Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  Darak shook his head. He had not come here to relive the past, but to seek help for his son.

  In a halting voice, he told Tinnean and Cuillon about Keirith’s abduction. It led naturally to the tale of their awful confrontation and spiraled back over the years, one tale intertwining with the next. By the time he finished speaking, his voice was hoarse and the light had died. The trees were indistinguishable in the gloom, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flicker of movement as the Watchers darted in and out among them. “The rootless ones,” Cuillon had called them, the spirits of trees long dead who guarded those still living. Once, he had feared them; now he only wished Keirith had such guardians to watch over him.

  He sat down, his back against the Tree. “Can you see beyond the First Forest, Tinnean? Can you see our boy?”

  As always, his brother remained silent.

  When they had embarked upon the quest to find Tinnean and the Oak, Cuillon had guided them. All he had to guide him now was the information he’d gotten from the captured boy and Urkiat’s knowledge of the raiders.

  Five days and nights for their giant boats. Four times that—maybe more—by coracle. Due south under the third star in the curving tusk of the Boar. Due south to the place called Pilozhat, Beloved of the Gods. Pilozhat, the holy city of the people who called themselves Zherosi, the Children of Zhe. A city of stone nestled beneath a great mountain, where the lucky ones were sold as slaves and the unlucky ones—those with red hair like Keirith and Owan—were sacrificed to their sun god at Midsummer.

  Darak forced his hands to relax. If he could rescue his brother from Chaos, he could rescue his son from Pilozhat.

  At least, he would not be alone; Urkiat had guessed his intention and eagerly volunteered to go with him. He’d accepted immediately. He needed Urkiat’s gift of language and his knowledge of the Zherosi. If he had to curb Urkiat’s desire for vengeance, that was a small price to pay.

  And a small pack for such a journey; Wolf would be displeased.

  He closed his eyes, conjuring the image of his vision mate. Together, they had hunted the Oak and Tinnean in that dream-journey through Chaos. He had never reached for her since then. Once he turned his back on hunting, he no longer believed himself worthy of her. But he’d thought of her often in the intervening years, and sometimes he woke from dreams with her howl echoing in his spirit.

  “Wolf,” he whispered, the name evoking the same longing and melancholy that had touched him when he entered the forest. Twice more he whispered her name and felt peace stealing over him.

  Darak opened his eyes. Gheala peeped between the branches of the trees, spilling shafts of moonlight into the grove. A Watcher darted past the rowan. Bolder than the others, it abandoned the safety of the trees and approached him. For a heartbeat, he was transported back to that moment when he confronted Morgath. Then he heard the familiar yip, and his heart lurched again.

  He was still scrambling to his feet when she launched herself at him. He fell backward, his joyous shout cut off in a gasp as his injured arm struck the ground. She butted her head against his, her rough tongue bathing his cheek. When he buried his, fingers in the thick fur at her neck and scratched behind the tattered left ear, her whole body wriggled with pleasure.

  He tried to sit up, and she butted him again. The breath whooshed out of him as the huge forepaws landed on his chest.

  “Mind my arm,” he managed to wheeze.

  She jumped off, only to swerve and lunge forward as if to attack. He fended her off with a laugh and she dodged away again, yipping excitedly as she raced around the grove. Finally, she trotted toward him and sat down, tongue lolling.

  Wincing a little, he pushed himself onto his knees so they could be face-to-face. Her golden eyes stared into his. He couldn’t resist touching her, savoring the soft-rough feel of her fur. He was startled to discover white hairs among the black on her muzzle. Because she was not a creature of his world, he had always assumed she was ageless.

  “Wolf.”

  “Little Brother.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “And I, you. It has been too long since we hunted together.”

  He hung his head. “I’ve thought of you. Dreamed of you.”

  “I know. But until this moonrise, you did not call.”

  “I thought . . . I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I will always come, Little Brother. We are pack.”

