Glimmer in the Maelstrom: Shadow Through Time 3 (17 page)

‘W
e will not attack you, Guardian,’ the old Plainsman crone told Pagan.

He waited on the floor of a dimly lit cave with five Royal Guardsmen and the body of Breehan. Another twenty Guardsmen remained outside guarding Lae. Had the old woman said this because she sensed nervousness in him? Certainly he did not fear the Plainsmen tribe which now only boasted one male and five female adults. Their decimation was almost complete, yet they struggled to survive. Just as Pagan struggled to gain Lae’s love. Was that the agitation the old woman sensed with her perceptive eyes?

The Plainsmen had been exactly where Breehan had told Talis they would be, in their winter retreat caves, now stinking of the mustiness of unwashed bodies and strewn with rubble from the earth shakes the Maelstrom had delivered. Their leader, Noola, whom Pagan remembered vaguely, and then only because she was mute, would arrive soon to accept the body of their storyteller. The other Plainsman leader Pagan had known, Noola’s sister Noorinya, was dead, and Pagan had mixed feelings about that news. He would have been embarrassed to face her after she had rebuffed his sexual advances so cruelly, yet he could not help but feel grief that she was gone. It had not only been her appearance he had admired. She had been a ruthlessly efficient fighter and a strong leader. But apparently not strong enough to safeguard her race.

The remaining Plainsmen were pitifully few in number, mostly children, and the treasure-house of their history which had lived within Breehan’s mind was now lost to them also. They needed powerful leadership and Pagan doubted that the placid mother he remembered standing in Noorinya’s shadow was up to the task.

‘We are no match for your force,’ the crone added, eyeing his Guardsmen warily.

‘We do not come to harm you,’ Pagan assured her. Mihale might have feelings of animosity towards the Plainsmen but Pagan did not. ‘I am merely the messenger of my king.’

‘Your king wants us dead,’ the old woman, Magaru, said. ‘I have seen this in the flames.’

‘He has not said that to me,’ Pagan replied carefully. He knew from his time among the Plainsmen that the old women’s Tellings were powerful prophecies. Could this be true? Did Mihale intend to finish what The Dark had begun? The extermination of the Plainsman race? Pagan knew he could never obey such an order. He felt grieved enough to be delivering Breehan with lies instead of honour.

‘How did our storyteller die?’ she demanded.

‘My message is for your leader,’ he replied and she glared at him, but said nothing more. They sat in uncomfortable silence until Noola arrived, her face oddly flushed as though with excitement or hidden anger. Certainly not the face of bereavement Pagan had expected. ‘Here is our leader,’ the crone announced as Noola came and sat down next to her.

Noola opened a palm to Pagan in greeting. She did not look at the wrapped body before her or at the Guardsmen standing behind Pagan. He had her complete attention, and that disquieted him further.

‘As a gesture of goodwill from the throne,’ Pagan said, delivering his rehearsed speech, ‘I return the body of your storyteller to you. He has assisted The Catalyst to link the Four Worlds against the Maelstrom, building anchors at each castle. This has earned the gratitude of all people.’

Noola’s eyes searched his own, as though she could see through his platitudes to the truth behind. A truth he feared Magaru already knew. Noola’s hands rose, her fingers swirling before they began signing.

Pagan frowned and looked to Magaru who translated impatiently, ‘How did Breehan die?’

Pagan had practised this answer as well, but as he opened his mouth, he found the words reluctant to emerge. ‘Breehan was greatly aged …’ he said instead.

‘We know that,’ Magaru snapped before Noola’s hands could rise from her lap. ‘Noola’s son told us he spent his life on the Fireworld paying for The Dark’s death.’ She sucked in a rattling breath. ‘Did he die of old age?’

A simple enough question, and one that could stave off further inquiries. They would not unwrap Breehan’s body and discover the knife wound Mihale had inflicted until after Pagan was gone. There would be no trouble, and it was plausible that the old Plainsman had simply become too tired to live on. Yet a strange light flickered in the depths of Magaru’s eyes. She was waiting. Waiting for him to lie?

Noola’s hand rose. She flicked a finger off her lips.
Speak.
Pagan remembered that terse command from his time among them.

‘Breehan is dead … because he was insolent to the King.’ There, he hadn’t said that Mihale himself had done the deed. Yet neither had Pagan lied.

‘There was shock,’ Magaru said, her eyes now focused inwards. ‘Surprise and recognition.’

Pagan frowned at the old woman. Talis had said nothing of this. ‘What recognition?’ he asked.

Magaru’s gaze met his own. ‘Evil,’ she said. ‘Breehan recognised evil, and that was his death.’

‘The King? Evil?’ Pagan heard the Royal Guardsmen behind him stir and he raised a hand for quiet. They would not attack without his direct order but the Plainswoman’s words were inflammatory. Perhaps it was time to leave before more could be said. He rose and stood across from the two women. ‘I have performed my duty,’ he said stiffly. ‘I leave you with the body of your storyteller.’

