Loyal and True

by Laura Strickland

  She must go. And she could not take him with her.

  Again she kissed him, her tears mingling with his blood, again got to her feet, moving like an old woman. She found her knife—half under Loyal’s body—and rifled the corpses of her friends for their weapons. Weaponry was scarce and too valuable to lose.

  Just like these lives, her heart whispered to her.

  The Gaels had already stolen enough. Still it took many long moments before she turned her back and slipped away into the consuming darkness.

  ****

  Loyal!

  He lay enfolded in darkness, floating like a bark on a vast ocean, peaceful enough until he heard that cry of agony and—as he had all his life—strove to respond. He must go to her when she called him. His very existence revolved around that truth. His mistress was his sun, his moon, his reason for drawing breath. No thought for himself could ever intrude ahead of a thought of her.

  And she called him. More, she needed him. He must respond.

  Why could he not rise?

  He remembered the battle—he could see it all now in patterns of black and white. Violence had its own aura, as did so many things in the world, a combination of sight and smell. People smelled different when angry or afraid.

  He’d fought at Barta’s side as he always had and always would, and taken a number of wounds. They didn’t matter, only her welfare mattered, and his presence at her side.

  For him, battle felt like a game, a violent one. So long as Barta remained with him and protected, he cared little what else happened, even to him. He existed to be with her, to protect her—nothing more.

  But now she arose from the place where they’d both gone down—where he’d thrown his body in defense of hers—and he could not follow.

  For the first time in his life he could not follow.

  Oh, unbearable agony. For, faintly, he could still feel her, smell her tears, sense her touch. He could feel her starting to move away from him, feel her spirit tug at his. They were bound together, always had been, by a silver cord stronger than leather and more potent than magic.

  Love.

  Do not leave me here, Mistress. I cannot rise. I cannot follow you.

  Like hers, his spirit howled at the sky.

  Chapter Two

  “You foolish girl! Heedless, accursed girl! How dare you go behind my back—and behind your brother’s—to launch a raid? What were you thinking, taking so much upon yourself? And only see what has come of it.”

  Barta’s father raged as she stood before him in the dim hut, hollered like a man gone mad. It had not been easy for her to come creeping in and confess the truth; only the need to go collect their dead had lent her the raw courage.

  She could see by the fire in her father’s eyes that he wanted to strike her. Good thing perhaps that he could not—crippled as he was, he struggled even to rise. Though he still led their tribe—among the most southern of the Caledonii—he did so from a pallet hoisted by his men, unable to enter battle, and sorely frustrated.

  Now his broad face creased with worry and pain, and the rest of the family, ranged around him, stared in silent horror.

  “How many dead?” Radoc roared. “Say that to me again!”

  Somehow, Barta raised her gaze to his. “Six,” she said starkly. “No, I lie—seven. I have lost Loyal, also.”

  Barta’s mother, Essa, gasped, and a sound very like a sob came from her younger brother Talorc’s throat.

  A moment of horrified silence endured before Radoc spoke again, grief heavy in his voice. “Six? Name them!”

  “My good friends: Dak, Munait, and Dort, as well as three others who agreed to come: Nectan, Gnith, and Gulb.”

  “Six of our best young warriors! Lost, you say? And your good hound.”

  Barta almost wished her father would rise up and strike her then. She could scarcely feel worse. Yet her eyes remained dry, the pain in her heart bursting. She could scarcely think about Loyal, left behind. But she had to get past this terrible confession, persuade her father to send men to fetch him.

  Her father no doubt understood her grief even if his feelings could not touch what she felt. Radoc had always raised hounds and valued them highly. Even now his favorite, Bright, lay at his side and within reach of his hand. Aged, Bright had a white muzzle and like her master no longer went to battle.

  Bright it had been who whelped the litter that included Loyal.

  Barta fancied the bitch’s eyes regarded her with as much accusation as her father’s. Did the hound comprehend her son would never return?

  Never.

  Barta swayed on her feet and nearly fell. Only determination kept her upright.

  Her mother, Essa, spoke for the first time since Barta had entered the dwelling. “Enough.” Essa turned to face her husband. “Your daughter is wounded. You may continue to berate her later.”

  Radoc focused his hard gaze on Essa, and Barta felt their clash of wills. Caledonii women had a fair say in the welfare of their tribes, and Barta’s mother possessed a wise heart. Not often did Radoc disregard her advice. Just as rarely did she back down. Yet her life hadn’t been easy since Radoc lost the use of his legs.

  The ongoing war with the western Gaels had made life easy for none of them.

  Essa laid a hand on Barta’s shoulder; Barta swayed again.

  Radoc blustered, “She deserves to carry her wounds as punishment. She needs to learn the consequences of her heedlessness. No girl—no matter how well she may fight—takes it into her head to launch a raid, especially behind the backs of her brother and me.”

  Barta wetted her lips. “I thought we could catch their scouting party unawares when they ventured over the border.” Unofficial border that was—held merely by skirmishes just like this one.

  Radoc’s dark eyes blazed. “And what think you now of that decision?”

