The young woman in blue looked Gallen over, shook her head. "Not him, he's too small."
"Size is an illusion," Gallen said, catching her eyes. "A man is what he thinks."
"And I think that if a foe who outweighed you by a hundred pounds swung a sword at you, you would never be able to parry his blows."
Gallen listened to her words with difficulty, realized that like the man, she too spoke oddly, as if she had a mouthful of syrup. Yet her accent wasn't as thick. He said, "I've been strengthening my wrists since I was six years old, knowing that I'd have to parry blows from bigger men. I believe a man can become anything he puts his mind to. And I assert that by thought, I have made myself bigger than I seem."
"He'll do," the guard said, picking up his sword and shaking the pain from his hand. "He's got a hell of a grip—better than mine."
The woman in blue opened her mouth in mild surprise, then smiled.
"I've already contracted a job for tonight," Gallen said. "But I can pick you up at dawn. The hike to the gate makes for a short trip, only five miles."
The stranger spoke to Maggie briefly. Once he'd purchased rooms for the night and ordered dinner inside, the two began walking up the staircase, and then stopped. The old man said, "We just came from the south, from Baile Sean. There's a large bridge over the river there. Lightning struck it just after we crossed. I suppose you'll want to inform the town." Several people cried out in dismay. By law, the two towns would have to come together and repair the bridge, an onerous task.
Gallen knew that he could not let the young woman, his new employer, go without introducing himself.
He stood and said in a loud voice, "My lady?" The two stopped in their tracks, and the woman glanced over her shoulder at him. Gallen continued, "When you walked in the room just now, and your hood fell back to expose your face, it was as if the morning sun had just climbed over the mountains after a dreary night of rain. We're curious folks hereabout, and I think I speak for many when I ask: may I beg to know your name?" The little speech came out sounding so sweet that Gallen could almost taste the honey dripping from his tongue, and he stood with his heart pounding, waiting for the woman's reply.
She smiled down at him and seemed to think for a moment. Her guard waited cautiously just above her on the stairs, but he did not look back. After a few seconds she said, "No."
They continued upstairs, turned the corner of the hall, and were gone. Gallen O'Day sat down in his chair, staring after them, feeling as if his heart had just turned sideways or he'd died a small death. The last few patrons in the inn looked at Gallen and chuckled. Gallen's face was hot with embarrassment.
Maggie quickly made up two plates and readied them to take upstairs, then came back to Gallen and set the plates on his table a moment and said, "Oh, you poor abused child! To think that she'd mistreat you so." She leaned over and kissed him heavily on the mouth.
Gallen suspected that she was both hurt and angry. He also reminded himself that, wisely, he'd made her no promises. He held her gently as she kissed him, then she slapped his face, grabbed her trays, and danced off, smiling at him over her back.
Gallen put his chin on his knuckles and sat alone, feeling stupid until Seamus O'Connor began to sing and the rain outside quit splattering the windows, then Gallen knew it was time to be off. He helped Seamus to his feet, Seamus snagged the whiskey bottle with his left hand, and they headed out the door.
Amazingly, the storm clouds were scudding by fast instead of lingering like they usually did. Gallen could see pretty well by the slivered moons that shone down like twin sets of eyes, gazing from heaven. Seamus's old mare was across the street, tied in the livery stable with plenty of sweet grass piled before it. Gallen saddled the horse and helped Seamus climb atop, then led the horse out of the stables north toward An Cochan. The mare's hooves clattered over the paving stones. At the back of the inn, in the dim starlight Gallen saw two bears feeding in the rubbish bin and stopped the horse, asking, "Orick, is that you?"
One of the bears grunted in a deep voice, "Hello, Gallen."
"What are you mucking in the slop for?" Gallen asked, surprised that he hadn't seen Orick leave through the back door of the common room. "I've plenty of money. I can have Maggie fix you up a platter." Gallen felt nervous to make the offer. Bears eat so much that they're notorious for always being broke.
"Don't bother," Orick said. "Maggie saved a nice plate of leftovers for me. When I finish here, I'm going up the hill to hunt for a few slugs. It will be a grand feast, I assure you."
"Well, to each his own," Gallen said, appalled as ever at his friend's eating habits. "I'll be back at dawn."