  “But I . . . I don’t hunt.”

  She cocked her head. “You are a hunter.”

  “No longer.”

  “Always. That is your nature. As it is mine.” The golden eyes regarded him for a long moment. “That is why you called me. So we could hunt again.”

  He sat back on his haunches, conscious of his thudding heartbeat. “The place I seek . . . it’s not in this forest or the one we traveled in Chaos. It is in my world.”

  “I have crossed the stream between our worlds. I came to you when you were little more than a pup.”

  “Aye, but . . . not like you are now. Not . . . real.”

  “In your world, I am a creature without fur or fangs. But I will always be real. To you.”

  “You’d really come with me?”

  “We are pack.” Her tongue flicked out to lick his face.

  “My son. My . . . pup. He is the one we seek.”

  “He has wandered from the pack?”

  “Stolen. Taken. By a strange pack.”

  “We will find the pup. And kill the others.” Her lips drew back, baring the yellowed fangs. Then she butted him gently in the chest and darted away, black fur blending instantly with the darkness.

  “Thank you.” He wasn’t sure if he was thanking Wolf or the gods or Tinnean and Cuillon. Perhaps all of them. He had come here seeking Tinnean’s love and Cuillon’s wisdom and the Oak’s strength. Wolf embodied all those qualities. Twice before he had lost her, once through simple ignorance, and later, through his own stubborn pride. Never again. She was with him always—just as Tinnean and Cuillon were.

  He rested his hand on the gnarled root and closed his eyes. “Keep him safe, Tinnean. If you have that power. Keep our boy safe until I can find him.”

  It was nearing moonset before Griane dared to leave the hut. She hesitated outside the doorway, her eyes on Gortin and Bethia who kept vigil beside the bodies. Abandoning her original plan, she walked openly through the village. They would see her healing bag clutched in her arms. They would watch her walk toward the longhut. They would believe she was going to check on the wounded. And she did, but only long enough to assure herself that none needed immediate attention. Then, safely cloaked by darkness, she made her way across the stream and up the hill.

  She made out only one form—Jurl’s by the size of it. She heard Rothisar’s snores before she spied him, sprawled on the side of the hill. Even in the darkness, she could feel Jurl’s eyes. He rose into a crouch as she approached, then settled back when he recognized her.

  “What do you want?”

  She squatted beside him and pulled the waterskin out of her bag. “I brought you something to help you stay awake.”

  Steam rose as he opened the waterskin and sniffed at the brew. “What’s in it?”

  “Herbs. Bitter blossom. Oats.”

  He handed it back. “You’d have done better to bring brogac.”

  She pulled a clay flask from the bag and held it out. With a soft chuckle, Jurl unstoppered it and drank deeply.

  “Save some for Rothisar.”

  “He’s had enough. He finished most of the one we brought. Greedy little bastard.”

  She watched him take another long swig before venturing, “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “What?”

  “The two of you, up here alone all night. I could send one of the other men—”

  “Don’t want anyone else. It’s our right. And our brogac.”

  Tentatively, she touched his sleeve. “I’m sorry. About Onnig. And Erca.”

 
“Onnig fought well. But my mam . . .” He drank, slopping brogac down his chin. “Bastard’ll pay.”

  “The boy didn’t kill her.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I . . . I saw the raider who did.”

  His hand darted out and seized her wrist. When she gasped, his fingers relaxed just a little. “Tell me.”

  His voice was thick, perhaps with emotion, more likely, the brogac. By the time she finished, his hand had fallen to his knee. “Faelia, eh? She’s tough. Like you.”

  “I’m not so tough.”

  “Five people went into the First Forest. You and Darak came back.”

  “I was lucky.”

  “Maybe.” He nudged her. “Did you lie with him?”

  “Darak?”

  “The Trickster.”

  “Nay. Nay!” she repeated in a fierce whisper.