  “Bad. It was a bad choice. But I thought—” Frustrated with the caution of her father and older brother, Wick, she’d thought she could demonstrate her worth as well as show the Gaels the folly of intruding any further onto Epidii territory. They’d already come far enough.

  She glanced at Wick, silent all this while. Though their father still held the reins of leadership, Wick had in truth become their war chief. He and Barta enjoyed an easy, close relationship, but she’d gone behind his back in this. Did he look angry? Hard to tell.

  He’d flinched when she spoke the names of the men lost—all his friends as well as hers. Now his face remained expressionless.

  “I am sorry,” she said as much to Wick as her father. “If I could do it over again—”

  “What is done is done,” Essa said heavily. “All that is left is the grieving. And there will be grieving.”

  “I know.” Barta dropped her head. One of the men lost had been set to wed come winter; another had just fathered a son.

  And she—she had lost Loyal.

  Radoc spoke again. “It is no honor, daughter, to be the only warrior returned home from a battle. Why did you not die with your fellows?”

  Barta jerked her chin back up. “Loyal saved me. He sacrificed himself, laid his body over mine. The Gaels thought me dead. Father,” she leaned toward him urgently, “we must mount a rescue.”

  “Rescue?”

  “A retrieval. We have to go back and fetch their bodies so we may afford them the honor they deserve.”

  “You skulk away with your life and dare speak to me of honor? You make me sick.”

  Barta’s younger brother, Talorc, gave his father a stare. Tally and Barta were also close, yet even he did not venture a word in her defense.

  “But Father,” Barta argued, urged by her heart, “we must bring them home before—before the crows come or before the Gaels return to fetch the rest of their dead. For they had dead as well, I do assure you. We did sting them.”

  “Sting? Seven valiant lives lost for a sting?” Radoc barked at his wife, “Get her out of my sight.”

  “Come, Daughter.”

&
nbsp; Essa’s fingers tightened on Barta’s shoulder and coaxed her toward the deeper part of the hut. Aching, Barta stumbled away.

  Essa pushed her down on a rug and lit a rush light. “Show me your wounds.”

  “I care nothing for my—”

  “So I dare say, but they must be tended.”

  “Loyal…”

  Suddenly the truth of it hit her; the big hound always at her side would never stand there again. Worse, she’d been forced to leave him cold and alone, could not even bring him home.

  That knowledge shattered the numbness that had kept her upright before her father and choked her with tears. She cast herself down and gave way to the wracking grief—all she could expect to know from this day forward.

  ****

  In the darkness where he floated, Loyal heard his mistress weeping. The darkness wasn’t complete; it contained points of light scattered here and there that moved toward and past him, making him feel as if he alone stood still.

  Not a good sensation. He’d always delighted in movement, in running and leaping, the sheer joy of feeling his muscles respond. He enjoyed his strength and vitality. That loss hurt almost as much as the separation from Barta.

  Though they weren’t completely separated. He could still hear her at a terrible distance. He wanted his muzzle right against her knee, his head beneath her hand.

  He possessed no muzzle, no body now. Unsatisfactory. He needed to follow Barta, follow back the silver cord of magic he still saw stretching between them—unbroken.

  He needed to rise.

  Please. He addressed the magic that surrounded him, and the air brightened. The points of light slowed and gathered. Beneath him the darkness began to clear.

  He looked down and saw—

  The battlefield where he and his mistress had just been. All the objects there glittered in the shine from a sharp moon—metal work on the wrecked chariots, cast off and broken weapons.

  A growl tried to stir within him and found no means for expression. He hated the chariots that inflicted so much harm and pain. Why could he not growl?

  Looking again, he saw why, saw the body of a great, brindle hound sprawled on the ground, throat gaping, all the blood drained away. That must be him.

  Never to leap and run again. Never to follow his mistress.

  He howled at that, a wail of pain and protest, a spiritual rather than physical cry. The physical, it seemed, had ended for him. The pain had not.

  Ahead of him, the light continued to gather. The glimmering sparks coalesced into a hazy form.

  At first he thought it his mistress, for it felt—and looked—female. But though he’d always seen an aura around Barta, and had become attuned to it, she never shone so bright.

  Beautiful. That thought arced through him, closely followed by magical. He knew perfectly well magic did exist, could not imagine why people sometimes doubted it. How did they suppose their world functioned without magic?

  The woman who took form had long, flowing hair the color of the moonlight and skin that shone with the moon’s radiance. She, he understood, was the moon taken tangibility.

  The goddess.

  He bowed to her as he must. Barta had always followed this goddess faithfully, praying to her when they walked together at night and whispering entreaties before every battle. That he understood. A hound obtained what he believed he would obtain, including favor. Barta’s goddess was his also.

  Now the goddess called to him, just as Barta always had. This call, though, he could answer.

  Suddenly he stood before the woman made of moonlight. She wore nothing save the shawl of her hair. Her eyes contained wisdom and compassion.

  Loyal.

  The speaking of his name sounded through him like a chime of music. He liked music. It made his mistress happy, changed her scent, and altered the color of her aura.

  Here, lady. He spoke without words, as he often did to Barta. Like Barta, the lady understood.

  Why do you cry to me?

  Did you hear me, lady?