"Do you want me to come along?" Orick asked.
"No, go get some dinner in you."
"God be with you then, for I shall not," the bear said. Seamus hunched over in his saddle and began singing. Gallen shivered at the sound of Orick's cryptic farewell, but pulled the mare's reins, urging her forward.
That night in Mahoney's Inn, the Lady Everynne paced at the foot of herrough bed. The smell of its thick down tick and the soft texture of its heavy red quilts called to her, but even though she was weary, she could not rest. A single dim candle lit the room. She had taken two rooms for appearance's sake. Her guardian, Veriasse, sat at the foot of the bed, head bent in a forlorn attitude.
"Get some sleep, my daughter," Veriasse said. He had slept little in two days, yet she knew he would stay awake at the foot of her bed and keep wide-eyed until they reached safety. His brown hood was pulled back, revealing his weathered face.
"I can't, Father," she said honestly. "Who could sleep? Can you still taste their scent?"
The aging man stood up, shook his head so that his long silver-gold hair spilled down over his shoulders, and went to a basin in the corner of the room. There he poured a pitcher of cool drinking water over his wrists and hands, then toweled them dry. He opened a small window, raised his hands and held them out, long thin fingers curled like claws, and stood for a time with his piercing blue eyes closed as if in meditation. Though the old man could catch a scent with his hands, Everynne could see no sign that he was testing the air. "Yes," he said at last. "I can still taste the scent of a vanquisher. He is distant, perhaps no closer than twenty kilometers away, but I am sure he's here. We can only hope that when we destroyed the bridge, the vanquisher got trapped on the other side."
"Perhaps vanquishers have another reason for coming to this world?" Everynne asked in a tone that was part argument, part plea. "Just because you taste the scent of a vanquisher, it does not mean he has come for us."
"Don't fool yourself," Veriasse said at last. "Tlitkani has sent her warriors to kill us. With only one gate to watch, this world is the perfect spot for an ambush." He said it as one who knows. Tlitkani had enslaved Veriasse for four years, had forced him to become her advisor. Veriasse was gifted at reading personalities, at studying motives and moods. He could anticipate an adversary's actions so well that many thought him a psychic. No one understood Tlitkani better than Veriasse did.
"The young man downstairs said that the gate is only five miles distant. Could the vanquishers have already found it?"
"It's hard to say-" Veriasse answered. "I feel certain that vanquishers are following, but they could be ahead of us, too. On such a windy night, I cannot even be sure that the vanquisher I smell is twenty kilometers off. It might be ten, or only two."
"Perhaps the vanquishers are searching for the gate, even as we are," Everynne offered.
"Or perhaps Tlitkani wants us to believe that her servants are only searching for the gate—hoping that we will foolishly rush into another trap. I think it best to wait here for the night." Veriasse yawned and rolled his shoulders to keep the muscles loose, clearly uncomfortable. "We should proceed to the gate cautiously. We may have to fight our way through."
Without Calt, Everynne thought, that will not be easy. She felt a pang of grief, hoped that Calt had died painlessly.
Veriasse sa
id nothing for a moment, then asked, "And what of our guide, this Gallen O'Day? Shall we convert him to our cause? He reacts quickly, and he is marvelously strong."
"I won't do it!" Everynne said, perhaps too forcefully. She knew all of the arguments. She needed protectors, she needed an army of men like Gallen O'Day, but what could he know of her world, the weapons that her people used? You could hardly expect a man to battle vanquishers with nothing more than knives, and Veriasse had no weapons to spare. Even if she did choose to persuade the young man to come along, it would be the same as murdering him.
Veriasse sat down cross-legged on the floor, but gazed up at Everynne past heavy lashes. He looked at her knowingly. It was as if he read her mind as she considered the arguments, almost as if he were placing the thoughts in her head. "Then you are decided?" Veriasse said. He smiled secretively.
"What?" Everynne said. "What do you know?"
"I know nothing," Veriasse said. "I can only guess at probable outcomes based on what I know of my associates."
"What do you guess?"
Veriasse hesitated. "I've seen men like Gallen before. He will want to follow you. Regardless of your good intentions, you must allow him to follow you, to fight at your side-if necessary, to die at your feet. So many people depend on you! I would advise you to use this man as your tool. He is only one, but his sacrifice might save many others."
