Loyal and True

by Laura Strickland

  Barta staggered back a step precisely as if Brude had struck her. “It was not about glory but about stinging the enemy. Showing them we are not afraid. And you can say nothing to chastise me more sharply than I chastise myself.”

  “Mayhap not.” Brude shot Barta a measured glance. “So now accept the consequences, as must we—the loss of six brave men and your good hound.” He sneered. “A woman does not belong on the battlefield—not even the daughter of a chief.”

  “Now,” said Gede, the biggest of them and the last to speak, “has she not always fought valiantly at our sides?” He gave Barta a sympathetic look. “She and Loyal.”

  “Our women,” Barta told Brude stiffly, “have never been loath to take a stand beside their men, be it armed with iron or magic.”

  “You’d be wiser keeping to magic,” Brude replied.

  “So you say,” Barta replied with hard dignity. “But I do better with iron in my hand.”

  Brude snorted. “No fit recommendation. If you are so courageous, why were you the only member of our party to survive?”

  Barta swallowed convulsively. “Knocked senseless; Loyal lay over me, and the enemy must have thought me dead.”

  “She bears many wounds.” Tally, who must have followed Barta here and had no doubt been listening at the door all the while, entered the hut behind her. “I watched my mother tend them. You have no notion how hard my sister battled, Brude.”

  “Yet, whelp, she managed to save herself.”

  “Loyal saved her. Do you doubt his courage also?”

  Brude smiled tightly. “No one here could ever question that. But your sister must learn the price of her thoughtlessness. It seems the goddess has drawn for her a sharp lesson.”

  Tally stiffened in every limb. “Were she a woman to sit at her weaving, Master Brude, you would then mock her for her lack of strength.”

  Gede rumbled to life. “There is something, Brude, in what the boy says.”

  Tally turned to Barta. “I will accompany you, sister, to retrieve our dead. I am not afraid.”

  “Neither do you have any more wisdom than your sister,” put in Urgast. “It is far too risky, boy.”

  Barta turned to him. “I cannot leave Loyal’s body there. But no, Tally—neither will I let you endanger yourself.”

  Urgast grimaced. “She will not endanger her brother, nay, but has no such reservations about the rest of us.”

  The despair that gripped Barta’s heart tightened in a stranglehold. “Very well, then, sit here like old men. I will retrieve Loyal on my own.”

  “And how carry him?” Urgast demanded.

  “I shall construct a litter.”

  Gant hauled himself to his feet. “You will not go alone, Barta.”

  “Oh, by the goddess, Gant, thank you.”

  “And I,” Tally insisted.

  Gede, who made two of the lad in height and muscle, arose also. “I will come, but only if you stay here, boy.” He ruffled Tally’s hair.

  “Oh, thank you, Gede.” Barta turned to the big man. We’d best go at once, before we lose the cover of darkness.” She eyed the others. “And if you will not come with us, please hold your tongues, at least—I beg you, not a word of this to my father or brother.”

  ****

  Barta smelled the battlefield even before she caught sight of it in the gloom. The reek of death hung over the place like a fog and froze the three of them in their tracks.

  Gant put out a hand and clutched Barta’s wrist. Into her ear he breathed, “Silently, now. We will move ahead and watch before we move closer.”

  She nodded. Blundering into a Gaelic party would mean capture or death.

  But agonized frustration filled her to bursting. She wanted to dash forward, gather their fallen, and be off away with them.

  Instead they stood many long moments watching and—more importantly—listening. The sickle of moon had now set, and a faint glow edged the eastern horizon. Barta counted her heartbeats and prayed to the goddess: Only let me hold him again, alive or dead.

  At last Gant nudged her. “Lead us to them. Softly.”

  She moved forward without sound through a scene even more terrible than she remembered—staring eyes and rent flesh, all in black and gray.

  They came first upon Dak, a shattered spear still in his hand. Gede tugged him off by the shoulders, with Dak’s heels dragging on the ground. Munait and Dort had fallen close together, as they had lived. Gant touched each gently on the head and hissed, “Where is Loyal?”

