant, taking in breath with a quick inhale, meeting again. When he drew away, his teeth caught her lower lip gently between them before he pulled back entirely, and stood looking down at her with a fire kindled behind his eyes.
“Well,” she said, looking up at him with her mouth reddened by his kisses. “What do you wait for? The trumpet call?”
He made a sound like a snarl, low in his throat, and his foot swept hers out from under her. Strong arms caught her before she fell and lowered them both to the blankets so that he was on one knee above her, looking down at her unbound hair spilling out around her, at the quick rise and fall of her chest with her breath. Mairead was laughing, and he leaned down to kiss the sound from her mouth. His hands were already working on the catches of her tunic, and she reached up to return the favor.
Fintan pulled back enough to yank her tunic up over her head, Mairead lifting her arms to help him, and his long fingers made quick work of the binding that held her breasts. Then he drew his own tunic off, tossing it aside to join hers, and leaned down over her again, pressed close from chest to hips. She could feel that he was hard already, and his skin was hot against her own. Mairead rolled her hips knowingly up against his, feeling the line of his erection through their clothes, and they were kissing again, both of them striving for the upper hand, hard enough to bruise. They broke apart to gasp in air, then met again and again. He was rocking down against her now, a slow and deliberate drag of his hard length against her softness.
When he leaned near again, off balance, Mairead hooked a leg around his hip and flipped them so that she lay on top, looking down at him, her hair a curtain that pooled beside them. He was looking up at her with startled approval in his expression, and desire, and his hands curled around her hips as she sat up, flicking her hair back over her shoulder with a toss of her head, and it was her turn to writhe down against him, watching his lips part. His hands tightened around her hips, and his head tipped back against the blankets; the arch of his neck was beautiful. She wanted him with a hunger she hadn’t felt for a man in months.
“Off,” he growled suddenly, raising his head to look at her as he pulled the knot from the lacings that held her leggings up.
Mairead lifted her hips to let him pull them down to her knees, then yanked them from her legs herself. When she was naked above him, he raked his nails up her thighs just hard enough to burn, and Mairead moaned, her fingers scrambling for the ties of his trousers, and she pulled them loose with quick, sharp motions, leaning back onto his thighs to slide her hand inside and curl it around his length. Even with her weight on him, he bucked up into the touch, a groan catching in his throat.
He was heavy in her hand, all soft, heated skin, and she stroked slowly upward to feel the full length of it, feeling the muscles of his thighs tense beneath hers. He let out his breath in a ragged exhale. She stroked him once more, hand sliding over the head and making him curse under his breath, before she let him go entirely and hooked her fingers in the waistband of his breeches to pull them down and off.
With them both stripped down to their skins, she settled over his hips again, rocking against him, this time with nothing between them. It was an easy slide, slick and perfect, the head of his length bumping against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex in a way that made sparks flicker along through her limbs and down her spine. He was panting, rocking under her, hissing behind his teeth when she pulled back enough so that he al
most slid inside her, only to roll her hips forward once more, that slow, sweet drag driving them both mad. She could feel the way he shuddered with it, the curl and uncurl of his fingers against her skin.
“Tease me any longer,” he growled abruptly, fingers closing tight enough around her hips to bruise and holding her still. “And I will not be responsible for the outcome.”
Mairead answered him with breathless laughter, but she lifted her hips and reached back with a hand to guide him inside her. He was…Gods, he was big, and she took it slowly, sinking down inch by inch until her thighs rested against his hips and he'd filled her completely. Her head tipped back, hair spilling along her spine until the ends tickled against the upper curves of her buttocks. She breathed out a guttural curse, and for a moment she remained there, simply breathing.
“Tell me,” he said, voice strained, “when you are ready.”
She answer him by drawing herself slowly up his length, lifting her head so she could meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight. His hands fit themselves over the arches of her hip bones and pulled her down hard. Mairead cried out with the suddenness of it, with the shock of pleasure. When she moved up again his hands guided her, pulled her down to meet him. It was fast, and hard, and exactly what she wanted.
They’d found a rhythm, and his hands slid slowly up her sides before lifting the small weight of her breasts so that he could feel them as she moved. Mairead leaned down nearer, her hands on his chests, using the new angle for leverage as she took him into her again and again, her fingers curling until her nails left faint red lines behind. The movement stroked him against a place inside her that made her breath catch, her walls fluttering around him. His groan was edged with a growl.
He was drawing near the edge. She could feel it already, feel the tension that strung his muscles taut, the stutter in his rhythm. The hands that had cupped her breasts slid down again, one curling around her thigh instead, the other slipping between them to rub her sex.