Yet Everynne could not bear the thought of watching another guardian die. Especially not one so ignorant as Gallen O'Day, one so innocent.
"Let's get some rest," she said. Everynne crossed the room, blew out the candle. She closed the window and stood for a moment looking out into the dark streets of Clere. There was a little starlight shining on the town. From this height, she could see over several house-trees and buildings, down to the quay. Small fishing boats lay on the rocky shore, dark, like beached pilot whales. Poles in the sand held twisted coils of fishermen's nets, hung out to dry. Everynne could almost smell the kelp and the sea rime upon them. She had passed those nets only an hour before, as she made her way into town, and the memory of that smell came strong to her.
High on the beach, the seagulls had huddled under folded wings, eyeing her darkly, ominously. Almost, it felt as if they were watching now, though this window.
Everynne shivered, moved away from the window quickly and lay on the bed. Veriasse’s heavy, uneven breathing came to her, and she listened to it as she drifted off. Veriasse—with his unwavering devotion, his strong back—seemed somehow more than human. Certainly, by the standards of this world, he would not be judged human at all. Her teacher, her friend. He had guarded Everynne’s mother for six thousand years. And during the course of Everynne’s short life, he had been a solid presence, always at her side. Sometimes she tried to distance herself from him, think of him only as a warrior, the only one of her guardians to survive this journey. But she could tell that he was weary to the bone, worn through. She could not ask that he continue fighting alone.
The old man sat in the dark at the foot of her bed, wrapped in dark robes—ever faithful, ever determined in the face of overwhelming foes.
With a pang that tore at her heart, Everynne realized what she must do. She needed another guardian, someone to fight beside Veriasse. She knew that men like Gallen O’Day could not resist her. Something in them responded to something in her. It was biological, inevitable. When she had first walked into the inn. She could tell from Gallen’s eyes that he believed he had fallen in love. Given an hour in her presence, he would be sure of that love, and within a few days he would become ensnared. Another slave.
Yet there was nothing Everynne could do to dissuade the unyielding devotion of men like Gallen and Veriasse. So Veriasse sat at her feet, waiting to die. Everynne hated her lot in life. But it was her fate. For she had been born a queen among the Tharrin.
Chapter 2
Gallen and Seamus had no warning before the attack. The road from Clere to An Cochan was usually well empty by that time of night. Both moons were down. The heavy rains had dampened the dirt road, leaving a thin glaze of water so that the stars reflected off the mud, making the road a trail of silver between columns of dark pine and oak.
They were near the edge of Coille Sidhe, so Gallen moved cautiously. Once, he caught sight of a flickering blue light deep in the wood. Wights, he realized, and he hurried his pace, eager to be away from the guardians of the place. The wights never attacked travelers who kept to the road, but those who wandered into the forest couldn't count on such luck.
Just over the mountain, the land flattened out into drumlins, small hills where the shepherds of An Cochan kept their flocks. Gallen was eager to reach the relative safety of human settlements.
One moment Gallen was walking the muddy silver road, leading Seamus's old nag through a ravine while Seamus hunched in the saddle, singing random songs as a man will when he's had too much whiskey, when suddenly half a dozen voices shouted in unison, "Stand! Stand! Hold!"
A man leapt up from the margin of the road in front of them and waved a woman's white slip in their faces. The horse whinnied and reared in fear, pulling the reins from Gallen's hand, dumping Seamus off backward. Seamus landed with a thud, shouting, "Ruffians, blackguards!"
The nag leapt off up the side of the ravine, her hooves churning up dirt as she galloped through the hazel.
Gallen was wearing his deep-hooded woolen greatcoat to keep out the night chill, but the coat had slits at his waist that let him get to his knife belt quickly. He palmed two daggers, not wanting to show his weapons until the robbers got in close, then spun to get a better view. The robbers surrounded him, swirling up out of the brush. He counted nine: three up the road toward An Cochan, four coming behind on the road from Clere, and one more on each side of the ravine.
Seamus sputtered and tried to find his way up off the ground. The old man was nearly blind drunk, and he yelled in a deep brogue, "Off with you thieves! Off with you varmints," and the robbers all swirled toward him shouting, "Stand and deliver!"