  “Just here. We were all…” Barta stopped speaking abruptly. The four of them—and herself—had fallen nearly within arm’s reach of one another, making a last stand. The hound’s great body should be stretched just here.

  It was not.

  She spun on her heels, disoriented. No shaggy, brindle form lay anywhere within sight.

  “He was here.”

  “Not here now.” She felt rather than heard Gant’s words, barely above a breath. “Are you certain—?”

  “Yes. I crawled out from under him. Dort and Munait were beside me when I got to my feet.”

  “Then—”

  “What, Gant, what?” Barta’s heart leaped sickeningly. “Was he alive after all? Did he arise and follow after me?” But she had seen that terrible wound at his throat and knew he was dead.

  Gant shook his head. “Maybe the Gaels came back and took him.”

  “That cannot be. You can see they have not yet been back to collect the rest of their own dead.”

  Gede loomed beside them. “What is it?”

  “Loyal’s body is gone.”

  “Impossible. No one’s been here ahead of us.”

  “He was just here…”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  Barta caught a glimpse of the tattoo on Gede’s cheek as he stooped and gathered Munait into his arms. His muscles bulged.

  “I am not mistaken.” Tears flooded Barta’s eyes. “Gant—”

  “Hush, now. He must be still alive.”

  “No. No, he had nearly bled dry.”

  “We must get away,” Gede grunted.

  “But I cannot leave!”

  “Whatever the mystery, Loyal is not here now. Help me, Gant.”

  The two men hauled their fallen comrades, one by one, away from the place of death to the cart they had brought, Gede pulling it like a pony. Barta stood as if rooted until Gant returned and tugged her arm, hard.

  “Do you wish to get us all killed?”

  That was the last thing she wanted. She bore, already, burdens enough.

  Chapter Four

  “What are we to do with her?” Barta caught the words her mother whispered to her father, even though Essa did not intend her to overhear.

  Night had come once again to the settlement. Three days—and three endless nights—had now passed since the ill-advised raid in which Loyal had been lost. The six slain young warriors had been honored and buried, Barta forced to witness the grief that descended on those who loved them—and to bear the blame. Loyal’s absence haunted her and deepened her despair, a relentless echo of pain.

  Radoc’s only response came in a grunt. Nights, as Barta knew, proved difficult for him when pain wracked his ruined body. Their tribe had been engaged in the struggle for land against the westerners most of Barta’s life. At this moment, Radoc did not seem inclined to spare attention for his daughter’s plight.

  Essa went on, no doubt supposing Barta, who lay in her sleeping alcove, in fact slept.

  “She refuses to get out of bed; she will take nothing to eat. She will not speak,” Essa fretted.

  “She is grieving and bearing a heavy share of guilt. Is that so hard to understand? We all grieve in our own ways, and it was a heavy loss for her, this one.” Barta knew, without looking, that her father reached out his hand to caress the head of his bitch, Bright, never far from his side. Radoc’s other dog, Strength, who had perished in the same battle that saw Radoc crippled, had been given a funeral with gr
eat ceremony. Something Barta would not be able to do for Loyal.

  Her stomach clenched and soured as it did every time she thought of her failure to bring Loyal home, or pictured the empty place on the field where his great form should have been lying. Questions began running through her head again: what had happened to him? Could he have been alive when she left him? Had he lived long enough to drag himself away into the dark and then perished? Should she go search again?

  If the enemy had come and collected his body—then why? Why take the body of a slain hound and yet leave their own dead behind?

  Barta thought their leader—the warrior with the fierce eyes and the flying yellow hair—had taken a significant injury near the end of the battle. Perhaps that explained why the Gaels had withdrawn so abruptly.

  It didn’t explain Loyal’s missing corpse.

  “Perhaps a new pup,” her mother whispered. “Are any of your hounds due to whelp?”

