by Ann Hunter
Xander struggled against the mutineers. His feet lifted from the deck. Air enveloped him. He flew backwards over the edge of the ship. Water filled his lungs. He swung his arms and kicked his legs until he surfaced in the waves, coughing and sputtering. He headed to shore as the ship sailed away. Dark forms swirled in the waters nearby. Xander breathed hard. He raced forward with all his might. A creature lifted its head with a squeal. Xander swam faster. He focused on the shore. The creature zipped toward him. Teeth sank into Xander’s calf. He hollered. He slammed the heel of his boot into something solid. The creature caterwauled and raised a horse-like head over the waves. Its bulrush mane whipped around as it bore its hungry fangs. Xander struggled through the water. The shore drew closer. The kelpie rushed after him once more, forming whitecaps in its wake. Xander choked on water and yelled. He fended off the water beast again. The shallows loomed before him. Other kelpies caught up and circled. Xander’s hand sank into wet sand. He pulled himself onto the beach and limped.
Xander collapsed near a bank. His leg throbbed. He gasped. The kelpies crashed through the water, calling in frustration to one another. Xander ran his shaking hands through his hair. Kelpies had been something nursemaids scared their charges with in fairytales, but they had always been just that—a tale. Xander never would have fathomed such a thing really existed.
His breathing slowed. The kelpies grew quiet. Waves crashed on the shore. Xander sat up on his elbows. His heart began racing once more. A kelpie had come to shore. It stood beneath the moonlight.
Xander backed slowly toward the grassy banks.
The kelpie snorted and reared on its black, equine haunches. It charged forward.
Xander scrambled to his feet. He tripped in the grass. Xander rolled but found his way again. The kelpie galloped behind him. Xander ran toward the trees. He searched frantically for clues on which way Bannock and the army went. The kelpie squealed and gnashed its teeth. The thunder of its hooves drummed the earth. Xander glanced behind him. A trail of flattened, wet grass slimed beneath the kelpie. Xander darted into the forest and ran as fast as his injured leg could take him.
Xander paused. He bent over, hands on his knees, out of breath. He straightened and looked for the dark waterhorse. Between the trees, the kelpie changed from wary man to angry waterhorse and back again as if trying to decide whether navigating the forest held merit.
Xander shook his head. “Go back to the water. I’m not worth your time.” He pitched himself against a tree, resting his head on the bark. “I’m not worth it,” he repeated. “I’m not worth it.”
The man turned back into his waterhorse form with a huff and plodded away.
Xander exhaled a deep breath. This was a dangerous new land he had come to. At the thought of danger, the mutineers came to Xander’s mind, and he panicked for Bannock’s sake. He listened to the night. The roar of battle, heard well from the ship, had quieted. Xander’s stomach knotted. He looked at the stars to get his bearings and dashed in the direction of the skirmish.
Patches of flame and ember licked the dirt. Men battled a small army bearing an emblem of the sun on their shields. Half of Bannock’s army lay scattered on the scorched earth. Xander scanned the remaining soldiers for Bannock. He stooped to take a sword from the chest of a fallen enemy soldier. He paused a moment. Siren songs in the surrounding forest beckoned Bannock’s soldiers to leave the fight. Those of weaker constitutions chased after the voices. Others chased those who abandoned the fight in an attempt to bring them back.
Xander caught sight of his brother. He was fighting off four other men. Xander ran toward him.
“Bannock!”
Bannock’s arm was spattered with grime and blood. He roared and ran one of the men through with his blade. Firelight glinted off of his crazed eyes.
Xander dove into the battle. “I’m here, Bannock.”
Bannock spun and hacked off the sword hand from one of the soldiers. “Go away, Xan.”
Xander began swinging. “I won’t leave you.”
Bannock’s blade met with another. Sparks popped off the edges. Bannock grit his teeth.
Xander took up the defensive. He kept his back to Bannock and brandished his sword at the second soldier. Bannock’s labored breathing filled his ears. Xander kicked the soldier’s shield and charged him. The soldier reeled back. Xander raised his sword but met with a parry. The soldier grunted. He struggled to his feet, pushing against Xander. Xander slammed his heel into the soldier’s boot and rammed his elbow into the man’s jaw. The soldier fell again. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Xander yelled and smashed his foot against the soldier’s helmet. The silver nose guard crumpled and pierced the man’s eye. The soldier reached for his face, screaming. Xander seized the opportunity to end the soldier’s misery.
