“It takes our children,” said another, with a quiver in his voice. “Got my daughter—she was only four years old.”
Roderic glanced again at Brand, who shrugged. Roderic suppressed a sigh. Even here, there were still responsibilities to be met. “Good people, we will do what we can. Tomorrow morning, before the sun rises, my men and I will go out to the hunt. Meanwhile, if you would come to Minnis this evening, around sunset, and give us more information about the beast—where it last hunted, where it’s been seen—we will do what we can.”
There were low murmurs of assent and gratitude, and with awkward bows, the men faded back into the trees.
“It must be bad,” said Alexander. “I can count the number of times on one hand the Wildings have approached me in all my years in Spogan. Even when the Sascatch Tribes are on the hunt, the Wildings keep to themselves.”
“I’ve caught glimpses of them now and again,” said Brand.
Roderic nodded in agreement. “Sometimes, in the deep forest, I think I’ve seen them watching through the trees.”
“Better a Wilding than a lycat or a Sascatch,” said Brand.
“Indeed,” said Alexander. “Wildings don’t eat you for dinner.”
The next day, Roderic rose before the sun and pressed a kiss into the tender skin beneath Peregrine’s ear. She smiled in her sleep and snuggled deeper into her pillows. “Don’t go,” she murmured, and for a moment he hesitated. The thought of returning to her side in the warm nest of blankets was tempting, but then he sighed and reached for the clothes he had discarded the day before.
The Wildings’ plea was serious. Once having caught the taste of human meat, lycats never hesitated to hunt and stalk such relatively easy prey. The soldiers of the garrison had confirmed that many lycats had been sighted in the forest surrounding the castle, and one or two of the beasts had even been seen from the walls of Minnis itself. The winter before last had been mild, and the past summer dry, resulting in ideal breeding conditions. As a result, there was a large hungry population roaming the depleted forest.
The rising sun whitened the mist as the hunting party rode out from the high walls of Minnis, and tiny drops of water condensed off the burgeoning canopy of leaves overhead. There was a wet, sweet scent in the air, a green scent, and the horses’ hooves made a muted squish upon the damp earth of the forest trails. Roderic felt he belonged in these woods, beneath these trees, as though with his father’s responsibilities came an appreciation of his father’s pleasures.
There was a sense of lightness which hung about him, even as the sun rose and the mist dissipated, and the horses crashed through the green undergrowth. And this time, when his blood began to burn, and his senses seemed to swell with the fire of the hunt, he felt none of the shameful guilt he had known that awful day in Atland, no awareness in some inner recess of his mind that what he did was wrong. He swung his sword and threw his spear, and in the dark spurting blood, he felt somehow cleansed.
The hunt was not completely successful: in less than a few hours they had found and killed five of the beasts, but none so large as that which the Wildings had described.
The men rested as the sun pierced through the leaves with bright shafts of light, laughing and passing pieces of the fresh-baked bread and new-made cheese they had brought with them. Roderic lay on his back and listened to the others congratulate themselves and discuss the finer points of the hunt.
The day was pleasantly warm, yet the breeze which stirred the treetops was cool. As the men got to their feet, brushing leaves and debris from their clothes, Roderic rolled on his side and sat up. “Go on without me,” he said, over their startled protests. “It’s too late in the day for the lycats, and we are close enough to Minnis.”
“But what will you do, Lord Prince?” asked the oldest of the lot, clearly bewildered.
“It’s been so long since I had any time to myself, Teck. I shall be along shortly. Tell the Lady Peregrine that I’ll want my dinner as soon as I bathe. And tell the duty sergeant I said you were each to have double rations of ale today, for all your pains.”
They needed no more urging than that, and Roderic was left in peace. He leaned against a tree trunk, remembering how, as a child, he had often been afraid of the deep forest, the shadows beneath the ancient trees. His old terrors were all forgotten. Perhaps that was to be expected. Imaginary monsters paled in comparison to real enemies armed with razor spears.
