by Anna Elliott
Isolde scarcely had time to see what happened next. In a flash, Trystan had stepped out from the corner and dealt the guard a vicious blow to the back of the neck. The guard sagged to his knees with a startled cry, and Trystan struck him again with the hilt of the knife. The man crumpled to the ground with a low moan, and Trystan straightened, knife at the ready, to meet the second guard, who had come to the door at his fellow’s cry and now stood at the threshold, his own weapon raised.
There was another of those seemingly endless moments when time seemed to hang suspended. And then, with a lightning movement, Trystan bent, scraped up a fistful of straw from the floor, and flung it into the guardsman’s face. Temporarily blinded, coughing and choking on the shreds of straw and dirt, the man jerked his hands instinctively to his face, trying to claw the filthy muck away from his eyes.
Trystan’s second blow caught him in the pit of the stomach. His breath went out with a rush and a hard grunt; he doubled over, still coughing, and Trystan struck him again, across the back of the neck, as he had the first. The second guard, too, went down, and Trystan turned to where Isolde stood frozen in place, catching her by the arm and pushing her before him out into the corridor.
Once in the corridor, Trystan paused only long enough to swing the door shut and slide the bar into place, locking the guards inside.
“Come on. Quick, before anyone else comes.”
They reached the end of the passage and took the stone stairs leading up to the courtyard two at a time. But when they reached the tower’s exit, Trystan stopped just inside the doorway and turned again to Isolde.
“You know the layout of this place better than I.” His voice was a barely audible murmur that carried less than a whisper would have done. “Which way is the fastest out?”
“The main gate is just ahead.” She pointed into the inky darkness beyond the door. “But it’s sure to be guarded, especially now. That leaves the western gate. It opens out onto the cliff path down to the sea. It’s likely guarded, as well, but it’s a more isolated spot and there won’t be as many guards.”
Trystan nodded and there was a moment’s silence while he stood scanning the courtyard outside. Then Isolde said, her voice, too, only the barest murmur of sound, “You didn’t kill them—those two guards back there.”
Trystan didn’t turn. His body was still alert and poised for instant action or fight, but at last he said, with a faint, dismissive movement of his head, “The poor devils were only doing their duty.”
He paused. Then: “Besides. Dead bodies would give away our escape just as much as live ones. And if we’re not well away by the time they wake and sound an alarm, it’s because we’re already dead ourselves.”
ISOLDE LEADING THE WAY, THEY FOLLOWED a path through the storage buildings and sheds, keeping to the darkest shadows and away from the torches that burned at intervals along the walls. A mist had rolled in from the sea, covering the light of moon and stars, and the night was damp and very dark, the biting air scented with salt from the sea below. They were within sight of the castle’s looming outer wall when Isolde heard a shout from somewhere behind them and froze, the breath catching in her throat.
Three soldiers, their darkened figures blurred and half obscured by the mist, were advancing slowly on them, spears at the ready. Out of the corner of her eye, Isolde saw Trystan look from the soldiers to the outer wall and the arched gateway—just visible, now—as though gauging the distance.
Isolde thought, He’s going to run. He knows—he must know—he can outdistance them. If he’s on his own. If he leaves me behind. She waited for Trystan to break away, to run for the castle wall. But instead he turned his head, and his eyes, a bare gleam of light in his shadowed face, met Isolde’s.
“Run. Get out of here.”
She could only stare, and he said, furiously, “One of us can get free. Now go. Head south—there’s a track along the coast. You’ll be safe that way—the patrols never go there.” Then, as Isolde continued to stand as though frozen and stare: “Run, I tell you!”
This time, he didn’t wait for a reply. Instead of turning back toward the outer wall, he drew his knife and lunged toward the three soldiers, slashing viciously at the nearest of the men. For an instant, Isolde stood, still paralyzed. Then she turned and ran.