In the starlight, Gallen could hardly make out the soot-blackened faces of the robbers; one of them had curly red hair. They were big men mostly, down-on-the-luck farmers sporting beards and armed with knives, the kind of aimless rogues you often saw sloughing around alehouses in the past two years. Drought one year and rot the next had thrown many a farmer out of work. Gallen made out the gleam of a longsword. Another young boy held a shield and a grim-looking war club.
Old Seamus began cursing and fumbled at his belt in an effort to pull his knife, but Gallen grabbed Seamus's shoulder, restraining him. "Don't be a fool!" Gallen warned. "There's too many of them. Give them your money!"
"I'll not be giving them my money!" Seamus shouted, pulling his dagger, and Gallen's heart sunk. Seamus was the father of seven. He could either let the ruffians have his purse and watch his family suffer, or he could fight and probably die. He was choosing to die. "Now back me, will you! Back me!"
Dutifully, Gallen stood back to back with Seamus as the robbers closed in. That is what Seamus had paid him for. Three shillings, Gallen realized. I'm going to get killed this night for three shillings.
The tall man brandished his sword. "I'll be thanking you to drop your purses, lads." From his accent and curly red hair, Gallen estimated that he was a Flaherty, from County Obhiann.
"I beg you sirs," Gallen said, "not to go making free with our money. I've got none to spare, and my friend here has a wife and seven innocent children."
One robber laughed. "We know! And Seamus O'Connor just made forty pounds while hawking his wool at the fair. Now out with the loot!" he shouted angrily, waving his knife. "An' if you give it to us casual, we won't hurt you so bad." Gallen watched the men close. One of their number must have seen Seamus's money at the fair and waited until the old man got on this desolate stretch of road before setting the ambush.
The robbers had them circled now, but held off a pace. Gallen thought of running. It was only a mile over the hill to An
Cochan. A bead of sweat rolled down Gallen's cheek, and his heart was hammering. He glanced around at the circling men in their dark tunics. Seamus was growling like a cornered badger at Gallen's back, and Gallen could feel the old man's muscles, hard as cords, straining beneath his coat. Gallen wanted to stall, hoping that even with his mind all clouded by whiskey, Seamus might see that it made no sense to leave his family orphaned. An owl soared over the ravine.
Seamus began swearing and shouting, "Why do you have your faces blacked, you ugly bastards? I'm not a child to be frightened by a sooty face! Off with you! Off with you!"
Gallen half-closed his eyes and wondered, If I were the greatest knife fighter in the world, what would I do?
In an instant, it was as if a familiar mantle began to fall over him. Gallen's muscles tightened into coils and the world moved into sharper focus. Gallen felt the blood pounding hot in his veins, and his nostrils flared wide, tasting the night air. He sized up the ruffians before him, and though it was dark, subtle shades of light began to reveal details about each man. They were breathing hard, the way men will when they're afraid.
Nine men. Gallen had never fought nine men, but at that moment it didn't matter. He was, after all, the greatest knife fighter in the world.
Gallen tossed his head back so that his hood fell away, letting his golden hair gleam in the starlight. He chuckled softly and said, "I must offer you men fair warning. If you don't back away and give us the road, I'll have to kill you."
One robber gasped, "It's Gallen O'Day! Watch him boys!" The men swarmed around Gallen and Seamus faster, moving warily, but none dared venture in too close. The tallest robber shouted, "Take him, boys!"
Gallen didn't worry about the robbers at his back. Seamus had his knife out, and even though he was drunk, no sane man would try to tangle with him. Instead, Gallen sized up the five men to his front and sides. Two of them hung back half a pace—cowards who didn't want to look it. Another man stood close in, but he was tossing his knife back and forth between his left and right hand, hoping that the sight of it would strike fear into Gallen. Another robber was stocky, with an unsightly bulge under his cloak, and Gallen realized it was a breastplate; this robber breathed heavily and bent low to the ground on legs that were tense, ready to spring. The last of the five closest was their leader—a tall man with a longsword who likely would avoid joining the fray with such a weapon for fear of lopping the head off one of his own men.
The Golden Queen - Book 1 of the Golden Queen Series Page 3
