by Gwen Rowley
She looked over her shoulder, but didn’t see her husband. “Geraint?”
There was no answer. In a panic, she slid back down between two boulders, pinching her finger painfully, and banging the other elbow. Gradually, the light reached Geraint’s upturned face. He was sitting, the torches between his feet, panting for every breath.
When she reached his side, he waved her away. “Go,” he whispered. “I just need a moment’s rest. I will catch up.”
“You won’t. Geraint, you are wounded, and the injury saps your strength. Even now I fear the poison of an infection.”
“I have had much worse than this,” he said, his voice a brave scoff.
“And been treated immediately, instead of wandering through the dank caves of a troll. I will carry the torches.”
“Enid—”
“I am the one gifted with strength, my husband. Use the girdle at my waist and strap them to my back.”
It didn’t take much to convince him, which only increased Enid’s fear for him. Together, they managed to secure the extra torches against her back. When she rose easily to her feet, only then did his skepticism fade.
“I hope we don’t have to return by this route,” he said, standing up. He swayed for only a second before controlling himself.
Enid tried not to let her increasing worry show. “The troll will show us a better way.”
“How helpful of him.”
Free of the torches, with the dagger at his waist instead of hers, Geraint was able to keep up with her, though she knew the strain on him was severe. Wet moss grew between the boulders and sucked at their feet. Several times she reached back to help him over a difficult passage, and he accepted her aid without complaint. How much longer could he go on? Would she yet have to carry him—or leave him?
In her hurry to reach the top, a boulder came loose beneath her grasp, falling away behind her, each crash echoing upon the next. She screamed Geraint’s name. She had to drop the torch to keep from falling herself. The flame went out, and she clung to the path in utter blackness.
“I’m here!” he called out immediately.
It was difficult to hear him over the thundering water.
She almost sobbed her relief. “The rock did not strike you?”
“Nay, but the torch almost did. It was good of you to scream a warning.”
She tried not to let a hysterical giggle escape her. Scream a warning? She was only hoping her clumsiness had not killed him.
“I caught the torch as the light died,” he shouted. “Shall I relight it for you?”
“You caught the torch?” she said in disbelief. “Thank the gods. Do you need my flint and steel?”
“I can reach mine.”
She waited in the dark, grateful for the rest. Below her, she could see the sparks Geraint struck, but not an answering flame.
“I think this torch is spent,” he called. “Wait there and I will come up to help you find the next one. I am not far behind.”
He wasn’t, but his journey was agonizingly slow. If only she could see him. More than once she almost insisted that she would come to him, but she knew that his pride still ruled him. At last, she heard him scrabble for purchase just below her. Finding his hand in the dark, she hauled him up beside her. He knelt at her feet for several minutes, breathing heavily.
“I’m sitting in a stream of water,” she said. “We should ease our thirst.”
She heard him grunt, and realized he was attempting an exhausted laugh.
“First I need another torch to light,” he said.
When she gave him her back, he pulled a torch free. In only minutes, his spark found its home, and a warm flame burst to life. She gratefully saw his tired, pale face, and he looked beautiful to her.
He smiled. “You need not stare so hard, my wife. I am not a ghost.”
“You are pale enough for one.”
“From hunger, of course. Is that not your stomach I hear rumbling?”
“You can hear that in this loud place?” She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He was warm and strong and alive—she would keep him that way. “Drink first, my love,” she said. “I sense the troll has begun to move.”
“He knows we’re here?”
She shrugged. “Mayhap he senses that we have not been tricked by his magic. But he must be curious by now. Drink, and let us go.”
The water was brackish, but cold and refreshing. She wanted to examine his bandage, but he was impatient to press on. He must be bleeding and wanted to hide it from her. When they were in the next tunnel, she would rebind him.
He had to last that long.
She continued to climb, ignoring the protest of her strained muscles. They would continue to do her bidding on the strength of will and magic. Would she be able to carry Geraint, if it came to that?
Finally, she sensed something different, an openness above her, rather than an endless tumble of rocks. She held her torch high, continuing to climb with one hand, and at last the boulders subsided before her. She crawled onto flat ground. The river ran fast at her side, heading for its fall into the cave below.
“We’re at the top!” she called, then fell to her stomach to reach for Geraint.
When he grasped her hand, she was able to pull him the rest of the way. He collapsed onto his back at her side, his chest heaving from the exertion. She held the torch near his wound and saw the wet stain of blood.
“We’re not going anywhere until I rebind that,” she said sternly.
Without a protest, he murmured, “Aye, my captain.”
As she stripped off the sodden bandage, she tried not to think of his life’s blood ebbing away, of losing him. She had to concentrate, for she sensed that she might have to save them both.
“Is he near?” Geraint asked, when they’d begun to walk through the next tunnel.
“Not yet. But there’s a definite change in the feel of him, a gathering of strength—of magic.”
They walked on, the river moving past them almost silently now. Several times they passed small caves that led nowhere, though often heaps of bones were piled inside.