  Radoc grunted again. “She does not want a new pup—at least not yet. I tell you again, Essa, leave her be.”

  “But”—Essa’s whisper became more urgent—“she shows no signs of coming out from her darkness.”

  “It has been three days. Would you not grieve that long for one you loved, Wife? Would you not grieve so for me?”

  Barta knew, also without looking, her mother replied with a kiss even before her words. “I, husband, would be devastated beyond expressing.”

  “Well, then.”

  “But what if this affects her for good? Barta has always been so fierce and bold.”

  “And now she learns the price of such boldness. I tell you again, Wife, let—”

  Radoc broke off in midsentence. Outside the dwelling a furor had arisen, splitting the quiet night—cries of challenge and alarm, exclamations that caught even Barta’s bruised attention.

  Radoc swore; Essa got to her feet, and Tally stirred. Barta’s older brother, Wick, directed the night watch and so was absent from his bed.

  “Help me up,” Radoc told his wife.

  Barta, not thinking of herself for the first time in days, went to assist her mother. No easy task, getting Radoc up from his pallet once he had retired for the night. Both women struggled, and Tally hurried to help also, his dark eyes wide with alarm.

  “What is happening, Father?” he asked. “Are we under attack?”

  “Don’t know. Get your weapons.”

  They all went outside into a scene Barta could not immediately comprehend. The waxing moon sailed overhead in a clear night sky, its silver light filtering down between the branches of the trees beneath which the huts sheltered. It pricked out a troop of Epidii guards hauling in a captive.

  A stranger.

  Barta froze where she stood, one shoulder lodged beneath her father’s arm, and stared. The most peculiar sensation swept over her. A stranger, yes—and yet not.

  “What goes on here?” Radoc bellowed.

  Wick, who held the strange man fast by one arm, replied, “We caught him approaching the settlement, bold as you please. Says he has come to offer his service.”

  “Is that so?”

  By now the entire settlement—some two and a half score strong, from infants to elders—had emerged from their huts. All stared.

  The stranger stood tall, topping even Wick’s impressive height, and strongly made though without bulk. His hair, a shaggy mane, looked almost silver in the mystical light, and he seemed unaffected by the furor he occasioned. Obviously of Caledonii blood, he wore a number of weapons along with tattoos that must denote his tribe.

  Nothing else.

  Barta caught her breath. She’d seen her share of naked men—her brothers and also others among the warriors, during wrestling contests or at play. Never any male who matched this.

  A messenger, perhaps? But why should he come to them unclothed and in the middle of the night?

  “He says nothing more,” Wick reiterated. “Only that he offers his service.”

  “Who are you?” Radoc addressed the stranger directly. “Why have you come?”

  The stranger tipped his head slightly as if gauging the emotions in Radoc’s voice. He had a handsome, narrow face, deeply set eyes, and brows that slanted upward. He also possessed graceful hands that dangled at his sides but made no move to reach for his weapons—a long knife and, strapped at his ankle, what the westerners called a dirk.

  Even his feet, long and slender, were bare.

  He made no reply to Radoc’s query.

  “Do you come from one of the northern tribes?” Radoc pressed. “What is the name of your chief?”

  The stranger stepped forward out of Wick’s grasp. He placed one hand over his heart, where lay a bold tattoo, bright even in the moonlight, as if it alone should identify him.

  “I come, Chief Radoc, to take the place of another who has been lost.”

  Without further words, the beautiful young man knelt at Barta’s feet.

  ****

  All the agony that had filled him since his death as a hound now eased for the first time. Finding himself once more where he was meant to be, he felt as if he could breathe again and everything became right—save for his bewilderment. Why did his mistress fail to recognize him?

  Out of all the confusion and the new sensations assaulting him, this stood out. To be sure, the Lady had warned him the journey he undertook would prove challenging. He must learn to use language, walk upright, and deal with human nuances. She’d said Barta would not know him and that he could not tell her who he was.