From behind her came the sounds of savage combat—the clash of metal on metal, grunts and muffled thuds—and it took all her will to keep from turning back. Ahead she could see the stone arch of the seaward side gate, lighted by twin torches, their flames glowing orbs of yellow orange against the drifting fog. And below stood a pair of soldiers stationed on guard, one on either side of the entrance. But they, too, had heard the fight going on behind her. They exchanged a brief word, then started forward, toward her, at a run.
Isolde drew back, pressing herself flat against the outer wall, heart thudding hard against her side, the stones of the wall, beaded with moisture, cold and slick against her palms. But neither man even glanced her way. Isolde risked one last look behind her, straining her eyes into the mist-filled dark, but she could see nothing. Only the vague, lurching shapes of the struggling men. Nothing to identify them. Nothing to show whether Trystan yet stood or had already been captured or killed.
Still, for the space of several heartbeats, Isolde stood motionless, hands clenched at her sides, drawing quick, shallow breaths, trying to force herself to turn away and yet unable to move. What he did will be wasted if I stop or try to go back. There’s nothing I can do for him. Not like this, on my own.
She had started forward when a cold, wet press against her hand made her freeze, stomach clenching in fear. Then she sank back.
“Cabal,” she breathed.
Even in the pale light cast by the torches at her back, she could see that the dog was thinner than he’d been a few days ago when she’d gone to Dera and left him behind in her rooms. His shoulder bones protruded sharply beneath the brindled fur. Isolde knelt, stretching out her hand, and Cabal snuffled into it, then thrust his nose against her face, whining softly.
Isolde sat back on her heels, staring at the big dog. I can’t take him with me, she thought.
And yet she couldn’t leave him, either. He would be starved. Or worse, she thought, remembering the testimony at the trial. One of Marche’s men—or one of Nest’s women—might well think to curry favor by killing the Witch Queen’s demon-possessed hound.
Cabal gave another low whine and shifted his weight anxiously from side to side, his dark, liquid eyes on Isolde’s face. Isolde straightened.
“Cabal, come on. Good dog. Quietly, now.”
ISOLDE DRAGGED HERSELF UP FROM THE oblivion of sleep and lay a moment, disoriented, before memory returned. She sat up, pushing the tangled strands of hair from her eyes, then bent over, resting her head on her knees. She’d found the small rowboat that was kept for Tintagel’s fishermen to bring the day’s catch up from the sea, and had managed to row to the headland, with Cabal, huddled against the sea spray, in the prow. Her hands were blistered, and the fabric of her cloak and gown was stiff and chafing with the salt spray that had come at her over the rowboat’s sides. At least, though, the clothes were now dry—dried along the way she’d come since she’d cast the boat adrift and scrambled ashore.
She had walked through the night, keeping to the narrow track that ran south along the headland shore as Trystan had said. She’d not dared let herself stop to think about what Trystan had done or why. But she’d gone the route he’d told her, running whenever she could, slowing to a walk only when her legs began to feel leaden with fatigue. And she’d met with no patrols. Only a stray pariah dog on the outskirts of one of the fishing villages she passed, that slunk away, tail between its legs, at Cabal’s growl.
At the last, it had been sheer blind instinct that had kept her moving, putting one foot in front of the other. Instinct, and the pressure of Cabal’s head against her leg or palm as he whined and butted at her every time she came to a halt. Finally, just as th
e first rosy light of dawn was breaking in the east, she’d found a sheltered place where a scrub of dry sea grass grew among the rocks. She had curled up to lie beside Cabal, and fallen almost instantly asleep.
Even now, her head swam as she sat up, tears of sheer exhaustion pressing behind her eyelids. She blinked them back, though, afraid if she let herself cry she’d never be able to stop. She’d been dreaming—a nightmare of endless narrow passages and suffocating walls—so that when the morning silence was broken by a man’s drawn-out, agonized scream, she looked round, dazed, wondering whether the cry had been only a part of the dream. Then it came again, a harsh scream of terror or pain from beyond the jut of boulder and loose rock that screened the coast itself from her view. In a flash, Isolde was up, one hand on Cabal’s bristling neck to keep him at her side.