Xander’s shoulders heaved. He stood over the body. Bannock continued to wrestle with the other soldier. Xander looked about at the dwindling army. He reckoned only five-hundred remained of the original two-thousand. Five-hundred who had abandoned Bannock and taken the ship and supplies. Five-hundred who had gone mad and run into the woods. Five-hundred who lay on the field of battle wounded or dead. They were losing. Xander felt that he must regain the lost men. He set off for the woods where the sirens were still luring soldiers away.
“Xander, stop!”
Xander pivoted when he heard Bannock call to him.
The soldier Bannock fought took the chance to run his sword through Bannock’s ribs. Bannock’s eyes widened. His mouth gaped.
“Bannock!” Xander yelled and ran to him. Before the soldier had time to react, Xander blindsided him and sent him to his maker. Xander left his sword sticking in the soldier and fell beside Bannock.
Blood pooled around Bannock’s wound. He sputtered and gurgled. He turned his head to Xander. “You should have stayed. Why can’t you listen?”
Xander found no words.
Bannock looked at the sky. “It’s not worth it.”
“What’s not?”
“Life.”
Xander grasped his brother’s hand. “Don’t say that. You’re a hero. You’re Bannock the Bold.”
Bannock looked at Xander. His words came slowly. “Be more than one thing, Xander.” He drew a ragged breath. “Find something in life worth fighting for.”
Bannock’s eyes rolled back into his head. His last breath rushed from him.
Xander’s eyes welled over.
Xander stayed by Bannock’s side as the fighting subsided. What would he tell Rab?
Dear Father,
Bannock is dead because of me.
It was the only thing Xander could think of. He was a screw up. Again. Xander swallowed his misery. He closed Bannock’s eyes respectfully and claimed his affects. Bannock’s words echoed in Xander’s mind. Be more than one thing. Be. More.
The muscles in Xander’s jaw flexed. “I am more than a screw up.”
He turned to the weary men remaining and approached them. They had no food. Their supplies had been stolen. He asked himself what Bannock would do. He halted. His gaze turned toward the stars. In an instant his destiny had changed. “What would I do?”
***
Aowyn sat wearily on the shore of An Cuan Áille, unaware of what had happened at the Bealtaine field. She contemplated Sylas Mortas’s words as she watched her eldest brothers swim serenely in the reflection of the moon. Young Stór snuggled beside her. His beak hid under his wing. He had begun to lose his down and turn white like Eagnaí, but his neck and head hinted it would be black. It did not surprise Aowyn that he would be so different from his brothers, even in this form.
Aowyn wondered what her mother would think of all of this. On the shore to her left, Eagnaí waddled contentedly, digging up bugs for supper. Twigs snapped from the forest to Aowyn’s right. Her breath caught as an archer aimed for Eagnaí. Aowyn ran toward the archer. “No!”
The arrow released. Two great cries erupted simultaneously. Aowyn turned in horror. Stór staggered i
n shock and fell over. Aowyn ran to him. She scooped him up and rushed to Eagnaí’s side. The arrow had found its mark, and the swan lay dead. Stór’s heart stopped beating. Aowyn covered her mouth and shook her head at the realization of Sylas Mortas’s words. I cannot breathe a word or they will die.
Aowyn bit into her fist and screamed against it. Tears streamed down her face. Her other four brothers raced to the shore and formed a protective circle around her. They nuzzled both Eagnaí and Stór, trying to make sense of what had just happened. They honked and gurgled until the archer approached. Choróin and Rógaire turned and hissed at him. The archer placed his hand on Aowyn’s shoulder.
Aowyn slapped it away and rounded on him, clutching Stór to her breast. With the aid of Choróin and Rógaire, they drove the intruder back into the woods while Lorgaire and Caoin Croí guarded Eagnaí’s remains. Rógaire and Choróin snaked after the young man, goosing him, and honking loudly until they could no longer be heard. Aowyn rushed back to Eagnaí lying on the shore. She glanced between him and sweet Stór in her arms. Caoin Croí and Lorgaire rubbed their heads against her arms and nuzzled Stór’s limp form. Sister, what happened?
Aowyn shook her head and choked back her tears.
Why will you not speak?
