by Lee Savino
“Commander, if you cannot stomach questioning the prisoner, I will take your place,” Gaul said, stalking closer. “The king won’t want you going easy on a spy.”
Tristan squared off to face him, shaking his head. For a moment I thought they would come to blows.
“Commander,” Lars called, breaking the silence. “She should be tested.”
Was it my imagination, or did the commander’s shoulders sink a little?
“All maids must be tested to see if they are suitable. The king commands it.” Murmurs of agreement greeted Lars.
“Very well. Fetch the stone,” Tristan ordered. Ivar and Lars saluted and marched back to the tent. Disappointment slithered across Gaul’s face. No doubt he wished me bared and whipped before all.
“Return to your post,” Tristan ordered him, menace in his voice. Relief poured through me when the troublemaker mock saluted and backed away. I tensed again as Tristan come close.
“You should have spoken. I could’ve saved you.” The commander muttered, eyes bleak. That frightened me more than anything else he’d said.
The two warriors who’d found me returned. Lars carried a box. He opened it and a flash of light escaped. I squinted, unable to look away as Ivar took an object from the box and brought it forward. Tristan motioned for him to come closer.
“Please…” I struggled instinctively as Ivar held up a glowing stone. It was milky white, with something swirling in its depths. When he held it up to my face, a flash burst from it, blinding me. A few warriors cried out.
I shook my head, blinking in the aftermath as Ivar put the stone away. “It reacts to her presence.”
The commander’s face pinched tight, a shadow passing over his features.
“This one must be brought to the king.”
10
Magnus
Buzzing bees filled the air above my head. I swatted at them without opening my eyes and spat to rid my mouth of a disgusting taste. Then retched—it was not a taste, it was a smell, and it was all around. A scent like sludge, covering my skin, seeping into my pores.
I had to get away.
My head throbbed. The sun was a brutal master, high in the sky, beating my face. I raised my hand to shield my eyes and groaned. My body ached.
Where was I? Where were my brothers?
I got to my feet and the buzzing grew louder, more frenzied.
Not bees. Flies.
I stood alone in a field of blood. Half covering my eyes, I took a step and nearly slipped on the red-slicked grass. Then the light lessened, and I was able to see the bodies, fanned out from where I stood.
At first, I thought they might be my brothers, but the faces were too young, the skin smooth with youth, still in death.
This was not a battlefield, but a village green, surrounded by destroyed buildings. Smoke rose from the charred remains. I squinted against the sun, but there were no warriors here, and no one living. No one other than me.
I moved, and something clinked against my foot. My best broadsword. The Ghost-maker, used when I rode to battle in service of the king.
Why was the metal wet with blood? Who had I fought? Who had I slain?
I turned, swaying on the soaked ground.
This was not the scene of battle, but slaughter. There was no enemy here. Only boys too young to fight. Boys turned to bodies. Had I killed them all? I could not remember.
The flies swarmed, the buzzing threatening to drive me mad. If I was not already mad. I had fought until I was unconscious and fallen without cleaning my sword. I was a great warrior. I had tasted the battle lust before.
But I had always faced warriors. Never innocents like the ones fanned out at my feet.
What had happened before this morn? Where was my honor? What had I done?
I sank to my knees under the weight of the fallen.
11
Yseult
The commander himself escorted me inside, marching me forward with a strong hand on my arm.
The closer we got to the gates, the more my head throbbed. The pain enveloped me until I struggled to draw breath. Whatever defenses the Corpse King had on his fortress, they were strong enough to crush out any magical threat.
Perhaps it was a boon the journey had stripped me of magic. I’d come to seek a way to stop the mage, and now was being dragged into the heart of his fortress.
At great wooden gates, I was walking more on Tristan’s strength than my own. His face was grim as he pulled me past the clusters of warriors. I felt his anger, but his hand on my arm, while strong and inescapable, was gentle.
“Commander,” a few greeted him, and he barely grunted an acknowledgment.
“Here,” he ripped down a fluttering pennant, tearing it into a cloth and thrusting it towards me. “Keep your head covered,”
I did as he bid and wrapped the cloth over my head and under my chin. I kept my gaze to the ground, but felt every stare of the warriors as we passed.
And then, just as we were to step into the yard, a snarling monster lunged out of the shadows towards me. Sharp teeth flashed in the sunlight, the beast—a man shaped giant, covered in fur. Growling, it swiped at me with hands tipped with vicious claws.
I froze. The air filled with a loud, buzzing sound. I caught a glimpse of the swarm—a million raging flies rising from a field of the dead.
A strong arm yanked me back out of the vision, and away from the raving monster.
Warriors were shouting.
“Take him,” Tristan shouted, holding me against him. The guards rushed to obey, swarming the great fighter, who roared in challenge and sent his attackers flying.
“Hold him.” Lars and Ivar rushed in, dodging and feinting around the monster until they grabbed its arms. More men rushed in, piercing the giant with their spears. Blades nicked the furred flesh and blood flowed. The mouth was still open, roaring, but the eyes fixed on me.