He had just decided to go back when he heard the first of the thin cries. It was a high-pitched wail, and the terror in it was unmistakable. Roderic cocked his head and listened for the direction of the cry. When it came again, he swung up into his saddle and guided the horse at a quick trot through the dense underbrush.
The cry came again, and this time it was pitched with pain. He touched his spurs to the stallion’s sides and crashed into a clearing, in time to see the largest lycat he had ever imagined standing on hind legs, against a partially fallen tree, claws extended. Its opened mouth revealed fangs at least six inches in length, a grotesque variation of the tabbies that haunted the stables and the kitchens.
The tree had long ago been struck by lightning, or toppled by disease, for its trunk leaned over, and vines and a thick crop of tiny branches covered it like leafy hair.
The lycat crouched, poised to spring, and again, Roderic heard the high, thin wail of terror. Before he could throw the spear, however, the lycat pounced, and even as he aimed, the animal fell back, clutching a human child.
He came at a gallop, spear poised, and with one tremendous thrust, he buried it hard into the animal’s side. The stallion screamed a challenge of its own to the red-and-brown spotted beast as they thundered past. Roderic pulled hard on the reins. The horse wheeled and reared.
With a jerk of its head, the lycat flung the child into the weeds at the base of the tree. Thick blood pulsed from a gash on the child’s neck as he lay still in a crumpled heap.
The spear quivered deep in the lycat’s side, but Roderic saw that he had missed a mortal blow by many inches. There was a bright burning hatred in the animal’s eyes as it stood to take the measure of its newest prey. It stood, still as a stone, only its tail lashing. And then it threw back its head and roared, and Roderic saw the bloodstained yellow fangs, the pink jaws lined with double rows of teeth. The horse whinnied nervously as it caught the fetid stench of the carnivore. The lycat crouched, eyes on Roderic.
Roderic let the horse fall back several paces, wrapped the reins around one hand, and drew his short sword from the scabbard on his hip. As the animal sprang at the horse’s neck, Roderic pulled hard on the reins, forcing the stallion to rear, and he slashed the edge of the sword through the lycat’s throat. A heavy paw raked at his shoulder, and he felt the burn and sting as the sharp claws tore through his leather armor, piercing the flesh below. He managed to turn the horse’s rump out of the way, so that the lycat fell with a thud to the ground. Dust rose in a cloud, and settled slowly. The last air escaped the Iycat’s lungs in a long, rattling sigh, and it went limp.
Still breathing heavily, Roderic leapt out of the saddle and flung the reins around the lowest limb of the nearest tree.
He wiped the sword hastily on his thigh. Forgetting the pain in his own arm, he grabbed the flask of water tied to his saddle, and hastened to the child, who lay just as the lycat had thrown him, like a discarded bundle.
The child moaned. He was a boy, about six or seven, a tiny dagger still clenched in a bloody fist. The wound in his throat gaped, bubbles of blood rose with each shallow breath.
Mercifully the boy was unconscious. Roderic looked around, wishing he had not sent the others on their way, for there was nothing he could do for the child except to try and take him back to Minnis. He had no idea where the Wilding camp might be. And yet, if moved, the boy was likely to die before they ever reached it. Kneeling, he placed one hand on the child’s forehead. Already the flesh was clammy and grayish. The boy breathed in long, harsh gasps that ended in a ratt
le. Beneath the torn stripes of pink flesh and yellow fat, Roderic saw the gleam of white bone. It would not be long now.
He sighed and tore a length of fabric off the bottom of his tunic. He poured water on the rag and bathed the child’s face. At the touch of the cool water, the child shifted feebly and moaned again. Roderic splashed more water on the rag, and held it to the child’s lips, pressing it so a little water ran down into the boy’s mouth. He adjusted his sword across his thigh and sat against the tree trunk.