Aowyn looked away in shame, stroking Stór’s wing.
What have you done?
Aowyn buried her face in the curve of Stór’s dark neck and wept bitterly. How could she face them? By trying to protect Eagnaí, she had killed her baby brother. She sniffled and gently laid Stór beside Eagnaí.
Lorgaire and Caoin Croí nudged him as though it might bring him back.
Aowyn reached for the arrow burrowed into Eagnaí’s heart. She pressed one hand against his satin-white chest, tainted with a smattering of crimson blood, and grasped the shaft of the arrow. She worked it out carefully, trying to keep as much of Eagnaí intact as she could. The freed arrow clattered to the ground as Aowyn reeled at the blood marring her palms. She bent her head over Eagnaí and Stór. I am sorry. I have failed you.
Aowyn wanted to make the blood go away. The water lapped the shore, but she did not want to defile it. Aowyn crawled to the trees on the bank and wiped her hands clean in the grass. She returned to the arrow and picked it up. She held it up against the moon and contemplated tracking down the archer to see how he might like having it plunged into him. Aowyn took a deep breath and gripped the arrow tighter. She walked around the shore to the woods where the archer had been. Aowyn slammed the arrowhead into a trunk. It sank into the bark like a rock into mud.
Aowyn glared at the offending arrow and knew she must master her emotions, lest she cry out again and end another brother’s life.
***
Xander lay on the cot in the commander’s tent. One arm rested behind his head while the other extended over his growling stomach. He had made a good kill, but that girl had prevented him from bringing the swan back to help feed his new troops. Oh, that girl! He had not seen her at first, only the swan. No sooner had he loosed his arrow than she materialized. He could not understand why she felt such sorrow for the animal, but her face was exquisite even in her rage. He sighed wistfully. Lady Glenna’s image flashed briefly in his mind, reminding him that he had a commitment to fulfill. He pushed it away guiltily. Xander rolled onto his side, wincing at his sore bottom, and clutched the waves of black hair on his head. He wondered if he returned to that pond if he could find her again. He would go unarmed. It would not bode well to frighten or anger the girl further. Bannock popped into his mind as a reminder of what they had been sent to this land to do. Find Aodhagáin. Crush him. Take his kingdom.
***
Aowyn returned to the castle to retrieve her most precious jewelry chest. It was wide and ornate and glittered in the torchlight. She emptied it of its contents. She took it to An Cuan Áille and nestled Eagnaí and Stór inside. Stór snuggled under the wing of his big brother, and Eagnaí’s white neck arched around Stór protectively. The other swans helped uncover the softer bits of earth. Aowyn dug deeply, dug until her fingertips ached and bled. She eased the chest into the ground. She and four swans, two black, and two white, peered into the hole. They tarried in silence a long time until Aowyn heard Lorgaire.
This doesn’t feel right.
Caoin Croí agreed. No, it doesn’t.
What shall we do? asked Rógaire.
Choróin, the larger of the black swans, became pensive. Aowyn must bear them to the cairn.
Although Choróin, Rógaire, Caoin Croí, and Lorgaire could not hear Aowyn’s thoughts as she could theirs, her expression was clear. I? Alone?
Choróin turned to her. They belong with the ancestors.
I shall sing their song, Caoin Croí assured.
Aowyn shivered. She winced at the thought of finding her way through the sídhe mounds alone. She shook her head and shoved a pile of dirt over the golden chest.
The brothers honked loudly in protest. Rógaire nipped Aowyn’s hand. Would you wrong them twice, Sister?
Aowyn choked back a sob and continued to fill the grave much to the disapproving outcry of her brothers. She told herself she would find help. Someone would understand. Maeb maybe?
Aowyn ran back to the castle, biting back tears.
Aowyn no longer knew where she belonged. She could not stand Ciatlllait or the way Aodhagáin’s eyes had become milky and glazed over. He behaved like a puppet on a string. Aowyn thought that if she watched Ciatlllait’s hands close enough, she would see them move to make Aodhagáin speak.
Yet she had a hard time visiting her brothers at An Cuan Áille. She could not face her guilt over the resting place of Stór and Eagnaí. While a war raged on, An Cuan Áille was mysteriously protected. Aowyn’s arrow burrowed in the tree like a festering wound. She had not seen the archer since, although she heard rumors that he led the army against the king. She marked the passing moons in the tree trunk.
