Glimmer in the Maelstrom: Shadow Through Time 3 (36 page)

Mooraz had no reply to this so Talis took another bite and chewed mechanically, his exhaustion so great that it was unlikely he even tasted the food.

‘I will leave you to rest,’ Mooraz said. ‘If the serpent is returning to this fortress I must speak again to Noola and try to sway her towards leaving it. There may indeed be danger for Plainsmen at Be’uccdha, but it must surely be less than the serpent poses here.’

‘I would value your arm beside mine, should you choose to come with us,’ Talis said.

Mooraz stood. ‘I have given my promise to Noola. My place is with the Plainsmen now.’

Talis held out his arm and Mooraz clasped the wrist. ‘Then I wish you a clean and honourable death.’

‘And you,’ Mooraz said.

Talis released him and Mooraz paused only to throw more kindling on the fire before leaving the Elder Sh’hale’s chambers to find Noola, intent on convincing her that she must go against every instinct she possessed. An unenviable task.

B
arrion screamed, a terrified undulating sound as his body rolled across the ground. In the seconds before his eyes had closed against the wind, he had seen his two remaining Be’uccdha Guardsmen flung into the air like swirling leaves, sucked up into the Maelstrom too quickly even to cry out. But Barrion did. His ears echoed with his own cries as he was banged against the ground then buffeted by the howling wind in an endless bruising tumble.

He had just begun to wonder how long it could go on when his shoulder slammed into a solid mass, followed by his forehead — a loud crack that rattled his brains. Dust filled his eyes as he opened them, but the glimpse was enough to show him he was wedged against a fallen tree trunk. He could feel the tempest piling dirt and leaves against his back. A small area of open space around his head allowed him to breathe, which he did shallowly, listening to the splintering of trees smashing together and being flung back onto the ground, vibrating the earth beneath him.

Barrion began to pray as he never had before, not even when he’d feared for his sweet sister’s life, or been tortured by the invading Northmen. He counted each dust-laden breath as a step towards life and wouldn’t let himself believe that he would die here alone when his heart was set on reaching his beloved Verdan Hold.

He mumbled invocations of safety to the Great Guardian, and gradually the storm passed, leaving behind an eerie silence. Barrion stopped praying and after a time regained a sense of his own body. He could feel wetness on his thighs where he had lost control of himself and he smiled ruefully. Matters could be worse. He had pissed himself, but at least he was alive, and for that he praised the Great Guardian.

It was astonishing that a man with no arms and legs could survive while younger, more able-bodied Guardsmen could be killed so easily. And killed they surely had been. Barrion did not delude himself that any of his escort had lived. The unfortunates who had just lost their lives joined in death the scout they had sent on ahead who had never returned. And with no one to feed or care for him, he was likely to join them himself before long.

The dust began to settle and Barrion strained his hearing, but there was nothing. No cries of pain, no voices calling his name. He was alone, and with many hours distance between himself and his hold. Hours to walk, yet Barrion could not walk. Could he roll there? Determination steadied his mind. He had lived for a reason. It must be to return to his people. He would not give up that cause while strength remained in his body.

He took a long slow breath and jerked himself to one side using chest, stomach and hip muscles. To Barrion’s surprise, the tactic worked immediately and he found himself rolling onto his back, raising another cloud of dust which set him sneezing. When the spasms had passed, he lifted his head, and though his neck strained at the effort he turned it in all directions to see as much as he could of the surrounding landscape.

Ruin lay all about him: fallen trees and the debris of a smashed forest softened by the mist that was creeping along the ground. He glanced at the sun and decided the direction he must take, then searched out a path through the wreckage. It would not be easy. There was no clear route, yet some of the branches were small. He could roll over those, or so he told himself to keep up his courage. Had he not lived through years of torture? A few days bruising would not kill him. And the reward!

To be among his people again, to commune with the spirit of his beloved loch and rest comfortably within the solid walls of his underwater hold. These treasures were worth any sacrifice. And so Barrion set off, using his body weight to gain momentum, rolling back and forth before he could tumble sideways towards his chosen path. He did this many times, ignoring the twigs that scratched his skin and tore his clothes. Rolling, stopping, raising his head to assess his progress. By afternoon’s end his strength was spent and he came to rest amid the soft peppery-scented leaves of a fallen luhz tree where he planned to spend the night. By carefully sighting landmarks, he judged he was a hundred paces closer to his objective.

A hundred paces. When his hold was ten thousand paces away.

Despair rang hollow in Barrion’s chest but he was accustomed to its presence. It had been his adversary for many years and had yet to vanquish him. While he lived, he swore it would not.