The sun was beginning to set, turning the stretch of gray ocean at her back a fiery red; she must have slept through nearly the whole day. Slowly, keeping tight hold of Cabal’s collar, Isolde rounded the screen of rock, then stopped short. Hereric lay prostrate on the ground, only an arm’s distance away, with Kian standing over him, pinning him down.
Kian looked up, and his deep-set eyes flared wide in shock, then narrowed in recognition at the sight of Isolde.
“You.” His voice was almost a growl. “What are you doing here? And where’s Trystan?”
Still dazed with sleep and the shock of the meeting, Isolde said, stupidly, “He’s at Tintagel. A prisoner.”
“What?” Kian stared at her a moment, then, abruptly, seized Isolde by the shoulders, dragging her forward to face him. When Isolde didn’t reply, he shook her, his face darkening. “Tell me! Now, do you hear?”
His scarred face was close enough that Isolde could see the individual bristles on his stubbled chin, smell the sourness of his breath.
Beside her, Cabal gave a low, rumbling growl, and Isolde said, automatically, “Hush, Cabal. It’s all right.”
She pressed her eyes briefly shut, trying to think. She couldn’t hope to get free of Kian without telling him what had happened at Tintagel. The whole of the story, she thought. She knew instinctively that he’d wit enough to see through any half truth or lie.
And besides, there was Hereric, who now lay behind Kian on the ground, his broad chest heaving, his eyes wide open, fixed and glassy and staring up at the darkening sky. Plainly injured—or ill.
“Let go of me,” Isolde said, “and I’ll tell you.”
Kian listened in silence, his face still a stony mask, his eyes hard and his mouth set. As Isolde finished, though, Hereric gave another of those harsh, terrible screams and struggled to his knees, trying to rise. Instantly, Kian whirled and dropped to the ground, seizing Hereric’s shoulders and pinning him down again.
Hereric’s face convulsed in sudden terror. His eyes widened and his lips twisted in another rending scream, so that Isolde caught a glimpse of the mutilated mouth within. He started upright once more, lashing out violently, so that Kian was nearly thrown to the ground in his efforts to restrain him.
Isolde moved toward them, and, hearing her approach, Kian glanced up, his face still angry and set. “Get away. Get back.”
Isolde ignored him, dropping to kneel on the other side of Hereric.
She was able to think more clearly now, and Trystan’s final words to her were echoing in her mind.
Head south—there’s a track along the coast. You’ll be safe that way—the patrols never go there.
It couldn’t, though, be only chance that in following Trystan’s direction she’d met with Kian and Hereric this way. Trystan, who would have known Hereric was injured. Who must have intended for her to find the other two men. And even apart from the look of appeal in Hereric’s eyes, the leaden weight of what Trystan had done for her pressed slightly less heavily as she reached out to take Hereric’s hand.
Isolde looked up at Kian again. “How long has he been like this?”
Kian was silent, but at last answered curtly, “Started last night. Fever. Got a sword cut in his side that’s gone bad.” Then, as Isolde reached to touch Hereric’s brow: “Get back, I said! You think I’ll—”
Another scream from Hereric cut him off, forcing Kian once more to turn and fight to keep Hereric on the ground. When the paroxysm had passed and Hereric lay still again, Kian was panting for breath, his brow beaded with perspiration. He turned to Isolde and said, his teeth gritted and the words spaced out and slow, “Get…back…now. You think I’m going to let you kill him?”
Isolde didn’t move. “No. I think you’re going to stand aside and let me treat his wound. Because unless it’s tended to—and soon—you’re going to watch him scream like this for hours—days, maybe—until he finally dies.”
She reached out toward Hereric once more, then bit back a cry of her own as Kian seized her wrist.
“I said don’t touch him,” he barked. “I’ll not let you catch either of us with your witch’s ways.”
Isolde’s temper snapped. She turned to look up at Kian and said, between her teeth, “Don’t tempt me. I’ve never stolen a man’s soul or blasted his manhood before, but if you say one more word to keep me from helping Hereric, I may decide to try.”