“We’ve made a wrong turn,” he said, as they stopped for a drink of water.
She scooped water to her mouth, then frowned up at him. “We have not veered from this one tunnel.”
“But we’ve been here before.”
She rose to her feet and studied him, but he did not seem feverish. “Perhaps the troll’s magic is working on you, Geraint,” she said. “Trust me—we have not walked this way before. See, the river is ever on our right, and we have not left it.”
He stared at her, obviously baffled, then slowly shook his head. “You must be right, of course. But I feel so certain.”
She looked ahead of them, to where the tunnel dwindled into blackness. “We’re nearer now—the troll may be feeling desperate. I do not think he’s in the same place anymore.”
“Then let us hurry.”
But each time they passed a cave, they felt they had to search it, which slowed them down. There might be food or weapons to aid them in their quest.
In the fifth small alcove, Enid led with her torch—and they saw a flash of bloodred eyes and heard the hiss of an animal’s scream.
Chapter 22
AT the sound of the screech, Geraint reacted instinctively—he pulled Enid back toward him and caught the torch from her hand. He thrust the flame forward again, and now that he wasn’t blinded, he could see what it was—a bat, impossibly large, the size of a dog. It hissed and fluttered its wings at them, but it didn’t want to leave what it had found.
What it was eating.
“Geraint,” she cried, gripping his arm from behind, “’tis been bewitched, changed for an evil purpose.”
“Or for good. Mayhap to defeat a troll.”
But the bat’s purpose did not matter in their defense against it. Only the flame of the torch held it back—thank God they had just lit a new one. Geraint thrust it into
the cave, and the bat screamed again. This time he noticed that the ceiling was too low for the bat to take flight. It stood over its meal, wings flapping, but with nowhere to go. When it came at them, Enid moved from Geraint’s side, the dagger in her hand.
He wanted to protect her, to defeat the monster himself, but he felt his own weakness, knew of her strength. He was fast losing all ability to help her. Soon he would insist she leave him behind. But he wasn’t finished yet. He made himself hold the torch high rather than try to stop her.
The bat hissed again, its fangs dripping with what must be blood. Enid, full of endless courage, advanced on it, and soon it had nowhere to retreat and could only attack. He wanted to shout a warning, but his wife was too well trained not to know what to do. She stepped over the legs of the victim, and the outraged bat launched itself at her. With one slash of the dagger, she cut it in two in midair. It fell in a wet heap to the earthen floor.
Geraint sagged back against the rough wall in relief, then peered down the tunnel both ways before advancing into the small alcove. Enid stood looking down at the bat.
Wearing a look of distaste, she said, “I wonder why the troll permitted such a creature to roam his caves.”
He kicked the creature’s body aside. “Mayhap it helped more than hindered him. He could have used it in his quest for food. It was feeding on something here.”
He held the torch high and saw the body of a lone man, still recognizable as such, though the bat had already eaten into one of his legs.
She grimaced. “He has not been dead long.”
“And he did find his way here, closer to the troll, without succumbing to the deceptive magic. I wonder if he had magic of his own?”
She closed her eyes, and he watched the intensity sweep her face. Had a man ever had a better partner, in battle or in bed?
“I know not what it is,” she murmured, “but there is something . . .” She studied the body again. “Bring the light closer.”
Together they looked down silently at the dead man, clothed in brigandine and tunic, a shield and sword now useless in the dirt at his side. They found no bag of supplies.
“Look at his boots,” she suddenly said.
He held the torch directly over them. They were not made of leather—but what were they made of?
“Do you see the way the light plays on the material—see the patterns and shapes?” she said, her voice rising with excitement.
“Shh,” he whispered.
She sent him an apologetic look. “Geraint, I had heard that these were lost to man. Now we know why.”
“You have heard of his boots?”
“They are the famed Wind Walkers. They make the wearer feel magically light, able to stride great distances in the blink of an eye. They could help us.”
“Maybe that’s why the bat was gnawing at his leg. Could his master have wanted the boots?”
“If we’re lucky. But now we have them to bargain with. I’ll take them off his feet.”
He bent over to help her, but the cave began to swirl about him, and he straightened quickly. He hated the weakness of his trembling legs, and the way his wound now burned constantly.
“I can do it,” she said, giving him another of her worried looks.
But removing the boots from their wearer proved more difficult, as if they didn’t want to leave their owner. Enid tugged hard, and finally she had them in her hands.
She looked at them with awe. “They feel like nothing I have ever touched before.”
He ran his hand down them, and the material was slick and yet so very smooth. “Let us try them.”
“Do you think ’tis safe within the caves?” she asked doubtfully. “Moving impossibly fast might make us run into walls.”
“That’s not what killed the last owner. And besides, if your worries were true, wouldn’t a person run into trees and hills outside? Perhaps the magic of the boots guides the wearer. I’ll put them on.”
But when he would have taken them from her, she stayed his hand.
“Geraint, nay. What if you use them and travel so far from me that I can no longer help you?”