Noola scrambled to her feet and held up a hand to stop him. Then her fingers moved and Magaru translated, ‘Breehan is the father of my son. He is more than just our storyteller. He was my bedmate.’

Pagan nodded and said, ‘I’m sorry for your grief.’

Noola nodded, agreeing with this, then her hands moved again. ‘Be’uccdha is dead,’ Magaru said.

‘Djahr of Be’uccdha is dead,’ Pagan agreed, ‘yet his daughter, who is now The Dark in his place, returns to her people. She bears no ill will towards Plainsmen,’ he hurried to add, in case they suspected Lae of wanting to continue her father’s pogrom. ‘Her castle is a safe haven from the Maelstrom should you require a sanctuary. The sky-anchor The Catalyst planted there will protect it from the worst of the storms.’

The two women glanced at each other in mutual disbelief and Pagan realised his offer had been ill advised. A whole generation of Be’uccdha warriors had been trained to hunt down and exterminate Plainsmen. Lae’s arrival to power would not magically reverse that ingrained hatred.

‘You go to Be’uccdha willingly, Guardian?’ Magaru asked for Noola. ‘You bear their house no ill will?’

Pagan frowned at the question. ‘Those of Be’uccdha whom I hated are dead,’ he replied. ‘Both The Dark and his Guard Captain Mooraz who killed my father. Either I would happily kill many times over, yet I have been denied that pleasure. Those who remain are believed to be loyal to the throne.’

Noola nodded. She and Magaru exchanged a secretive glance before Noola looked away. ‘You may leave us,’ Magaru said and Pagan bowed and retraced his steps through the cave warren, his Guardsmen at his back. From the darkness of passing caverns they saw white slivers of eyes gazing out at them. Plainsmen children and their mothers who had been kept away.

Magaru had told him that Noola’s son Hanjeel, who had apparently killed The Dark, was their only remaining male. Pagan would have liked to have met him to thank him for ridding them of such evil, but he was mysteriously busy. A grunting noise from one cave they passed gave Pagan to wonder if the last Plainsman sire was busy repopulating the tribe, but it was none of his concern.

Still, the thought stayed with him as he returned to where Lae and her acolytes waited. He informed the most senior that their mission had been accomplished, then waited in frustration as she relayed his message to Lae.

Eighteen days remained until her mourning period was over. He would speak with her then whether she allowed him to or not. He was her Champion after all. Yet how he longed for more, and as the grunting sounds came back into his mind he felt stirred by them anew as they reminded him of how
much
more he wanted from Lae. The pleasures of the marriage bed and a child between them. Yet their king had seen fit to allow her the vow of celibacy she was so intent on, and Pagan knew he would simply have to be patient and win her over with his steadfast love, as Talis had won over Khatrene.

Certainly he had shown little patience thus far. Asking Mihale for her hand to bring a quick end to her grieving period had been an impetuous mistake borne out of his elation at their battle victory. Since that time Lae’s manner in his presence had gone from being distant to cold, and she still refused to speak to him or meet his eye.

‘The Dark questions the sudden stillness,’ Lae’s acolyte said and Pagan dragged his thoughts back to the present.

He frowned at the hooded attendant and then glanced around them into the golden Plains mists which were now completely still, not an eddy or drift to be seen. The wind had dropped completely, and in the next moment the hairs on Pagan’s arms raised, his skin prickling with some strange charge. ‘What magic is this?’ he whispered, but before he could decide whether these conditions were a danger to them, a loud crack attended by a blinding flash of light rent the air nearby and the ground beneath them shuddered.

Two of Lae’s attendants screamed, and when Pagan could see again he found one of his Guardsmen scorched black on the ground, surrounded by his peers who were falling back in alarm.

‘Into the caves,’ he shouted, grabbing the nearest acolyte and pushing her towards the opening they had just left. Guardsmen surrounded The Dark, and she and her party were bustled across the open ground and into the dim, smelly sanctuary of the Plainsman retreat.

They drew back into the shadows, away from the entrance where bright flashes of light and rumbling like great rocks falling downhill could be heard. Pagan had been pushed to the back of the cavern where they were all squished together, and the old crone quickly arrived to bar the way further in, which suited Pagan. He had no intention of risking The Dark’s life by allowing her near Plainsmen who may yet take out their vengeance against her father on her.

‘We will not stay long,’ he told Magaru. With luck they would not unwrap Breehan’s body and discover the stab to his side before this strange burning light storm had passed and he could see Lae safely on towards Be’uccdha.

She stood only ten paces from him. Her hood and the deep shadows of the cavern concealed her face, so Pagan had no idea whether she was terrified or merely curious about this latest offering from the Maelstrom.

He
did
know that any concern on his part would be unwelcome, so he set his mind instead to be alert for threats to her person. The cavern gradually quietened as its inhabitants’ breathing returned to normal, and Pagan again heard the faint sound of grunting coming from the caves behind the crone. His gaze slid across to Lae but her face was still hidden. One of his Guardsmen chuckled and was silenced by a hard glance.