Kian’s face went utterly blank, and for a long moment Isolde was uncertain whether he would strike her or cut her throat as once he’d threatened. But then, to Isolde’s amazement, his eyes fell, and his fingers slowly loosed their hold on her arm.
“What do you say we should do, then?”
Isolde let out a long breath, then turned back to Hereric, laying her hand on his brow and then on his neck. In both places, the skin was burning hot and dry as parchment to her touch.
“We should get him under shelter first of all,” she said. “Is there somewhere nearby?”
Kian was silent again, then said gruffly, “There’s the boat.”
He jerked his head toward the shore, and Isolde saw that the small painted sailboat was anchored a short distance away. Kian, following Trystan’s instructions, must have sailed around the coast from where she’d first seen him and ended here.
“Can you carry him that far?”
Kian didn’t answer, but he slipped his hands under Hereric’s shoulders, hauling him half up, and seeing him struggle, Isolde moved to take the big man’s feet. She expected an angry protest from Kian, but he only grunted and went on, his mouth tight and his shoulders rigidly set.
THE BOAT’S CABIN WAS A SMALL, square-built, windowless space smelling strongly of salt and fish. Baskets of supplies, dried meat and jars of ale, stood against one wall. Kian lowered Hereric with a thump onto a pile of skins in the corner, drawing a faint moan from Hereric before he lapsed into what looked like unconsciousness.
Cabal was at Isolde’s side, whining and shifting his weight anxiously from side to side, but at a gesture from Isolde he subsided onto the floor, head resting on his paws. Isolde wiped the sweat from her forehead and looked round the cabin, shadowed, now, with the approach of night.
“Have you a lamp?”
Kian was silent a long moment, his face grim. Then he jerked his chin toward the figure on the pallet. “Why?”
Isolde didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She turned, looking down at Hereric’s ashen face, and gently tucked a woolen blanket around him. If she mentioned Trystan—thought of him, even—she’d be no help to Hereric.
“Because I’ve never in my life walked away from anyone sick or wounded. And I’m not going to start now.”
Kian didn’t reply, but studied her in silence a long moment more. Then, abruptly, he turned and, rummaging among the baskets, drew out a battered lantern, which he lighted and set beside Isolde.
The sword cut had, as Kian said, gone deep into the Saxon man’s side. A deep, ugly wound, the skin around it crusted with blackened blood, inflamed and streaked with ominous tendrils of red. Isolde bit her lip, then turned back to Kian.
“Get some sea water. I’ll use it to wash out the cut.”
Ki
an’s brow furrowed, an expression Isolde couldn’t quite read on the scarred, weathered face, and then he spoke for the first time since she’d unwrapped the clumsy dressings that had bound Hereric’s side.
“I’ve seen that done, sometimes. On battle wounds.”
Isolde nodded. “Garlic would be better, but since I’ve no medicines here with me, it will have to do. And you’ll have to hold him again,” she added. “The salt will help clean the wound. But it’s going to hurt him a good deal.”
IT SEEMED TO ISOLDE THAT THAT night lasted an eternity, a nightmare of flickering lamplight and Hereric’s searing screams, in which she labored over the wounded man with hands that grew almost numb with fatigue. Again and again she bathed the wound in Hereric’s side, gritting her teeth when he thrashed and screamed at the touch of the salt water against his broken skin. She’d had to cause pain when she treated injuries or wounds often enough before, but having to hurt Hereric was somehow worse. Like torturing a child, she thought.
Toward dawn, she sat back after once more swabbing out the oozing wound. Hereric was sinking deeper into exhaustion, and he was no longer screaming, but groaning and sometimes whimpering pitifully like a wounded dog, his pale eyes fixed in mute supplication on Isolde’s face. Isolde’s hands shook as she pushed a lock of hair back from her brow, and sweat formed a cold trickle down her back, plastering the woolen gown to her skin.
She looked up to find Kian watching her, and to her surprise he said, breaking a silence between them that had lasted several hours, “Don’t mind it, lass.” His voice was gruff, but she thought the grim set of his mouth had softened slightly. “Let Hereric do the hurting. You just get on with the job.”
