Immortal Warrior

by Lisa Hendrix

  “I’m more curious about the fog,” said Brand. “There’s something odd about it.”

  He was right. The fog that wove through the trees in moonlit ribbons lay only on the north flank of the hillock, around where the stone stood. Ivo thought of what Merewyn had told him about the morning mist. In his need to get to Alaida, he’d passed off her concerns, but now …

  They rode to the foot of the rise, then skirted the edge of the enshrouded woods till they came to a narrow path. Down it, the fog glowed dimly yellow, as if from a fire. Brand nodded toward the glow and touched his ear. Ivo cocked his head to listen.

  The sound rose faint and sweet—a distant lullaby, crooned by a familiar voice. Ivo’s concern eased. If Bôte was singing lullabies by the fire, surely all was well. He motioned for Brand to dismount, and they secured their horses and stepped into the fog, leaving the raven perched nearby.

  From within, the pall of mist swallowed the moonlight and obscured anything more than a foot away. As they felt their way between tree trunks, Ivo inhaled deeply, drawing the damp air over his tongue. Bitter, it was, and clay-cold, and his wife and daughter were somewhere in the middle of it. He should have listened to Merewyn. He should have brought her to help.

  The path abruptly widened, leaving not even the ghostly trees as guides. Ivo groped his way forward, certain the stone was near and anxious to find Alaida and Beatrice and get them away from this place. Bôte’s song swelled around them and the mist glowed more brightly, seemingly on fire.

  In the next step, the ground vanished.

  Ivo plunged down some unseen slope and slammed to a stop at the bottom. Brand smashed into him an instant later. They scrambled up, winded, swords in hand.

  Before them lay a wide, low cavern, glowing with the light of an uncanny fire that blazed in the center. At the edge of the flames stood Bôte, swaying gently side to side, singing to the infant cradled in her arms. Alaida lay unmoving on a pile of fresh-cut heather off to one side.

  Bôte’s song faded away, and she looked up with a strange, pleased smile. “You have found us. Good. I have waited a long time for you to come. A very long time.”

  Uneasy, Ivo stepped farther into the cave. “Nurse. Is all well?”

  “Very well.” She stroked Beatrice’s cheek. “Such a good bairn. She’s not cried this whole time.”

  “And my wife?”

  “Asleep, as you see,” said Bôte.

  Brand’s gaze traveled the rock walls. “What is this place?”

  “The place beneath the stone,” said Bôte, continuing to sway. “The place where Sir Egbert chased the dragon to ground. But of course, that is only an old tale. There was no dragon.”

  “And no heart,” said Brand. “The sound in the well is but the echo of distant waves.”

  “Only men who spent time with the sea would know that.” She spoke as if to herself. “Aye, ’tis waves, but the heart cut out was real enough.”

  Ivo sheathed his sword and went to kneel by his wife. “Alaida?”

  “Are you certain you want her awake?” asked Bôte. “She will not be pleased to see you.”

  The old woman was probably right. He shook Alaida anyway. “Wake yourself, sweet leaf.”

  “Ivo?” Alaida stirred and slowly opened her eyes, a smile on her lips until she woke enough to remember. The smile vanished, and she sat bolt upright and scrabbled back, flattening against the rock wall. “Why are you here? Go away.”

  Ivo held his empty hands out so she could see he meant no harm. “I’ve come to take you and Beatrice home.”

  “No. I know what you are.” The fear in her eyes soured Ivo’s stomach. “I saw you turn into that … that thing.”

  “An eagle. The same eagle you claimed as your pet, who watched over you and protected you from de Jeune. Come, let me see you safely home.”

  “We cannot go home. The Church …”

  “No one will know. Once you’re safe, I’ll vanish, I swear. You can say I was killed. No one will know.”

  “But Beatrice …” She bit back a sob. “Her father is a demon.”

  “No. I’m no demon. I’m a man, Alaida. A cursed man, but only a man.”

  “Only a man,” echoed Bôte, chucking Beatrice under the chin. “Men do not have feathers and fur, do they, sweeting?”

  “Eagles have no fur,” said Brand.

  “No, no, no, of course not. What has fur, sweeting?” Bôte cooed. “Lions and horses and wolves and stags and dogs and bulls.”

  Cold fear rippled down Ivo’s spine as Bôte named the animals the others became.