  He hadn’t believed it, though. Barta couldn’t fail to know him in any form—human or otherwise. He’d believed in that so fiercely he’d even extracted a promise from the Lady that should Barta guess his identity, he could then tell her how he had gained this chance to return to her.

  Return to her.

  That, indeed, had been all that mattered to him—the pull of the silver cord that still connected them, an irresistible summons quite clearly reaching past death.

  But now he knelt at her feet—a place he’d crossed from the far country to reach—and she stared at him as at a stranger.

  She will know me, he’d vowed to the goddess, as soon as she looks into my eyes.

  So far, Barta had looked anywhere but. She’d gazed at the ground or at his body which to him seemed both magnificent and terribly limiting. She’d looked at his hair—everywhere but into his eyes, even though he compelled her with his gaze.

  Skilled as he was at reading signs, he could sense her great discomfort and her sorrow. Why? Was he not still him? And had he not returned to her?

  For a time. At great cost.

  He would not think about that now. Thought proved far too difficult, given all those odd impulses and implications pressing at him. In the past his thoughts had possessed no implications. Black and white were just that—black and white.

  “Get up,” Master Radoc bellowed at him.

  Used from birth to obeying, he nevertheless remained where he was, his gaze fixed on Barta.

  “Get up,” she whispered fiercely, “for the sake of the goddess.”

  For Her sake, and hers.

  He rose to his feet and stood waiting for instructions. Barta still had not met his gaze.

  “What is your name?” Radoc growled.

  He thought about that. Forbidden to give his former name, he had no other.

  He smiled at Barta. “I do not know. I am here at my mistress’s service; let her name me.”

  Barta’s eyes widened, and she recoiled. Had that been the wrong thing for him to say?

  “From what tribe do you hail?” Radoc demanded, even as those gathered around them muttered.

  Better prepared for this, he spoke the name the Lady had given him. “Bilii.”

  “From north of the Pitcairn?” Radoc’s eyes narrowed. “Who sent you?”

  “I was called by my Mistress Barta’s need.”

  That caused more muttering. He heard the word “magic” pass many lips.


  Magic they should comprehend; it existed everywhere in the world, in the sound of the wind passing over the land, in the flight of a bird, in the rhythm of his own heartbeat. He stood now doubly bound by it.

  But bound mostly by love. He continued to gaze at his mistress, willing her to see that.

  He’d existed for her all his life and never found her stupid. Indeed, usually her wits moved most swiftly and matched his in daring. Now she either could not or would not understand.

  “It is some trick,” whispered Brude. “He has been sent by the enemy to penetrate our defenses.” He drew his short knife. “I say kill him at once.”

  And was this a threat? Not to his mistress but to him directly—which threatened her in turn. He spun to face Brude and growled.

  “Yet,” said Tally, “if he bears the marks of a tribe we know, how can he then be an enemy?”

  Brude snorted. “Foolish boy—that is part of the trickery. Leave him alone with Barta, and he will slit her throat at his first chance.”

  Mistress Essa pressed forward to stand in front of him. She peered into his eyes even as Barta refused to do, and caught her breath. “Oh, by the goddess…”

  Relief filled him again; Mistress Essa understood enchantment and possessed a great deal of wisdom. Surely she could glean his identity.

  “What is it, Ma?” Barta asked, fearfully.

  Essa snagged Barta’s hand.

  “Bring him into our hut, Husband. We will find him some clothing and offer him a place at our hearth.”

  Chapter Five

  “You must have a name, everyone does. Why would you ask me to give you another one?”

  The stranger stared at Barta in that compelling way he had, the gaze she found it so difficult to avoid. The two of them sat beside her parents’ hearth, alone for the moment—alone for the first time.

  Tally had fallen asleep before Wick carried him off to his sleeping bench and remained there as if on guard over the boy. Her parents, in their own alcove, spoke intently in tones too low for Barta to understand.

  The beautiful young man sat within arm’s reach of Barta. Oh, and he was beautiful despite the fact that Essa had lent him some of Radoc’s old clothing.