I cried out as the wild warrior’s aura touched mine. Angry magic consumed him from the inside.
Whatever this monster was, it had once been a man.
Lars and Ivar struggled to hold him back he howled and reached for me.
“Send him to the dungeons,” Tristan shouted.
Lars and Ivar echoed the order, dragging the beast back into the shadows.
I sagged back, stumbling against Tristan. I found myself in the commander’s arms, in a daze.
He pulled me into a low building attached to the fortress wall. The guardroom was full of warriors staring at me.
“Out,” Tristan ordered them. Rapping their breastplates in salute, they left.
I’d lost my veil.
“Drink this,” I accepted the cup of cold water gratefully. The throbbing in my head had receded, driven out, perhaps by the sudden vision of the warrior-turned-monster. That man had been trapped in a battle vision, unable to break through.
I shuddered, and focused on drinking, centering myself so the room didn’t swirl away.
When I looked up Tristan was watching me closely.
“Who was that man?” I asked once I had my voice. “What happened to him?”
Tristan shook his head. “My apologies. My man was not himself. I will keep you safe within these walls.”
“You tied me up to question me, and now you apologize for one of your men attacking me?”
“You are now a guest of the king.”
I narrowed my eyes but didn’t argue. My head was slowly clearing. Something about the encounter with the man changed his mind about me.
“I am happy to accept the king’s hospitality,” I said, a bit formally. If they followed guesting custom, I was safer inside the walls than hiding as a spy outside of it. “And I will lend aid to any of his house. I can help him.”
“No one can help him. Least of all you.” He paced, his cloak fluttering. “You must help yourself. Start by telling me who you are and where you hail from.”
“Sir, I am but a maid—”
“No. Not if you illuminated the stone.”
&
nbsp; “What was it?” I blurted before I could stop myself. “The stone.”
“You are not from around these parts,” Tristan shook his head. “If you were you would know. All women must be presented to the king. If you are pleasing, he may choose to keep you as one of his wives.”
I sucked in a breath.
“Yes,” he said. “Now you know why I was loathe to test you. If you had spoken sooner, you might have been saved.”
I gnawed my lip as Tristan loomed over me.
“You should have shoes,” he murmured.
I tucked my bare feet under my now ragged hem. He stepped out a moment, calling to a warrior. When he returned, he sat and fixed me with a stare.
“I know I have seen you before.”
“I am sorry, my lord,” I rasped. “I have never been here before. You must believe me,” I added when he rose.
“I do. For some reason I do.” He gave me more water. A knock on the door called him away.
“Here,” he said, holding up a pair of boots. “Still too large, but the smallest my man could find.”
“I—” I was speechless in the face of his care. “Thank you.”
To my surprise, he knelt and wiped my feet before helping put the boots on. This small kindness emboldened me.
“Tell me of the warrior we saw,” I said. “What happened to make him mad? Did he just return from battle?”
“We have not had a reason to go to battle for over a hundred years,” Tristan said. He sounded tired. “Why do you ask after my warrior? Why do you care?”
“I’ve seen men like him before. Battle mad. Where I come from, such warriors are called berserkers. There is a spell to make them. These men have the strength of ten, or twenty. But their warrior’s prowess comes with a cost.
“The madness comes on when a warrior fights. But sometimes it lingers.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what happened to the warrior today?”
“He has been fighting the madness for a long time.”
“The hardest fight is within. I might be able to help him.”
“How?”
“I have a little skill in healing.”
“Healing the mind?”
“Where I come from, the berserker warriors find comfort in the touch of a woman.”
Tristan raised a brow. “You would touch him?”
I fisted my hands tighter in my gown. “If it would help him, I’d be willing to try.”
Rising, the commander shook his head. Again, he paced with his cloak flaring out behind him. “Anything you do will only prolong his suffering.”
“Do you mean for him to die?”
Tristan didn’t answer.
I stood. “Let me try.” I put more force in my voice than I felt.
Tristan shook his head.
“Commander,” Lars and Ivar entered. They were a funny pair, one dark, one light, but I felt they stayed together more than not. “The prisoner is secure.”
Ivar’s gaze flickered to my feet and back up to my face, but then he saluted his commander.
Lars stood staring at me. I felt a brief flash of pain in my head, but it was gone quickly. With a smirk, he looked away to ask his commander. “Still questioning this one?”
Tristan regarded me before answering. “She said she can help the prisoner.”
Both Ivar and Lars snapped their gaze to my face and spoke as one. “How?”
“I have some knowledge of the healing arts,” I said when Tristan indicated I should answer myself.
Lars scoffed, but Ivar looked thoughtful.
“The disease attacks the mind.” The warrior stroked his dark beard. “Is such healing possible?”
I wanted to say that it was not a disease, but the aftereffects of the mage’s evil magic, but I dare not speak of that. They’d wonder what a simple long maiden knew of mages or magic.
“Even if you could help the prisoner—”
I interrupted, turning to Tristan. “Is it customary to call your man a prisoner, and not use his name?”