Pagan had lived with the Plainsmen while he and his cousin Talis had been protecting Khatrene from her husband. He knew their thin fibre shelters offered scant privacy, and teasing about joinings was habitual in the tribe. But thick castle walls and closed doors had not prepared him for such flagrant displays of passion, and just as he’d reacted then, so the hot blood of embarrassment fired his cheeks now. He had no doubt that Lae, yet a maid, would be even more uncomfortable than he.

Gradually the flashes of light grew less and the rumbling more distant. Pagan waited until his jaw ached from clenching his teeth but still the grunting went on. He could not imagine the stamina this Plainsman sire owned, but it had put Pagan to shame several times over. The cave was stifling hot and he was eager to escape its torment.

Eventually the crone said, ‘The storm is over,’ and that was all the incentive Pagan needed.

He turned away from her sour breath and nodded to his Guard Captain. ‘We depart,’ he said, hearing the harshness in his voice and not caring that others did also.

Lae remained immobile as several of the men exited the cave and took up positions outside. Pagan waited for the acolytes to move and at last they did, forming a phalanx around Lae, keeping everyone else at a distance. Keeping Pagan at a distance.

He followed with the rest of the guard, taking up the rear position until they were clear of the caves. Golden Plains mist swirled around them again and Pagan was glad to be on his way to Be’uccdha. If there was anything that could take Lae’s mind off her grief it would be her home.

The Maelstrom would eventually kill them all, so his first duty should be to protect Lae until the last. He could only hope to find favour with her heart before then, and for his own impetuous nature not to sabotage his suit any further.

‘Y
our noises are futile,’ Hanjeel said. ‘The Guardian is gone.’ Yet still Mooraz pulled against the chain on the wall and grunted to shout over the gag in his mouth. Hanjeel did not need to see him in the darkness of the cave to know he would be glaring at him. ‘My mother has saved your life, Be’uccdha.’

The Dark’s ex-Guard Captain growled and tugged anew.

‘You have great strength,’ Hanjeel said, for in truth, his mother’s sire had been raging for over an hour with no sign of tiring. ‘Do you use this power to enhance your joinings?’ Was that why his mother favoured Mooraz? A man with one arm was an unlikely bedmate, and Hanjeel was sure they could have captured another if his mother had agreed. Yet any mention of finding a replacement was met with anger. She had chosen Mooraz and wanted to keep him.

Hanjeel prided himself on the sensitivity the Forest of Desire had imparted to him when he had been lured into its erotic embrace, sucking leaves and stroking vines teaching his body to be an instrument of pleasure. His mere presence in Castle Be’uccdha had destroyed The Dark, a victim of his own desire. A fitting end to a tyrant, losing his power in helpless sexual adoration. Killing him had been a mercy in the end, and when it was done The Catalyst had removed Hanjeel’s fatal glamour and returned him to his tribe. His ability to freeze a victim rigid in the spasm of ejaculation was gone, but Hanjeel could still stir a bedmate to delirium with only his voice or the breath from his lips.

Eef would lie with him every day if Noola would let her, and once Eef had beaten her sister to prevent her joining with him. Such rampant jealousy was a sure sign of his prowess, yet the reasons why the Be’uccdha sire had captivated his mother still eluded Hanjeel. He had to know. ‘The stalk with which you plant your seed is no longer or broader than my own,’ Hanjeel said, frowning to himself. ‘And you have only one hand to touch a woman where pleasure can be found.’

At this Mooraz became still.

‘If I remove your gag, will you tell me the secret of your power over my mother?’

Silence, which Hanjeel took for consent. He felt his way across the cavern and untied Mooraz’s gag then stepped back, unsure of the man’s response.

Nothing.

‘We saved you from the Guardian’s revenge,’ Hanjeel said. ‘Tell me the secret of your joinings.’

‘Go and tell your mother,’ Mooraz said slowly, ‘that she has broken her covenant with me. The moment I am unbound I will leave. I owe her nothing.’

That was not news his mother would want to hear. But Hanjeel knew Mooraz was blinded by anger, just as Hanjeel had been blinded by grief before the forest had claimed him. ‘I will give you time to think,’ he said. Clearly this was not the time to speak of joining, although Hanjeel’s mind rarely strayed onto another topic. ‘And I will tell my mother that you desire to be alone with your thoughts.’ Hanjeel felt along the wall to the passageway.

It was only as he stood silhouetted in the doorway that Mooraz said, ‘Tell Noola she is not the master of my destiny. She had no right to keep me from my fate.’

Hanjeel was suddenly bored with the conversation. ‘Perhaps she wishes to kill you herself

‘If she tries to keep me on as a captive sire, I may kill her,’ Mooraz said, but Hanjeel did not believe him.

‘Perhaps,’ Hanjeel said and smiled, remembering The Dark. ‘But there are worse ways to die than at the hands of a lover.’