Storm Warrior g-1

by Dani Harper

  True, this was a different time and a different country. He had seen farming practices change and develop over the centuries, but Rhys remained confident. What he didn’t know, he could learn. Would learn. For Morgan, certainly, but also for himself. Why, a man could—

  Without warning, Lucy balked, planting her feet and refusing to move forward.

  “Come along now.” Rhys made soothing sounds at the big gray mare. “True it is that it’s a fine day, but you’re not healed enough yet to be walking o’er much.” Instead of obeying, however, she flared her nostrils and threw her head, yanking back on the lead rope and even showing the whites of her eyes.

  He didn’t urge her forward again. Many a warrior had been saved by heeding his mount’s warning. Horses could hear sounds too soft and too high for human ears, and Lucy was too steady a beast to start at nothing. Rhys stood where he was and carefully studied their surroundings for something, anything, out of place.

  The September afternoon was warm and still, a pleasant remnant of late summer. Yet there was no birdsong and even the insects had gone silent. There were no bees laboring in the nearby clover. No sound at all except for the quivering breath of the horse beside him. Then Rhys frowned at a large patch of tall grass just ahead.

  How was it managing to wave without a breeze?

  The stems appeared to be disturbed from underneath the soil. A burrowing creature, a mole perhaps, might move a few blades of grass as it moved through the earth. But the area affected was much wider than Rhys was tall. Suddenly a great mound of sod began to rise slowly like yeasted bread until it tore away from its surroundings. Clods of dirt rolled off the quivering earthen sides as something heaved itself upward. An icy calm settled over Rhys, as it always had when it was his turn in the arena.

  Thanking the gods that Morgan was yet at the clinic, he took firm hold of Lucy’s halter. He had no time to see her safely to her stall. Instead he turned her away and led her as quickly as he dared into the shade of the machine shed where she couldn’t see whatever happened. Tying her lead rope to a post, he prayed for the sake of her wounds that she wouldn’t break loose and run.

  He needed a weapon. Rhys eyed the tools that hung in the shed and quickly settled on a long-handled spade. He hefted the thick hardwood shaft in his hands—oak, he hoped—and approved of the pointed steel blade at one end. It was old, but heavy and solid. He would have preferred a sword or even a Roman trident, a fascina, but in the ring as in battle, one learned to use whatever came to hand. Armed, Rhys headed out to face whatever was invading the farm.

  The mound, now chest high, had split along its base on the side facing him, like a long, gaping mouth with snaggled roots for teeth. The darkness within seemed blacker than shadow ought to be on a bright afternoon—and a pair of eyes flashed in the depths, many handspans apart. Rhys allowed himself a quick glance at the house, reassuring himself that no one was home, and braced to meet the unseen enemy.

  A handlike appendage reached from the darkness, the flesh pale like something long buried as it grasped at the dirt with four long, thick fingers. It hesitated as if testing the strength of the sun—and suddenly the moist white skin flushed a deep and mottled brown. Nostrils flared on the sides of the blunt nose that followed. The flat, arrow-shaped head was as wide as a wheelbarrow and swiftly became the color of the earth as well, as it emerged from the gaping crevice. Silvery eyes the size of apples flashed in the daylight but didn’t flinch or blink.

  Blind but far from harmless, thought Rhys, as the creature’s mouth opened to reveal double rows of conical teeth, some longer than a spearhead. He’d seen these monstrous salamanders before. It was a bwgan, a creature from the darker side of the faery realm. Like the faeries themselves, bwganod lived almost forever.

  Unlike the fae, they relished the taste of human flesh—and the creature turned its great head in Rhys’s direction, tracking his location by smell.

