by Gwen Rowley
Geraint let his head sag back to the ground in relief.
His movement alerted the men. One threw his bone into the fire and rose to his feet, then walked over to squat down beside Geraint.
“Are ye awake?”
The firelight caught his face, and Geraint recognized him at once: he was Enid’s kidnapper, whom she’d said was named Hartun. When Geraint had last seen him, he’d jumped off a cliff into the roaring ocean.
“You lived,” Geraint said.
Hartun grinned.
Geraint struggled to sit up, but the ropes held him firmly in place. His right thigh burst into pain and he gritted his teeth, hanging his head to his chest until the dizziness passed. What had happened to him?
The second man, smaller, more timid, came closer. Enid had said he was called Bureig.
Hartun reached to Enid and prodded her legs. “Wake up.”
She groaned and rolled onto her back, her hands bound in front of her. Hartun loomed over her, and when her eyes opened, she gave a startled cry.
“Are you all right?” Geraint asked her.
Enid glanced toward him and nodded. “But they have used more of the troll’s magic rope, and I cannot move.”
Geraint licked his dry lips and looked at the two mercenaries. “Why did you take us?”
“Don’t ye want to know how we jumped from a cliff and lived?”
Bureig shuddered.
Hartun gave his partner an impassive glance. “He almost didn’t. I told ’im to trust me, that the rope would not let us fall.”
“You had secured magic rope beneath the cliff to climb down?” Enid asked.
“Aye,” Hartun said. “Bureig panicked and would ’ave let himself fall to his death, but I caught him and held on.”
“My congratulations,” Geraint said dryly, trying to ignore the burning pain in his thigh. “I ask you again: why did you take us? Is this another attempt to retrieve a reward?”
Hartun’s face darkened, and Bureig’s shoulders hunched.
“Can’t go back,” Bureig said plaintively.
Hartun spat on the ground. “We don’t need ’em.”
Geraint lifted his head. “You have no need of Saxon gold?”
Hartun glanced at Bureig slyly. “Told ye he’d figure out who paid them. Ye’re smart like me, prince o’ Cornwall.”
“They will not have you back,” Enid said shrewdly.
Bureig sighed. “We failed. They said we were deserters, that if they ever caught us again—”
“Shut yer mouth!” Hartun said in a hiss. He trembled with anger, and he looked off to the south. “I got friends in the north. I don’t need them that loves Saxons.” His burning gaze focused on Geraint. “But I don’t forget those who cross me. And now ye’ll pay.”
Geraint gave him a cool stare.
Hartun suddenly kicked him in the thigh, and the pain made lights dance behind Geraint’s closed eyes as he writhed.
“Feel that?”
Panting, Geraint squinted at the kidnapper, who lifted up his club and twirled it in the firelight. The metal spike was coated in blood.
“I didn’t wash it yet,” Hartun said gleefully. “Wanted ye to see what I done.”
Geraint forced a grin. “I’m impressed that you could so skillfully swing a weapon at an unconscious man.”
Hartun scowled. “I could do it again.”
“So what do you mean to do with us?” Enid interrupted.
Hartun slowly turned to look at her. “How do ye know I don’t mean to kill ye?”
“Because you would have done it already,” she said, “rather than go to the effort of dragging us across country. It must have been difficult to keep us hidden.”
“And to outwit my men,” Geraint added.
“They think ye’re dead,” Bureig said apologetically.
Hartun straightened with importance and started to pace back and forth in front of them.
“There are no bodies, so why would they assume that?” Enid asked as calmly as if they debated military strategy safe in the great hall at Castle Cornwall.
Geraint could only hope delaying the kidnappers gave Enid and him more options for escape.
“I left a lot of yer man’s blood,” Hartun said, twirling his club again.
“And some chewed bones,” Bureig offered helpfully. “I saved them special.”
“But they only saw the bones after they followed the trail of blood left as if ye’d been dragged away.” Hartun arched a brow at both of them, obviously waiting for praise.