Aowyn reckoned that Aodhagáin remained oblivious to the war from the way he behaved. Ciatlllait kept busy controlling him and somehow managing an army of her own. Aowyn stayed out of the woman’s way. If Ciatlllait did one good thing, it was fending off soldiers. The castle remained protected for the time being. Ciatlllait would not give up her prize easily.
The summer of Aowyn’s fourteenth year waned. She watched the sun set from the bank of An Cuan Áille. The wash of orange and gold set off her features. She breathed deeply as she watched a flock of birds keen through the sky over the mirror pond in v-formation. Her swan brothers paused and honked softly. Aowyn chewed her lip. The air had been growing colder. They turned their eyes to her. Aowyn hugged her knees to her chest. Caoin Croí swam to her.
Sister….
Aowyn turned away, lowering her head to her crossed arms. Though things had gotten rough between them, Aowyn did not think she had the strength to bear a winter without her brothers… alone… in that castle… with her.
Caoin Croí waddled out of the water and wedged his white-tipped, red beak under Aowyn’s chin.
Wynnie….
Aowyn raised head.
Rógaire, Choróin, and Lorgaire formed a line in the pond facing Aowyn.
It’s time, Wyn….
Aowyn nodded. She wished she could tell them, I know.
It will be too cold here. We must go south, said Choróin.
We’ll be back in the spring, Lorgaire assured.
Quicker than a fox to its hole, gurgled Rógaire.
Choróin circled his brothers. You will be alright. Our mother will not abandon you.
Aowyn steeled herself. She stared at the sky. Go.
The brothers followed her gaze and honked to each other one by one, bowing their heads in accordance. Slowly four black wings and four white wings spread. They skittered across the water, gaining speed until they swooped and spiraled upward, ever upward, forever into the sun.
BITTER COLD
Xander shivered under a steady fall of snow. Half of his men had died in battles. Another
quarter abandoned him, stating they had followed Bannock here, not this whelp. The few that endured murmured of their lives back home and empty bellies. Food, for supernatural reasons beyond their power, had been hard to come by. They struggled to win battles against smaller armies. Impish voices cackled in the woods even though the opposing force ranked before them. Men went mad and chased after the voices, lured by the song of sirens and wood nymphs, creatures of the night, or selkies in the sea. Xander himself would have followed if not for the image of that girl on the shore of the pond in the moonlight the spring before.
He had endeavored to find his way back to the pond, but he could not. He would get lost in the woods, turned around, and surrounded by a haze of ghostly fog. He undertook aligning the stars in the sky to those he had seen that night, but they did not match. He wondered, in his grief, if he had dreamed it.
Xander removed a slab of boiled leather from a cauldron over a small firepit. When it was cool enough to touch, he sank his teeth into it, yanked off a bite, and chewed. He tried to convince himself that it tasted like venison, or boar, or roast lamb. Xander choked. He pounded his chest to make it go down. His belly protested even though it knotted with hunger. He braced himself against a gust of winter air that bit into his skin. His hair whipped back, and he winced. His once boyish frame had grown lean and tough in this environment. Wiry black hairs formed at the corner of his jaw, upon his chin, and under his nose. If not for the clothes on his back, he might freeze. His tent had become tattered and mostly useless. Bannock had said the war would not take long. It should have ended by summer if Aodhagáin was as weak as Xander’s father, Rab, made him out to be. Six months after the leaves had changed their colors, Xander remained. If he had not known better, he would have convinced himself that Rab had sent him to his death.
***
Waging war came easily to Ciatlllait. With Sylas at her side, they drew away the ranks of the upstart intruder. The commander of the opposing army seemed to play with his soldiers like a boy with tin men, moving them in predictable formations. His attacks were paltry. The one thing he had managed to hold was his campground. Ciatlllait felt that he had become more of a nuisance than a source of entertainment. With Sylas’s help, she could pick off the last of the boy’s men and send him packing. Causing them to suffer, however, continued to be amusing. She liked seeing them scurry like rats in the dungeon, picking in desperation at whatever food they could find. Holding them to their camp made Ciatlllait’s subjects feel safe. It was exactly what she wanted. Let them think they were safe. When the spell finished Aodhagáin off at last, Sylas would become king, and a new race would emerge on the Summer Isle.