  She glanced to Brand, her face lit by that peculiar smile. “And bears, little one. Let’s not forget big, brown bears that would eat a tender bairn like you.”

  “Who are you, old woman?” demanded Brand, but Ivo already knew. He drew his sword again and put himself between Alaida and evil.

  “You know me. I’m Bôte. Old Bôte, who raised Lady Alaida for your friend to breed on. Bôte, who pulled the eagle’s child from her womb and breathed the life into it.” She rubbed Beatrice’s belly, and smiled when the child gurgled happily. “You know me, don’t you, sweeting. And you know me, too, Bear. I made you.”

  Snarling, Brand raised his sword and charged.

  “Brand, no!” Ivo stepped in front of Cwen and caught Brand’s descending blade across his own. In his fury, Brand swung again, the brutal force of his blow driving Ivo to his knees. “Brand, stop! Beatrice. You’ll hurt Beatrice.”

  His words penetrated Brand’s blood rage and stopped his sword at the top of its deadly arc. Brand’s arms shook with the effort of controlling himself as he slowly lowered his weapon and took himself back from the bear’s savagery.

  The old woman laughed with delight. “Good, Eagle. You stopped him this time. You should have stopped him before he killed my Sigeweard.”

  Ivo spun to face the witch. “What do you want, Cwen?”

  “Who is Cwen?” asked Alaida.

  “The witch who cursed us,” said Brand. “Her.”

  “What do you mean? That’s Bôte.” Alaida clambered to her feet. “Bôte, tell them, before they hurt you.”

  “Be at ease, lamb. They cannot harm me.” The witch passed one hand over the fire and stepped into its center. The flames licked up, curling around her skirts, embracing her without burning. Alaida screamed as the nurse’s plump form melted away, leaving Beatrice unharmed in the arms of a thinner, younger, taller woman whose only resemblance to Bôte was the satisfied smile. “You see, I am Cwen.”

  “Beatrice!” Alaida lunged toward the fire. Ivo caught her around the waist and spun her back. “Let me go.” Alaida flailed at him, frantic to save her child. “Beatrice.”

  “Alaida, stop. She’s fine. Don’t make Cwen drop her.” Ivo trapped her against his chest and held her until his words penetrated her frenzy and she stilled. “I will put her back in your arms,” he whispered against her ear. “Let us do this.”

  She stared up at him, the reality of this new fear overcoming some of the old. She nodded, and he slowly released her and pushed her behind him.

  “I raised you for this, you know,” said Cwen. “I foresaw he would win your hand, years ago, and I came to wait, to ready you, to see that you desired him and bore his child.”

  “The posset,” whispered Alaida, suddenly comprehending the strange desire that had swept over her that night.

  “Aye. It made you want him. It made his seed catch, so this little one was born at the right time. She’s a month today. You know what today is, don’t you, lamb?”

  The air caught in Alaida’s lungs. The eve of Allhallowmass. A day of dark magic, when demons reigned over the earth.

  “Bôte, please,” she begged.

  “Do not call me by that servant’s name. I am Cwen.” She drew herself erect, as though taking power from the name itself. “I was sorceress to kings long before even these two were born, and that was long ago. Ask them how old they are.”

  Alaida looked to Ivo. H
e shook his head, and stepped toward Bôte. “I ask again, what do you want?”

  “A simple thing, Eagle—your daughter in my son’s place. And you will give her to me.”

  “No.” Alaida jerked forward again, and Ivo put his arm out to block her.

  “Never,” he spat at Cwen. “I would die first.”

  “A hollow vow, since you cannot.” The firelight gilded Cwen’s gaunt face into terrifying beauty that sent more fear racing through Alaida. “That was the cleverest part of what I wrought, and the most difficult, but I wanted your torment to go on through eternity, like my own. How is it, knowing you will never see the sun again?”

  Ivo stepped toward her. “I have grown to love the moon.”

  “Ah, but you remember how the sun feels …” She flicked a finger and golden warmth bathed the cave as though they stood naked beneath a sunlit sky. “The pleasure of a summer afternoon …” Another flick, and a cooling breeze riffled past, carrying the scent of new-mown hay. “How the light strikes the waves as you sail home …” A flick, and the sound of water rushing past the hull of a ship filled their ears.