Geraint clenched his jaw, but Enid said, “Nicely done. Since you have gone to all this trouble to only make it appear that we’re dead, might we bandage my husband’s wound so that he will not bleed to death?”
“That don’t matter,” Hartun said. “Ye’ll be dead soon anyway.” He stood over Enid. “Think ye that little pit I threw ye in was bad? Wait until ye see the big pit—and the troll whot lives in it.”
Chapter 21
AFTER hours of lying vulnerable on a horse, going higher into the hills, her ribs bruised with every pounding hoofbeat, Enid must have finally slept. When she awoke, shivering with the cold, the sun hid before dawn, but the sky was gray with the promise of daylight. Beneath her, the horse trembled with exhaustion, and she pitied the poor animal who’d been pushed past his limit.
Hartun dragged her off the horse, dropping her onto the ground. She rolled over and groaned. Glancing at Geraint as he landed on his back beside her, she saw his wince of pain. His thigh was wet with a continuing ooze of blood. How much longer could he go on?
She was counting on her strength with the troll—if she could be released from the rope. But what about Geraint? What if she couldn’t protect him? She didn’t yet know if their marriage could survive the schism between their peoples. But she wanted to try—she knew he wanted to try. Had she finally relearned to trust him, here where they might yet die?
It would be so easy to panic, to let her love and worry for him reduce her to helpless tears. But she refused to give up. Surely they’d be able to save themselves.
All around them dark woods cut into the mountain-side. Frost etched the ground. Though there should be birdsong this early in the morning, it was as if the whole world hushed in fear of the troll.
Hartun pointed behind them, and they twisted their heads to see a dark slash in the ground.
“He’s waitin’ in there,” Hartun said cheerfully.
Bureig remained behind him, peering out.
“He just sits in a hole?” Geraint asked with doubt.
Enid heard the exhaustion in his voice.
“The hole is just the beginnin’ of his caves,” Bureig said softly, as if telling a fairy tale. “They go on forever, and he has magic that makes ye get lost instead of findin’ him.”
Enid exchanged a significant glance with her husband. This was a good development. If there was a series of caves, then there had to be another way out.
“Does that mean you will untie us?” Geraint asked.
“Not until ye’re inside,” Hartun said. “I’m offerin’ the troll a hunt, ye see. And what fun would it be if he couldn’t chase ye?”
“I bet he’d prefer his magic rope,” Geraint said.
Hartun grinned. “He’ll get pieces of it back.” He looked at his partner. “Help me roll ’em in.”
Enid did not trust that they would be freed. She tried to catch her foot on a root or something—but there was nothing. Once again she was dropped into a pit, and this time the fall was several yards farther. When she hit the ground, soft dirt gave way beneath her. Her husband landed next to her with a groan and didn’t move for a moment.
“Geraint?” she cried frantically.
“It be no fun if he’s dead,” Hartun called.
Geraint groaned again and opened his eyes. “I’m not dead. So what about the hunt? You promised to free us.”
A dagger fell and bounced between them.
“Hope ye can reach it,” Bureig
said. “This will help, too.”
Several torches rained down on them.
“Bureig!” Hartun cried. “Ye wasted our light on them.”
“But I thought it was a hunt! How else would they see to get away?”
Enid barely listened to them bicker. She concentrated on squirming in the right position to grab the dagger. When she finally had it, she was able to turn it inward between her wrists and cut the rope. The blood rushed back into her hands and her flesh felt pierced with needles. But once again, the magic in the rope died. After she was unbound, she sliced through Geraint’s bonds. He stretched his hands, moved his feet, and when he tried to stand up, his right leg almost buckled beneath him. She caught him.
“Ooh, ye won’t be much of a match for a troll,” Hartun said with feigned sympathy. “Now don’t ye be gettin’ any ideas about coming back out this way. We’ll wait here a long time to make sure. And to hear any screams, o’ course.”