The breeze ruffled his hair, drying the sweat on his face. Gently, he touched the child’s back. The clearing was preternaturally quiet, except for the slow drone of the flies which had found the carcass and the rustle of leaves in the branches over his head. There was a difference between watching a man die in battle and a child die so senselessly. And then, unbidden, a vision of Atland rose before him, a vision of the helpless wretches who had died at least as painfully as this. Surely it had been no different for them than for this boy. And I was responsible, he thought, as surely as if I had wielded the dagger and the sword. How could I have done such a thing? How will I ever forget?
He dabbed once more at the child’s face, and was about to lean back when some instinct brought him suddenly alert. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He crouched, left hand on the hilt of his dagger.
In the shadows beneath the trees across the clearing, a figure stood, slim as a young beech, dressed in a motley assortment of rags. Male or female he could not tell, but the person was smaller than he, and certainly looked no threat. “Come out,” he called.
The figure stepped into the clearing and looked around as though to see who else might be watching. Roderic realized it was a girl, no more than his own age.
“The lycat’s dead.” Roderic gestured to the body of the fallen animal. “Come, there’s nothing to fear.”
As she came closer, Roderic saw that her clothes—a short tunic and leggings—were even more ragged than the ones he had seen the Wildings wearing, and clumsily patched, as though an unskilled hand had done the work. But perhaps, he thought, yesterday’s delegation had deliberately dressed in their finest. Her feet were bare, though so dirty they appeared at first glance to be shod. Dark unruly curls fell in a rich mass about her face, bound back only by what appeared to be an attempt at a coif such as the ladies of the court wore. The pathos of this made him peer more closely at her. He caught a glimpse of a straight nose, cleft chin, and full, rosy lips before she bent her head away from him. He gestured to the child lying in the grass.
“Do you know him?” Roderic beckoned impatiently, for the girl seemed reluctant to approach. “Is there a camp nearby? Can you take word to your people, bring help?”
“I will take him.” The girl’s voice was low and sweet, with nothing of the northern burr of the Wilding’s speech, and there was some familiarity of cadence which made him wary.
At this extraordinary statement, Roderic squinted up at her, as she stood silhouetted against the sun. “He’s dying. You can’t possibly take him anywhere. If your people are close enough and you will show me the way, perhaps we can take him on my horse.”
“I will take him.”
At this, Roderic rose. Perhaps the girl was a little simple. Such a thing was common he had heard, amongst the Wildings, who kept to themselves and were said to interbreed. She kept her face averted. He resisted the sudden urge to rug her chin around to look at him. “You can’t.”
“I must.”
“The child’s nearly dead—“
“And he’ll die if you don’t let me take him.” This was spoken with such conviction that Roderic narrowed his eyes.
“You’re nothing but a child yourself. He’s much too heavy—“
“While we stand and argue, he is dying.”
There was unmistakable truth to this, and Roderic stepped aside. She walked past him, knelt beside the boy, and a long shudder seemed to pass through her as she laid a dirt-smudged hand on the child.
“I told you it was bad,” he said.
She raised her face, and he saw tiny beads of sweat had formed on her upper lip, across her forehead. She looked as though she were about to faint. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if it were some trick of the shadows that there was something familiar about her, something he ought to recognize. He leaned closer, and instantly she turned her face away, but not before he caught a glimpse of eyes a vivid and intense shade of blue.
“Not too far from here, there’s a track through the wood,“
she said. “Do you know it?” She refused to face him, almost, he thought, as though she feared he might know her. But there had been no women amongst the Wilding party yesterday.
“It leads to a lake.” He tried to see past her profile, but a lock of her thick hair had fallen down her cheek.
“His—our people are there. Take your horse. I’ll stay with him.”
Roderic hesitated. There was logic in her words, and yet the feelings she roused in him had nothing to do with logic. He realized with a start that he had no wish to leave her, that somehow to remove himself from her presence was to lose something precious yet so intangible it defied definition. There was something magnetic about this girl, something that appealed to him beyond reason or even simple lust. She had aroused him by her very presence, and yet his need to possess her was at once more compelling, and less explicable, than anything he had ever felt before. His flesh seemed to expand beneath his clothing. By an act of will out of all proportion to the situation, he turned to go, thought again and turned back. She had her hand on the child and was leaning closer over the still figure. He thought he heard another moan.