  “Always figured you did. To get him to help you. But if that’s your story—”

  “It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

  “As you will.”

  When he took another deep drink, she said, “You’d best go easy.”

  “You think I can’t hold my drink?”

  “I think you’ll have a raging headache on the morrow.”

  “I’ll still be sober enough to cut off his ballocks.”

  “Well, don’t come to me for a tonic.”

  She rose out of her crouch and found her ankle snagged by rough fingers. “Why’d you come tonight?”

  “I told you.”

  He jerked her off balance and she sat down hard. Glaring at him, she said, “I thought you’d kill him.”

  “And spoil the fun?” He leaned close, the scent of brogac mingling with his unwashed body. “I know why you really came.”

  She turned her head away. “Then why bother asking?”

  He released her ankle, but only to run his fingers up her leg. She slapped his hand away.

  “All these years, married to a cripple. I’ve got all my fingers, Griane. And a spar that’ll make you squeal when I plough your sweet furrow.”

  “Be quiet! You’ll wake Rothisar.”

  It was the wrong answer. Moving far too quickly for a man who had consumed so much brogac, Jurl seized both ankles and yanked her flat. She fought him silently as he spread her legs and shoved between them.

  “I remember how you screeched when you first married him. The whole village could hear you. Not lately, though.”

  He shifted his weight. His fingers groped between their bodies. Hoping to catch him off balance, she shoved him hard in the chest. He rocked backward, then held her down with one hand while the other continued its persistent fumbling at the waist of his breeches.

  Her fist grazed his cheek. He chuckled as he caught her wrist. “I saw you slap him this afternoon. Guess that’s what it takes to straighten Darak’s twig.”

  With her free hand, she flailed for her healing bag, a rock, something to use as a weapon. Her fingers found the discarded flask. Gripping it by the neck, she swung it as hard as she could. It shattered against the side of his head.

  Jurl smiled. Then his eyes glazed and he slumped over.

  She managed to shove herself out from under him. Too angry to be frightened, she lay back, panting. Then she cautiously raised her head. A few trickles of blood, black in the moonlight, marred his face, but his breathing was deep and regular. Clumsy ox hadn’t even managed to unlace his breeches. She felt his pulse, then got to her feet and kicked him once in the ribs.

  She retrieved the waterskin and slung her healing bag over her shoulder. Rothisar was still snoring. As she approached the oak, she heard the boy’s quick intake of breath. She squatted next to him, wrinkling her nose at the faint stink of urine. Her fingers found his right hand. He gasped when she touched the broken fingers, grotesquely swollen now. Patting his arm, she rose.

  The knots were tight. It took a long while to work them free, using her teeth as well as her fingers; she didn’t dare cut them with her dagger. As it was, Jurl might accuse her. Still, it would be her word against his and he wouldn’t want her to add the tale of attempted rape to her story because Darak would kill him.

  Even after the rope fell to the ground, the boy just sat there, staring at her. Realizing he would never manage one-handed, she loosened the knots at his wrists. Then she backed away, sucking her chafed fingers, and motioned him to rise.

  It took him three tries before he managed it. She pointed toward the lake, made a paddling gesture, and then pointed downriver. He nodded but continued to stand there even after she shooed him away. Cocking his head, he whispered something in his language. Even without the words, it was not hard to imagine what he was asking.

  Why?

  Because I’m a healer. Because I have a son. Because I don’t want another mother to experience this grief, to imagine her waiting for your boat and scanning the faces of the men as they land, anticipation changing to uncertainty and then to panic when she finds you’re not among them. And never knowing, through all the years remaining to her, if you’re alive or dead.

  Griane folded her arms as if cradling a baby. Then she laid one hand over her heart and placed the other on the boy’s chest. His heart thudded wildly beneath her fingers. He moved suddenly and she stumbled back, safely out of reach. He shook his head and said something else in his horrible-sounding language. Then he sketched a spiral on his chest and bowed very formally. Not knowing what else to do, she bowed, too. By the time she straightened, he had vanished.