Enid ignored him to look about the cave. It led into a small, too-short room with walls damp and mossy. Bones lay scattered about, as if more than one animal, or human, had fallen in. On one side, where the gloom seemed to thicken, she could just make out the opening of a tunnel.
“Enchantress, do you have a plan?” Geraint asked, leaning against a wall and rubbing his leg again.
She gave a thin smile. “To avoid the troll, of course, which may be difficult if he can change our perception of the caves. Or do we find him, and bargain for our escape?”
“We have little to bargain with except some cut pieces of an unenchanted rope.”
“I have no magic to summon that would help us. If we got close to him, I could cloak myself in shadows, but that would not protect you. Perhaps you should wait here.”
“I will not allow you to go in there alone,” he said with conviction.
A handful of rocks pelted down on them from above. Hartun stood at the edge, leaning over them. “Go on with ye!”
“Someone is getting impatient.” Wearing a white grin in his dirty face, Geraint produced flint and steel from the pouch at his waist and lit a torch. He limped farther into the cave, bent over because of the low ceiling.
The closer they got to the enclosed tunnel, the more she felt uneasy. The very floor under her feet seemed to prickle her awareness.
“Magic,” she whispered.
Geraint stared at her. “You have thought of a way to use it?”
“I sense it, very far away. Bureig said the troll had enough magic to keep someone from finding him, but maybe it will help us avoid him.”
He held the torch ahead of him into the tunnel. Nothing but blackness as far as they could see.
“So you shall sense when he comes closer?” he asked.
“Aye, I believe so. I did when we dealt with the wizard.”
He smiled and handed her the dagger. “With such talents, you shall have to go first.”
“Wait.” She lifted up her jerkin at her thighs to reach her shirt.
“Much as I appreciate the view—” he began.
She rolled her eyes at him. With the dagger, she cut several long strips from the hem of her shirt. “Sit down and I shall try to stop the flow of blood.”
The wound in his thigh was a puncture several fingers wide from the spiked club. The bone did not seem to be damaged. But there was an angry red stain all around it that alarmed her. She said nothing, because certainly his eyes told him the same thing. She cinched the bandage as tightly as she dared.
He met her gaze. “Ready?”
She leaned in and kissed him. For a moment, she let the warmth of his lips soothe her.
“Now I’m ready,” she whispered.
He cupped her face with one hand, his smile tender. She thought of his life’s blood leaving him, weakening him every moment he walked. They had to escape quickly.
As the leader, Enid carried the torch in one hand and the large dagger in the other. Geraint followed behind with the unused torches. She could only see the ground for a short distance before her. All was darkness beyond the limited range of the torch. Cobwebs hung from the low ceiling and clung to her hair. She did her best to singe them with the torch wherever possible. But she couldn’t afford to take her time; after all, how long could these torches last?
Rats skittered by her occasionally, but since she sensed no magic as they approached, she ignored them. When Geraint gave a disgusted sound, she looked over her shoulder at him.
He grimaced. “It ran over my foot. I hate rats.”
Biting her lip to keep from smiling, she turned away and continued to walk, bent over. They came to a fork in the tunnel, and she hesitated only briefly before going to the left. In the right tunnel, the troll’s magic called to her, dark and small and nasty.
She had no idea how much time passed. She kept taking turns away from the troll, but he always seemed to be ahead of her. Their torch sputtered, and they got a new one lit before the first went out. Gradually, the tunnel began to slope upward, which seemed to indicate they were going higher up, deeper into the hills, which couldn’t be good.
She turned a corner, and suddenly the low ceiling was gone, and the walls of the tunnel widened out. She could hear the sound of running water, as if an underground river flowed somewhere nearby. She straightened in relief and Geraint came up beside her. She didn’t like the way he was perspiring—it was not that hot.
“Is he here?” Though he spoke softly, his voice echoed into the distance.