“I will return,” he said stubbornly.
She pointedly looked at his leg. “What if you cannot? I should wear the boots, just in case. I will hold your hand, and the magic should work for us both.”
Though he wanted to continue to protest, he knew her logic was sound. Putting his arms around her, he held her to him, feeling the softness of her hair against his cheek.
“I so worry for you,” he whispered. “You have had to take on so much. And all because of me.”
She squeezed him once, then let him go. “Not just you. And I would do it all again.”
Their gazes met and held, and a feeling of peace burrowed into his soul. Together they would survive. She bent over and slid on the boots. When she straightened, he stared into her face.
“How do they feel?” he asked.
“Like they were made to be worn by me.”
She spoke with a reverence that made him uneasy. But she seemed herself when she reached for his hand, holding the torch aloft with the other.
“Hold tight, Geraint. I’ll take but one step.”
He used one hand to grip her, the other to hold her discarded boots. But when she placed one foot forward, she was wrenched powerfully away from him and he was alone in the dark.
“Enid?” He didn’t shout for fear of drawing the troll’s attention. What if she couldn’t get back? Perhaps the boots had taken her out of the hill itself. Or back to their owner.
But suddenly the light of the torch blinded him, and she was there, grinning. His relief was so great that he felt weak with it. Or maybe the weakness just never left him anymore.
“Forgive me, Geraint, but I could not hold on to you. The power that took me from you was too great.”
“Then you should remove the boots.”
“Nay, they performed just as I thought. With but one step, I was all the way at the end of the river tunnel, and not far from the troll himself. His magic is powerful in its own right.”
“But if I cannot hold your hand—”
“You’ll ride on my back. After all, my garments came with me, as did the torch. But we must hurry, for surely the troll knows we are close.”
She presented her back, and he eyed it skeptically. He still could not shake the feeling that he would harm a woman with his weight. But Enid was no ordinary woman. He took the torches from her back and tied them to his own.
“I cannot hold on to you,” she said, “because I need my hands free for defense. You’ll have to grip me hard, but it will not hurt me.”
Shaking his head, he picked up the dead man’s sword, tucked it into his own girdle, then gingerly put his arms around her neck. Though broad for a woman, her shoulders felt suddenly very fragile. “Enid, when I lift my legs, just go.”
He braced himself, and with a jump that shot pain through his leg, he gripped her hips with his thighs.
In an instant the world spun, and she was his only anchor. The light of the torch seemed to stream behind them in this sped-up reality. But only a moment later they were still, and he slid his legs to the ground. He found himself holding on to her for too long, and he forced himself to step away.
“Do you see where we are?” she asked, excitement laced through her voice. “Closer to the source of the river.” She pointed back the way they’d come. “Who knows how long the tunnel is? The river is narrower, shallower here, too, as if many streams later join it on its way to the waterfall cave.”
“Perhaps we should worry about the troll,” he said dryly, though he could not help but be amused at her childish wonder.
“Of course,” she said, smiling at him.
“Should we risk another step, or is he nearby?”
“Nearby,” said a darker, hoarse voice.
It could only be the troll, still hidden within the shadows of the cave. Geraint wanted to pull Enid back to his side, bu
t couldn’t risk her traveling away from him while she wore the boots. But she stiffened and tilted her head, as if she could sense where the troll was.
A slow, shuffling sound echoed strangely beside the soft murmuring of the river.
“Come no closer,” Geraint said, coming to stand beside his wife.
She glanced at him and whispered, “If only I’d had time to take these off.”
The troll’s voice interrupted them. “They are pretty, your boots.” He was just on the edge of the torchlight, a squat, shadowy figure with gleaming eyes.
Without removing her boots, Geraint knew that Enid could not fight properly. Even though he brandished the dead man’s sword, he was far too weak to protect them both.
“I sense my rope,” the troll said ominously.
“I was bound with it,” Enid said. “I will gladly give it back—in exchange for you showing us the way to leave your realm. But I will be honest; the magic vanished.”
“I could coerce it to return.”
“The men who stole it from you wait outside the hole in the ground that leads into your caves,” Geraint said.
The troll hissed. “I thank you for the information.”
He shuffled a little closer, and by the light Geraint could see his squat, hunchbacked body. His height would barely reach a man’s chest, but his hairy arms looked powerful enough. The hair on his head was long, and a straggly beard masked much. But the lively eyes in his wrinkled face kept darting between both of them—and the boots.
“You defeated the magic of my caves,” the troll said reprovingly.
“I have magic of my own,” Enid answered.
“Is it to be a duel between us?”
Not while she’s wearing those boots, Geraint thought.
“It does not have to be,” she said.
“What if I keep the boots and let you go free?”
Geraint frowned. “Why would you do that? Surely we are another meal to you.”
The troll made a hissing sound, and his shoulders shook. Geraint thought he must be laughing.
“Meals are easy to come by,” the troll said. “Humans are so gullible. But those boots are rare. They could help me. A troll bride wants gold, and with those boots . . .”