  I did, all the way up in my lofty perch where I sat mending my gown so I might dance again. You grieve.

  I have lost her, lady. And she, me. I cannot endure it.

  And she? Can she bear your parting?

  Nay. He knew that above all things. He could taste Barta’s pain.

  She caused your death.

  I do not believe that. And I do not care. I existed for her. I do, yet.

  You no longer exist, faithful one. Make up your mind to it. Your spirit will move on. Best to prepare for that.

  I cannot move on. I exist for her alone, he insisted.

  The lady pondered that with pursed lips. Consideration pooled in her eyes.

  Look, see, he pointed out, the cord still stretches between us.

  It will fade, given time.

  No.

  You have been a good and faithful hound, as I say. I will grant you one boon. You may be allowed to come back and watch her from time to time.

  He thought about that: more ache than boon. To see Barta and not be able to touch her was not enough and would not satisfy him.

  I want to follow the cord before it fades.

  You cannot. You have no body.

  Grant me one.

  The lady trembled in the air like a beam of moonlight when someone walks through it.

  I did not hear you aright, hound. I thought you made a demand of me.

  Not a demand, lady. A request. You say I have earned a boon.

  You have.

  Let me go back to her—in another body, if my old one be spoiled. I do not care what form. Only let me be with her, stand by her, continue to defend her against all peril.

  The lady smiled. You blame her not for your death?

  I blame her for nothing, ever.

  That is because you were a hound. It would be different, were you a person with a complicated heart and mind. The lady appeared to ponder. An interesting premise.

  Lady please, I implore you—before it is too late. Let me return to her.

  Do you suppose I have the power to grant such a desire?

  I believe you have the power to achieve anything.

  Ah, Loyal—your unwavering belief has always been your greatest strength. It does deserve a reward.

  Then send me back to her, I beg.

  The lady debated it. He saw her glitter like light on water, and he prayed. All the while the silver cord stretched tighter but did not break.

  Very well, said the lady at last. But there must be conditions…

  Chapter Three

  “You have to come with me, Gant, please. Now, before it is too late. We have to collect his body—their bodies—before the Gaels return. We owe them that, at the very least.”

  Gant balked where he sat in the long, half-subterranean hall—the place where Barta and her friends frequently gathered. Dak, Munait, and Dort, who lay in their blood, back with Loyal, usually also passed the time here with them as did less often those others now dead.

  Never to do so again—and all Barta’s fault. It had been in this very room she’d talked the young warriors into the raid that had ended so disastrously. Here she’d convinced them to keep it from her brother Wick, as well—he who would have been bound to take it to his father’s ears.

  At the beginning she’d tried to persuade them all, including these others now gathered. Wick, and Brude—one of the most senior among them—had slapped the idea down. But once most of the cooler heads, with her best friend Gant, left for their beds or to take up stints at guard duty, she’d told those three so close—so dear—to her it was their chance to act rather than sit back taking orders, to show the invaders their tribe would not run. Together, they’d convinced Nectan, Gnith, and Gulb, out in the dark.

  Did the young men she now faced blame her for the loss of their friends? Undoubtedly. Did they despise her? She could not tell.

  Neither did she care. Desperation filled her, so fierce it stung her eyes.

 
She would not weep here before these men. Only Gant had seen her weep in the past—best of friends from the age of four, he’d observed all her various hurts and frustrations.

  She gazed into his eyes, searching for a spark of hope. He had a plain face liberally marked with tattoos, a scruffy, dark-red beard, and a nose once broken—her fault also—when a leather ball flew awry. Unlovely but precious to her was Gant. For the past two years, everyone in the tribe had expected them to wed. But the relationship, though close, wasn’t that kind.

  She said to him alone, “We must go now. Before long the sun will be up and the crows will come. Even before the enemy it will be the crows—I do not want him desecrated.”

  “Him?” Brude, who considered himself best among these young Epidii warriors, spoke in the sharp, quick way he had and lifted one brow. Barta would have preferred to do her begging without him present, but needs must. “You speak of your hound even ahead of our friends. Do they not also concern you, who defied all our advice and lured them to their deaths?”

  “To be sure.” Barta flushed with mortification and reminded herself her feelings weren’t important. “I wish to retrieve all of them and bring them home with honor.”

  “You say you fear the Gaels will return to fetch their dead?” asked Urgast sharply. “Why did they not take them in the first place, if they were victorious?”

  Barta drew herself up. “I did not say they were victorious.”

  “Yet,” Brude took it up swiftly, “all of our party were slain—excepting you, of course.”

  “And many of theirs also—some lie still on the ground. I imagine when they withdrew they fetched away as many as they could. Their party was far larger than we expected, else I do not doubt we would have bested them. But we wrecked most of their chariots.”

  “I am sorry about Loyal,” Gant said in his soft rumble. “It is a terrible loss.”

  “And a heavy price to pay for your rashness and lack of wisdom,” Brude interrupted. “Did I not warn you a raid was folly?” He gestured at himself and the others. “Is that not why we refused to go with you—all but those hotheads who now lie dead? They have paid for their loyalty. And all because you wanted to snatch some glory.”