  Rhys took the offensive immediately, not waiting for the rest of the beast to emerge from the darkness. He ran forward and leapt over the bwgan’s head, stabbing downward as he passed with the spade as if using a spear. He’d hoped for a killing blow between the eyes, but the big creature was fast and the skull was solid. Still, the spade slid along the bone and sheared off a portion of the bloated face, taking one of the eyes with it. The roaring hiss that followed was like water on a blacksmith’s forge as the salamander writhed, its dagger teeth spitting droplets of amber venom in all directions as dark, bluish blood poured from the wound. Rhys jumped just in time to avoid being hit by the long, swollen tail, the color of a drowned corpse. The tail didn’t turn brown in the light as other parts had previously. Perhaps the creature was weakened? Rhys searched for an opening and—

  The bwgan charged out of the cleft in the earth like an angry dragon, broad-toothed jaws snapping together like bronze shields clashing. It probably anticipated that its intended prey would dodge left or right, but Rhys had long ago learned to always do the unexpected. He ran to meet it head-on and used both his momentum and the creature’s to shove the spade as far down its throat as he could. The teeth splintered the protruding wooden shaft, but it was too late—the head of the spade was steel, and iron was poisonous to most of the fae. Rhys dove and scrambled to get out of reach of the venom and gore. The bwgan’s body paled to its original ghastly shade and flopped back and forth like a cut snake on a hot rock.

  He watched the monster’s death throes with mounting anger.

  Bwganod do not live on this side of the ocean. Not only had the vicious thing been deliberately sent by some faction of the faery court, it had been magically transported. Rhys knew it would have taken a great deal of power to move the earthbound beast over so much water. And for what purpose?

  After Morgan had broken the spell that bound him, the ruling fae were restrained by their own laws. They could not place a finger on him directly—but Rhys knew all too well that they had no shortage of other faery creatures to send in their stead. He’d seen the ellyll, after all, and knew the Tylwyth Teg were watching him. And he should have known that simple spying would never satisfy them. Obviously they wanted him dead.

  By all the gods, they wouldn’t find him easy to kill.

  At last the bwgan ceased its thrashing, and its remaining eye darkened. Rhys was thankful the ugly creature had landed right side up because there was one last task to perform. Drawing a utility knife from a sheath on his belt—a gift from Leo—he peeled the cold, clammy skin from the broad forehead. As the skull was revealed, so was something deeply embedded in the bone. Rhys held his breath as he applied the tip of the knife to gently pry out the object. It resisted his efforts at first, then popped from its cavity with a sound like a joint dislocating. Wiping away the dark, bluish blood with the edge of his T-shirt, he examined his prize in the sunlight. It was somber in color and oddly shaped, like a rounded triangle—flat on one side and as big as a duck’s egg. But no egg shimmered so. The light played over and around it as if it were a darkly iridescent pearl.

  Rhys knew that what he held in his hand was incredibly valuable, but the value didn’t lay in its beauty. Bwgan stones were rarer than the most priceless of jewels. Few of these deadly creatures produced them, and there was no way to tell if a bwgan had one or not until it died—a rare occurrence in itself. Druids prized the stones, magi sought them, and the Fair Ones themselves esteemed them highly.

  He had no idea what he would do with it or even what he could do with it—he was certainly no druid—but the gods had delivered it into his hands, so he thanked them for it. Perhaps a use for it would become apparent later. In the meantime, he had other things to do. He jogged to the corral and was immensely relieved to see Lucy still standing where he’d left her. She whickered when she caught sight of him, but he dared not go to her right away, not stinking like that predatory monster. Rhys headed instead for an old metal barrel that caught water from a rain gutter and immersed his hands and wrists, rubbing away the gore that coated them. Finally, he p
eeled off his shoes and clothes and dropped them into the water, leaving them to soak—but not before knotting the stone into a sock. It would be safe enough in the barrel for the time being.

  Naked, he untied the gray horse. “There’s a brave llafnes.” Big girl. He spoke soothingly to her, crooning a mix of Welsh and Celtic words. They had to pass the dead salamander in order to get to the barn, but he walked Lucy in a wide arc around it. Her nose quivered and her ears were in constant motion, alert for danger, but she didn’t balk. “You’d make a very fine warhorse,” he said. Her solid build and her responsive, steady temperament were ideal. She was slow right now and favored her left rear leg, but he had confidence she would grow strong again. “A shame it is that no one has need for such steeds in this age.”