“Go!” It was a low, choking sound, and it spurred him on.
He mounted the horse and followed the trail. Originally it had been a road, for here and there black pieces of ancient paving lay revealed beneath the encroaching underbrush. The trail itself led directly down into the lake. He stopped on the sandy shore, looked around. There was no sign at all of any human habitation.
He had been tricked. With a curse, he jerked the horse around and the stallion reared and whinnied in protest. He crashed back through the wood, back to the clearing, and stopped. The girl and the child were gone. He clucked at the horse, and flapped the reins, and obediently, it moved slowly forward. The lycat’s body was where he had left it, flies buzzing around its wounds and bloody jaws. He retrieved his spear.
Roderic guided the horse over to the tree. A slight depression in the long weeds, as well as smears of congealing blood, marked the place where the child had lain. He got off the horse and touched the crushed weeds. The blood was sticky. Some of it had formed a gelatinous clump, and flies crawled eagerly over it. His stomach churned with disgust. The girl could not have carried the child away. She might have been able to drag the body, but—
Roderic examined the ground for the marks of a body being dragged. There was nothing. Slowly, he straightened. The sun was at its height and sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. The horse whickered and stamped impatiently. Absently Roderic patted its head as it nosed at him and snorted. There was something very odd about the girl. It was almost as though he should have known her—and yet, surely, yesterday had been the closest contact he’d ever had with the Wildings in his life. Slowly, still troubled, he mounted the horse. There was nothing more he could do—the responsibility for whether the child lived or died had been taken from his hands. He clucked, and the stallion turned eagerly for home. But the girl—why had she lied? She had seemed genuinely concerned for the child. Perhaps the camp was nearer—it was well known that the Wildings were extremely secretive. But surely, she should have needed help. Sighing, he shook his head and rode slowly back to Minnis, leaving the mystery behind him.
He knew something was wrong when he saw the soldiers on the walls cry out at his approach, and Brand himself came running to grasp his bridle. “What is it?” he began, but Brand cut him off without any attempt at ceremony.
“The
escort you sent for Jesselyn arrived. She’s dead.”
Chapter Thirteen
Roderic stared at Brand in disbelief. “Dead?” he repeated. “How?”
Brand handed the reins to a groom. “Come with me. The sergeant of the company is in the hall—along with Tavia and Vere.”
“Tavia? Vere?” The names meant nothing. Both brother and sister were much older, and long gone from Ahga, and their lives had never, for a moment, impacted upon his. He searched his memory as he followed Brand, trotting at his brother’s heels just to keep up. Tavia had been wed to some Senador’s son long before his birth, and some tragedy surrounded her. Abelard had mentioned her rarely, and always with regret. And Vere—Vere had left Ahga long ago, his name never spoken. He had gone in the chaotic days of Mortmain’s Rebellion, and no one knew where. As far as Abelard was concerned, Vere might as well have been dead. But now he was here—turned up in Jesselyn’s company, a nams and a face so long forgotten surely few remembered him.
In the hall he was met by a scene which could only be described as organized chaos. Women from the kitchens ran here and there, bringing water and linen bandages, and on the floor in front of one high hearth lay a long bier covered in a plain white shroud.
On the floor alongside the opposite hearth lay another pallet, and here the women clucked and tripped over each other like a gaggle of geese. Soldiers in travel-stained uniforms sat in silent clusters, drinking and eating a hastily served meal. At the entrance, Roderic paused and laid a hand on Brand’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“Sergeant—” Brand motioned. A grizzled veteran limped forward, mud clinging to his boots. Roderic recognized him. He had fought long and hard in the service of the King, but refused to retire even though he had earned his respite many times over. He had volunteered to lead the escort.
“Sergeant Tom?” Roderic unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to a passing servant.
Children of Enchantment Page 13