  Ivo lifted his face to the heat and light that poured down on him, and he sighed.

  “It can be yours again,” whispered Cwen. “I will free you from the curse. Give me Beatrice, and you can be a man again and live out your life in the sun. In your home. I will love her, care for her, raise her as my own. Say yes, and you can have it all.”

  Even in her fear, Alaida understood Cwen’s offer. As a man, Ivo could go home. One word and he would have the sun. All he had to do was give up their child. He would do it. She knew he would do it. Ah, God, no.

  Ivo opened his eyes and looked deep into Cwen’s cold blue gaze. “Take me instead.”

  “No!” shouted Brand, and Alaida realized she had shouted, too.

  Ivo ignored them both. “I will be your son,” he told Cwen. “I will give myself over to you, honor you, and learn to love you as a son loves a mother.”

  “You! You think I would want one of the animals that ripped my boy from me?” Rage shook her so violently that Beatrice wobbled in her arms.

  Ivo dropped his sword and stepped forward, holding his wrists together as though shackled. “Then take me as slave, to serve you. To torture as you will.”

  “Or me,” said Brand. “I’m the one who killed Sigeweard, the one you really want. Spend your venom on me, Witch. You’ll enjoy it more.”

  “I have other plans for you, Bear,” said Cwen in a voice that made Alaida’s skin crawl. “I want the child. She is young. She will love me as a mother.”

  “As I did?” asked Alaida, choking out the words past the tears that filled her eyes and clogged her throat. “Whatever you call yourself, you are my Bôte, who raised me and coddled me and taught me to sew. My Bôte, who I loved all these years. Don’t you see, you already have the child you wish.”

  Cwen’s expression softened. “Almost, lamb. But you loved your mother first, and your grandmother. This one will love only me.”

  “And who am I to love?” sobbed Alaida. “How can you take my child from me when you know how it feels?”

  “I’m not going to take her from you, lamb. He is going to give her.”

  “But he won’t. You heard him. Please, give her to me.” Alaida reached out and started forward.

  “I could take you both,” mused Cwen, “and have both daughter and granddaughter. What think you, Eagle?”

  “No.” Ivo dragged Alaida back and set her behind him once more. “Me, Cwen. That is the offer. Nothing else. Send Alaida home with Beatrice, vow that your evil will never touch them again, and I am yours forever.”

  “How touching. You love her,” sneered Cwen. “Little good it will do you now that your wife has seen you as you truly are. You have no real choice. Give up your child and enjoy your life, or refuse and continue in your hell. Alaida will hate you either way.”

  “I will take hell,” said Ivo. “You get neither of them.”

  “Of course, I could make her forget,” offered Cwen. “All of it. The eagle. What she saw. Even Beatrice.”

  “I would never forget my own child,” vowed Alaida.

  “Ah, but you would, lamb, and you would love him then. Give me the child, Eagle, and you can have Alaida along with the sun.”

  “You offer a great deal, Witch, trying to get me to say yes. Why?”

  “Because she must, my lord.” Merewyn stepped into the cavern, Tom close on her heel.

  Brand’s face twisted with concern. “Merewyn. Get out of here.”

  She shook her head. “I am meant to be here.”

  “Please, Meri, go. You don’t know what she is. Tom, get her out of here.”

  “Tom, see to your lady,” said Merewyn easily. “I do know what she is, messire. That is why the Mother sent me.”

  “Arrogance,” sneered Cwen. “Your simple goddess magic cannot match mine.”

  “I have been listening at the mouth of the cave, great one. I well know what your magic can do.” She circled toward Brand, drawing Cwen’s attention with her.

  Tom reached Alaida’s side and took her hand. “I will help you be strong, my lady.”

  “She wants your soul along with the child, my lord,” continued Merewyn. “That’s why she offers up your lady’s heart to tempt you. Do not let her do it. Refuse her.”

  “Until my last breath,” vowed Ivo.

  “My lady, she tampers with your spirit, too. This fear … this is her, not you.”

  “You meddle in things not your business, Healer,” warned Cwen.

  Merewyn ignored her. “Think, my lady. How did you grow so frightened of your husband?”