“He is no longer himself,” Tristan said.
“He will not return to himself if you treat him as a stranger.”
“What do you know of the warrior madness? We have lived with it for many years.” Lars declared hotly. “It is better to cut the limb off. Stop the spread of decay.”
“He is not a decayed limb. He is our brother,” Ivar murmured.
No hope, I heard unspoken. Years fighting the madness and no hope.
The warriors all faced each other. Lars had his hand on his weapon.
I sat quietly with my lips pressed together. My heart ached for these men, closer than brothers. The magic that gave them power was like grit in their armor, worrying and worrying until it found a way to drive them mad.
“Very well, lady” Tristan came to a decision. “I will take you to the dungeon. But if you harm him.”
“I am an unarmed maiden.” I spread my hands. “I may not be able to help him. I only promise to try.”
12
Lars
As the commander marched the woman away, Ivar turned to me, frustration written on his face. “Why did you mention the moonstone?”
I shrugged in the face of his anger. “I wanted to save her.” In truth, I did not know why I spoke. “She will be presented to the king.”
“She will survive,” I retorted. Ivar cursed, but I didn’t back down. For some reason, I wanted the woman to remain close, and safe.
“He may take her to wed,” Ivar reminded me, and then I realized my mistake. Desire curled in my breast, next to pain. I wanted this woman near, bathing me in her scent. I did not want her given to the king.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” I said.
“Nor I. My mother told me of a woman meant to be my mate.”
“Your mother?” I raised a brow. Ivar’s mother had died at birth.
“In a dream,” Ivar explained. “She told me a women would come with hair like lightning, and she would heal our madness and become our mate.”
“Hair like lightning,” I mused, thinking of our captive’s white blond hair.
“She will be touched by the Goddess. My mother was such a woman. And yours too. They have powers.”
“Is this magic then? It feels real.”
“It is real. I believe this woman is the one who was foretold.”
“But when she meets the king…”
Ivar nodded slowly. “He covets the magic of these women. He will use his powers to ensnare her. And we are sworn to serve him.” He muttered the last under his breath.
“It’s no use, brother,” I told Ivar, the ache in me matching the look on his face. “She is not meant for us.”
13
Yseult
I kept my head high as Tristan led me through the castle. The stone hall was clean and empty of people, except for a few guards in each archway who saluted Tristan as we passed.
My bravery lasted until the commander paused in front of a great iron bound door. He took out a key and unlocked it, pushing it open with a grating creak. The stench hit me—the smell of death and dark magic.
When I hesitated on the dank step, he paused with me.
“You do not have to do this.”
“No,” I hardened myself. “I want to.”
I regretted my words as we descended. The air grew thick and cold, shadows flickering like monsters on the dripping walls.
Tristan kept a hand on my arm. He pressed close, and I felt he would scoop me up in his arms if he could.
The further down the harder it was to breathe.
Two shadows loomed and approached. I gasped and shrank against Tristan, who held me. “The guards,” he soothed as the shapes broke free from the deep gloom and became warriors.
“Commander,” one murmured. Tristan bent his head to speak to them, but I barely heard over the madness like bees buzzing in my ears.
“This way,” Tristan gestured, and I went as if pulled, coming to stand
before the giant beast that was the prisoner. He was tall, taller than even the commander, tall as a bear. Though he was in the shape of a man—mostly—he smelled like an animal. His bare chest showed great muscles, tapering to a taut waist and the shape of well-muscled legs under his clothes. His arms bore fur and his hands were monstrous shapes, an animal paw lengthened to some semblance of fingers, tipped with wicked black claws.
Goddess help me. At least his face was a man’s. As I moved closer, his chest rose and fell as if he’d run a great distance.
“Lady,” Tristan cautioned me, and I stopped before the warrior, gazing on him. Malice ran over his face, then pain, then wary curiosity. The shackles they’d bound him with were too small to hold him. Perhaps they had been the right size when they first chained him up, but now they dug into his flesh. Energy pulsed through him—the violent aura washing over me, making me want to gasp. The beast within struggled to break free.
For a moment I turned my face away, trying to draw breath. When I looked back, the prisoner searched my face as I searched his, human intelligence dawning in his brown eyes.
Hope surged. I stepped closer. “What is your name?”
Tristan started to answer, and I raised a hand to silence him, never taking my eyes off the broken warrior.
The prisoner’s lips parted. “I have none,” he rasped. His arm twitched in the brutal shackle.
“Water,” I motioned to the guards.
“Lady,” they hesitated.
“Do as she bids,” Tristan ordered.
I waited until they returned, and took the small cup, steeling myself to stand closer to the mad prisoner. He jerked his chains as I came close. I held my breath against the stench. His beard dirty. His body marked with grime, but the smell came from the poison leaching from his spirit.
I held the cup to his lips, praying he would drink. His throat moved, his eyes burning into mine. His face was ravaged, haunted, but the eyes were black pits with the fire of his spirit. I would dream of those eyes, I was sure of it.