“Nay, he has come no closer, but we have not left him behind. I wonder how large this room is?”
“And where the other side is.”
They started walking to the left, staying near the wall. When they came to the edge of the river, they saw that it tumbled down rocks above them in a waterfall, but they couldn’t see where it entered the cave above them. They couldn’t cross it either, for it was wide and swift, with an unknown depth. They followed the river bank itself, and within an hour ended up on the far side of the cave, where the water disappeared beneath the low lip of a tunnel, leaving little room for even a boat to pass beneath. The wall took them back to where they had first entered the room. There were no other tunnels.
Geraint leaned against the wall, breathing unevenly. “Do we attempt to ford the river?”
“And mayhap die in the attempt.” She shook her head. “Though it is what he wants us to do, I sense him not that way.”
“And now we’re looking for him?”
“What choice do we have?” she asked. “Avoiding him is taking us deeper into the hills.”
“So I noticed.”
“And our torches will only last so long. I say we look for him and face him.”
“Says my fierce warrior.”
She shrugged. “I do not want to fight. After all, he knows the way out.” She looked in the direction of the waterfall, which was hidden in darkness. “He is up.”
“Up?”
“We climb the river bank where it first enters the cave.” With concern she touched his cheek and found it warm to the touch.
He pulled away from her. “Next to the waterfall?”
“It is only a small waterfall.” She hesitated and lowered her voice. “Will such a climb be too much for you?”
“I am not at my best, but until I slow you down, I will follow you, my sweet.”
Her chest tightened with worry, but all she did was smile. “You like the view from behind.”
His laugh was tired, but he pushed himself away from the wall. “Lead on.”
They returned to the head of the river, and she stared upward as the boulders disappeared into the darkness. If they accidentally fell in, they would be swept to the far side of the cave, where the ceiling met the river. They had to be very careful.
“It will be difficult to keep the torch dry,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “And what if the troll waits above for us? We will be vulnerable on these rocks, unable to help each other.”
“He is not near, not ye
t. I sense the flexing of his magic. He knows of us, and perhaps thinks he can defeat us. We will plant a little doubt.”
“And doubt could make him even more dangerous.”
“Mayhap,” she said. “But for now, our only advantage is foreknowledge. We have to press forward quickly. I will climb first, and try to lead the easiest path for your leg.”
“You worry too much, Enid.”
She bit her lip but said nothing.
“Yet it gives me comfort,” he murmured.
She watched him adjust the torches in his grip, trying to keep one arm free to aid his climb.
“Geraint, let me carry them.”
“Nay, you need to wield a weapon and a torch. I will manage.”
But as she began the climb up the rock-strewn incline, the dagger belted at her waist, she noticed how slowly he moved behind her, how much the torches—and his wound—impeded his progress. Whenever she found easy purchase, she held the torch behind her, trying to light his way until he could move nearer. Soon she could no longer see the ground behind them, and lost track of the time they climbed. Her world narrowed to the circle of misting torchlight, the roar of the falling water, the wet, slippery rocks stretching higher above her—and Geraint, struggling behind her.
She heard the crash of a torch and whirled around to see him leaning out into the darkness.
He cursed, but called out, “It is not far. I can reach it.”
“If it’s only the one, then leave it.”
“Nay, we have need of every one.”
“Shall I climb back down to you?”
“Just hold the torch toward me.”
All was darkness where he reached down beneath the rock he stood on. She saw his legs tremble, and worried that in his weakness, he would fall headfirst. She climbed back down several boulders, but then he dragged the wayward torch into view.
He gave her a satisfied smile. “I have it.”
“And the rest?”
“They spilled at my feet. Go forth, Enid, I yet follow.”
For endless minutes she continued to climb, holding the torch away from the mist caused by the falling water. The flame sputtered several times, and she prayed it would stay lit, for with such precarious footing, how would she find the flint and steel in the pouch at her waist to relight it?