  “I …” Confused, Alaida looked to Ivo, then to Cwen, then back to Merewyn. The healer’s calm drew her, and she chose it, let it soothe her tangled thoughts. “I saw him change. Bôte told me he was a demon. She said they would burn me for lying with him. But I kept thinking, he’s Ivo, he’s my husband. She made me drink … to calm me, she said.”

  “But you grew more afraid, didn’t you? She made you more afraid,” said Merewyn.

  Alaida struggled, trying to think. “I was so afraid.”

  “Ah, sweet leaf, I would never hurt you,” said Ivo. “You must know that. Never fear me.”

  “Fear him,” commanded Cwen, and Alaida whimpered and trembled under the weight of the terror that crashed down on her.

  “Leave her be,” said Tom. He released Alaida and squared off next to Ivo, between her and Cwen. “She is not afraid of him, Witch. None of us are.”

  “You should be, boy.” Cwen found Alaida over his shoulder. “They will burn you if they know, my lady.”

  “How would they know?” asked Merewyn. “Would you tell them, my lady?”

  Alaida’s head felt thick, but not so thick she couldn’t answer this. “Never.”

  “They will know and burn you for it,” promised Cwen. Her voice shifted so she sounded like Bôte again. “Or he will kill us, lamb, even the babe, to keep his foul secret.”

  “No,” said Alaida. She understood what Cwen was doing now, and she fought to push her out of her mind. “You lie. You have lied to me all along. He loves us.”

  “His weakness,” said Cwen. “And yours.”

  “Then make it your strength, my lady.” Tom turned his back on Cwen and held his fist before his chest, where only Alaida could see, and opened it. “Be strong for the eagle who followed us that day.”

  Tom was trying to tell her something. Hand. He’d left something in her hand. She opened her fist just enough to catch a glimpse of silver, to make out an eagle. She looked to Merewyn, questioning.

  “All the strength you need lies within you, my lady,” said Merewyn softly. “When you came to me for help, the potion I gave you was only a soothing oil, with no drop of magic in it. All the magic lies here.” She made a fist and laid her hand over her heart. “Here, as it does in Lord Ivo.”

  “But I …”

  “Are you truly afraid
?” asked Merewyn. “Do you truly fear your husband?”

  “No.” Alaida thought she understood … But what if she was wrong? What if he … No, that was Cwen. She drew a shaky breath. “No, I am not.”

  “But you are,” breathed Cwen, her poison wafting once more through Alaida’s soul.

  “No.” She squeezed until the little eagle cut into her hand, using the pain to push Cwen’s magic aside. “No. I am not.”

  Reaching deep, she found the strength to take the few steps to Ivo’s side. Sure now, she touched the eagle over his heart and spoke the truth she’d been fighting to remember all day, even as Bôte had driven her deeper into fear. “I am not afraid. I love Ivo. God help me, I do love him, even now.”

  “And I …” Ivo suddenly screamed and stiffened, his back arching like a bow. Foulness streamed out of him in ropes of thick brown mist. Horrified, Alaida watched him strain and choke within the dark cloud. Dying. He was dying. She’d killed him. Her scream rose up with his, joined with that of the phantom eagle that formed out of the mist and stretched its wings wide over their heads. It screamed once more and abruptly vanished, leaving only a dull sparkle hanging in the air.

  Ivo folded to his knees, gasping for air as Alaida crumpled beside him.

  “No!” shrieked Cwen. “No, it cannot be. This is impossible. You don’t have it. No one has it. The spell cannot be broken with love alone.”

  “Your hold on him is ended,” said Merewyn. “As is your hold on his lady.”

  Cwen shifted her grip on Beatrice and dangled her over the flames. “Not yet it is not.”

  “No!” Ivo launched himself at Cwen, knocking her sideways as he snatched Beatrice from her hands. He twisted midair to land beneath the infant, protecting her as he hit the firestones and bounced away, embers flying around them.

  “Enough.” The air around Cwen boiled with her wrath. She gathered the seething clouds to her and flung her arm toward Ivo. With a cry, Merewyn dove between them. The thunderbolt intended for Ivo and Beatrice struck her chest and raised her off the ground. She hung there, writhing, lightning crackling over her skin.

  “Merewyn!” Brand roared and charged forward. Another flick of Cwen’s hand turned him aside and sent his blade spinning away as Merewyn fell to the ground, motionless. Cwen turned toward Alaida and drew her arm back.