  They left the grassy field and headed toward the barn that held both her stall and his quarters. He was grateful now that Leo had insisted he buy a few more clothes. Rhys had thought one set more than sufficient for his needs, but he hadn’t counted on getting them bloodied in battle. Another good reason to fight naked. At least the bwgan’s death was likely to discourage any other creatures from showing up. For a while.

  It didn’t do a thing to discourage human visitors, however.

  He was a hundred feet from the barn when a strange truck pulled into the farm’s driveway. Rhys swore aloud but there was nothing he could do—he wouldn’t rush the injured horse nor walk her across the hard-packed corral, even though it would have been the faster route. He was just forty feet from getting his nude self out of sight when the truck—followed by a second one drawing a trailer—pulled up beside him.

  Rhys had only a fleeting moment to wonder if the gods hated him after all before a man jumped down and walked toward him. His hair was long and bound in a tail, while charms and fetishes bounced around his neck. His orange T-shirt proclaimed “Zombie Apocalypse Survival Team,” which made no sense to Rhys at all. But he recognized the man from the clinic, a healer of animals like Morgan.

  “Hi, I’m Jay. You have got to be Reese.” He handed Rhys a thick, checkered shirt, like Rhys’s own, only this one was red. “I see we caught you at a bad time. Thought you might be able to use this.”

  “Rhys,” he corrected and took the shirt, tying it around his waist like an apron or a kilt. He took Jay’s hand then, noting that the man’s grip was solid enough, despite his wiry build. “And I thank you for the loan of the shirt. I was not expecting guests to arrive.”

  “I figured that.” Jay laughed as he made a quick inspection of the horse’s bandages. “These dressings look really good. Neat, clean, no seepage. Morgan said you were taking great care of Lucy. So…you go au naturel often?”

  “In truth, I’m feeling more than a little foolish now. My work for the day was done, my clothes were filthy, and I stripped them off. I was just taking Lucy back to the barn and enjoying a bit of sun before making use of the shower.”

  “And along come a bunch of strangers. Sorry for the rude surprise. Morgan lets us borrow the corral in order to practice, so we bring our horses out here every couple weeks.” Jay waved toward the others—five men and three women who had clustered near one of the vehicles.

  Most of them were trying to avoid looking in Rhys’s direction. There was embarrassed giggling from two of the women, however, and more than a few stolen glances. Strange behavior—women of his own village would have been bold enough to walk up to a warrior and invite him to their bed had they favored what they saw. Nudity and sex were normal parts of life among the clans, and there were no customs or laws decrying them. Women as well as men chose their partners as they pleased, and no one thought ill of it nor attempted to deter it. In this time, however, there were rules aplenty, written and unwritten, and so many social mores that Rhys wondered if he would ever remember them all.

  “Next time I’ll be certain to dress for the occasion,” Rhys said and made his escape. For a moment he considered placing his body on the far side of the horse, but customs be damned, it wasn’t in his nature to hide—and besides, he’d rather keep the group’s attention on him than the rest of the farm.

  Particularly with a dead bwgan still lying in the field.

  If the group kept to the corral, they wouldn’t be able to see the monster salamander—if they could see it at all. Now that Rhys was mortal, he wasn’t certain why he could see the thing, but perhaps it was because he’d once been a fae creature himself. As a boy, he’d known people who had the gift, as it was said, meaning they could perceive the Fair Ones readily, but over the centuries fewer and fewer had the ability. It was unlikely that any of Jay’s group had a latent talent for seeing faeries.

  Morgan, however, might be different. If she really did possess some fae blood as the messengers had claimed, would she see what others could not? Rhys had no idea how he would explain the bwgan’s existence, never mind its presence.

  First things first, however. Rhys made the horse comfortable, checked the bandages again, paying particular attention to those on the left hind leg. He filled her bucket with fresh water, and she buried her nose in it, drinking long and deep.