  In giving him his life, she had also given him the opportunity to kill to preserve it. She hoped she had made the right choice. She hoped that if a woman—a mother—encountered her son, she would show him the same measure of mercy and kindness. She hoped—she prayed—that Keirith was still alive.

  Keirith, my son, my firstborn, my child.

  The first time, Keirith woke to pain.

  The throbbing in his head radiated down his neck to his stiff arms and finally to his wrists. Only then did he realize they were lashed together and tied to some kind of wooden beam. He heard the rhythmic creak of paddles from above and the splash of water against the sides of the boat and then a soft moan. He lifted his head and discovered Owan lying near him. Chinks of light filtered through the planks, enough to tell him they were lying in the bowels of the boat, but too dim for him to make out the extent of Owan’s injuries. He whispered his name, but got no response. After a while, the moaning ceased.

  He dreamed of flying with the eagle. All of his kinfolk gathered by the lakeshore to watch. When he soared overhead, they shouted his name over and over to the rhythmic pounding of a drum.

  He came awake in joy and bit back a moan when he realized where he was. The light was nearly gone, but the drumming was real—the same rumble he had heard before the boats came out of the mist. Pebbles crunched against the bottom of the boat as it shuddered to a halt.

  Tense and alert, he listened to the sounds from above: the tramp of boots, the creak of wood, men calling to each other and laughing. And then silence. A square of gray light appeared and the blinding flare of a torch. A rope ladder was flung into the hole and two men climbed down. He shrank back against the beam when he recognized the Big One and Gap Tooth.

  The Big One scowled at him. Then Gap Tooth whispered something that made him smile. The Big One picked up Owan’s limp wrist, then flung it down with a sound of disgust. He gestured to Gap Tooth who heaved Owan over his shoulder. Crouching to keep from bumping their heads against the planks, they made their way back to the rope ladder, hauled Owan out of the hole, and slammed the wooden door shut behind them.

  Keirith struggled briefly, but only succeeded in pulling the rope tighter. The air was close and dank and smelled of pine resin, but he also caught the faint scent of woods-moke. The growl of distant thunder proved too rhythmic and regular; he guessed he was hearing the crash of waves against the shore.

  The boat must have reached the place where the river emptied into the great sea. Only
days earlier, his father had been here for the Gathering. Was he still alive? Had his mam escaped with Faelia and Callie? How many of his kinfolk had been killed? How many others had been stolen?

  He struck his head against the beam, allowing fresh pain to drive away thought. As the pale light faded to darkness, he succumbed to the lulling rhythm of the waves and slept once more.

  The third time, he woke to terror.

  Hands dragged him from sleep. There seemed to be dozens of them, shoving a piece of cloth into his mouth, fumbling with the rope around his wrists, digging into his armpits to lift him. He kicked and heard a grunt as his foot struck flesh. A fist punched him in the belly and he doubled over, retching dryly into the gag.

  He heard whispers. A scratch. A spark flickered and died. Another scratch, another flicker. This time, the spark caught. A light flared, steadied, swayed back and forth. He raised his head. The light swung across the three faces: a gap-toothed smile, a greasy forelock, and the dark, glittering eyes of the Big One.

  He flailed uselessly as they forced him onto his hands and knees. Wasn’t it enough that they had dragged him from his home? What more could they want?

  His forehead was shoved onto the wooden planks. Booted feet kicked his legs apart. Hands seized his thighs and spread them wider. His tunic was flung over his waist. A man spat. Another chuckled. Fingers dug into his naked buttocks.

  Keirith screamed.

  Chapter 8

  THE PROCESSION WAS already making its way to the lakeshore when he and Muina joined it. Darak took his place beside Griane who looked very pale but composed. But when he touched her arm, he could feel tremors coursing through her body. He tightened his grip, but she refused to look at him.