  He sought water too, standing under the shower in his quarters as he pondered his biggest problem. How did one dispose of a bwgan? He didn’t know how long Jay and his friends were going to linger—he didn’t even know what it was they were here to practice. Morgan was sure to be home soon as well. That meant the bwgan could not be dealt with until after dark, but he hated to leave it so long. He was still thinking it through as he toweled off and dressed, deciding to go barefoot until his shoes dried. Maybe he could—

  A sudden sound set every nerve alert. Unmistakable and impossible at the same time, it resonated again. And again. A ring of steel on steel that Rhys had heard countless thousands of times over the centuries but never in recent history.

  Swords.

  ELEVEN

  Despite Jay’s urgent warning to take the pieces of the silver collar home, she’d managed to drag her feet for a couple more days. Now Morgan plunked the box in the backseat of her car. It wasn’t the only task she’d been putting off. She’d been intending to get the collar repaired, just as she’d told Jay, and hadn’t done it—but it wasn’t because she hadn’t had time. She could have made the time, would have made the time. Except the real reason she’d thought to have the collar fixed was not so she could put it back on the dog. It was so she would have something to remember the dog by.

  Which would mean she’d given up on ever seeing Rhyswr again. And so she’d stuck the box in her office where it was guaranteed to be buried by papers and books and samples of veterinary pharmaceuticals. Out of sight, out of mind.

  The silver links were very much on her mind now, however. And so were Jay’s words. And what Rhys had once said too. Good grief, was she starting to believe that faery-forged crap? But what other explanation was there? She’d thought she had it all figured out, but the news about the silver blew all her theories away. Now her brain hurt from trying to make sense of the impossible.

  Needing a friend to talk to, she’d tried phoning Gwen several times but hadn’t succeeded in reaching her. She wished with all her heart that she could talk to her grandmother. For some reason, it seemed that Nainie might have been the one person who could decipher the strange situation. What if Jay was right? Morgan sighed then and shook her head as she climbed into the car. No. She wasn’t ready to start accepting faery tales as truth. There was a perfectly logical explanation, a scientific explanation for all this. There had to be. She just hadn’t figured it out yet.

  She turned her car into her driveway and was surprised to find Jay’s green pickup parked by the barn, as well as a big gray truck attached to a horse trailer. Was it that day already? Jay and his role-playing buddies came to the farm to practice archery, swordplay, and occasionally even jousting activities that didn’t readily fit in suburban backyards.

  Morgan parked beside the other vehicles and had barely gotten out of the car before she was captured in a hug b
y Jay’s wife, Starr.

  “I’m so glad to see you! Did you just get off work? You must be starving—we’ve laid out a picnic since it’s so nice outside, and there’s lots and lots of food. Let me find you a plate. Oh, and you have to try the fruit bars I made,” Starr chattered as she led Morgan around the corner of the barn.

  “Thanks. If they’ll give me your energy, I could really use some,” said Morgan with a laugh. If it would give me some of your style, I’d like that too. Starr had straight black hair that hung to her waist, intricately braided with beads and tiny bells. She always dressed in bright gauzy layers of hand-dyed cloth, long skirts and shawls and scarves. Starr’s unique bohemian fashions enhanced her appearance rather than detracted from it, and next to her, Morgan always felt plain as a jenny wren (to borrow a phrase from Nainie). And yet she was certain she’d trip on her own skirt or be choked by a scarf if she ever tried to dress like that. She certainly couldn’t work in such clothes…And what do I ever do but work?

  The air was suddenly rent with loud cheers and decidedly male hoots that belonged more to a football game than to archery. Still chuckling, she turned to look—then stopped in her tracks and stared.

  The group was cheering for Rhys. Riding without saddle or reins, he was guiding a big black Friesian in an easy circle as he drew a medieval longbow. His aim was astonishing—he nocked arrow after arrow and all flew into the center of a straw target.

  “Can you believe it?” asked Starr, a little dreamily. “He’s directing Brandan’s horse with nothing but pure body language. I guess that’s how dressage is done, but Boo’s never been trained for it.”