To add to his woes, his stomach ached from emptiness, and the bitter taste of vomit soured his mouth, yet he would not spit to clear it. His body’s moisture was a valuable commodity now. He would bear this discomfort as well, and struggle to sleep, to still the nausea that might cause him to vomit again. He must conserve his energy if he was to begin again on the morrow. Amid the fallen trees further on he might find one that still bore fruit.

The night was balmy, another blessing from the Great Guardian, for Barrion had no additional clothing and no way to cover himself even if he had. Perhaps it was the heat from his bruises that kept him warm, but eventually he slept, in fits and starts, waking often to pains or the surety that a sound had roused him. Yet though he listened, he heard nothing more. It was as if the whole of Ennae had been emptied of life. Despair bit most cruelly then, but Barrion would not succumb, thrusting doubts away as he forced himself back to sleep.

In the morning he woke to a blessedly heavy dew and had only to roll to his sides to sup the fresh droplets of water from the leaves surrounding him. Refreshed, yet still lacking sustenance, he scanned his surroundings, and before his resolve could weaken, he set off again towards his hold.

Hours later, when he could barely breathe for the dryness of his throat, nor hear for the blood pounding in his ears, Barrion rolled to a stop, his nostrils filled with the clean sharp scent of the nesdai leaves crushed beneath him. Almost immediately he heard a distant voice calling, ‘M’Lord! Verdan!’

His heart rose in his throat. They were looking for him. ‘Here!’ he called, but his voice emerged cracked and weak. He swallowed and swallowed. ‘Here on the ground!’ No better. They would never hear him.

Fresh tears ran from Barrion’s eyes as he struggled to think. Mist was thickening on the ground, although he could see straight up to the sky clearly enough. Should he scream himself hoarse calling for their attention or wait until they were closer? Common sense told him to wait, for surely they would not hear his weak cries at this distance. Yet what if they moved on in a different direction, if he waited and their calls grew softer and then silent? The thought was too terrible to face.

‘I am here!’ he cried again, then found himself sobbing. Despair, which he had struggled against for so long, finally claimed him. ‘Don’t leave me …’

Another voice, closer. ‘They were on this path.’ The missing scout! Barrion heard the subtle Be’uccdha intonation in his voice.

‘Here! Here!’ he called, his lamentation having wet his throat, giving it more power. ‘I am here on the ground!’ Barrion strained to search out the direction of his rescuers but his vision was blurred with sweat and tears. He continued to call until his neck gave way and his head fell back to earth, his whole body trembling with exhaustion.

Trampling sounds came nearer. The rustle of leaves and crunch of boots. Then a dark face swam into Barrion’s field of vision, the Be’uccdha braids obscuring the scout’s face as he looked down, then lifted his head and shouted, ‘I have found your lord. He lies here. Alive.’

The cries and cheers of happiness that followed this announcement were more reviving than a hot meal and a soft bed. Barrion found he had the strength to smile. ‘You are a welcome sight,’ he told the scout who crouched to support him and offer a flask from which Barrion drank deeply.

‘My Lord!’ an excited voice shouted nearby and the Be’uccdha scout tactfully shed his own thick-plaited battle jacket to lay it over Barrion’s torn and bloodied clothing. Trampling grew closer, then the lieutenant of the Verdan Guard came to a halt at Barrion’s side and crouched, an expanse of brown serge below a familiar face. His smile was as tremulous as his lord’s.

‘You cannot know the joy your return brings us, My Lord,’ he said softly. 
‘
After all these years …’ Then he could say no more for tears had silenced him.

They were soon joined by those others of Verdan who had come out on the search and now surrounded their lord, offering heartfelt greetings. Not a one among them showed signs of the distaste Barrion had feared his deformity would arouse. Had he been alone, he would have wept in gratitude, but before his men Barrion restrained the urge.

‘I would stand to greet you,’ Barrion said, and tried to shrug.

‘My Lord,’ the lieutenant found his voice again, ‘we know of your injuries.’ He glanced at the Be’uccdha scout then back to his lord.

‘Then you will know that I require more than a cane to support me,’ Barrion grinned and the lieutenant shook his head, beginning to smile himself.

‘My Lord has not lost his gift for wit.’

‘Nor his wits,’ Barrion added. ‘Though my arms and legs are gone, my head remains, dishevelled though it may be.’

‘My Lord could do with a bath,’ the lieutenant allowed. ‘But perhaps sustenance is a more pressing need.’

He took bread and fruits from his satchel and Barrion supped on them, feeling his usual helplessness as food was pressed to his lips and crumbs wiped away, but the lieutenant’s gentle touch eased any embarrassment Barrion felt. At last the ordeal was over and Barrion said, ‘Let us now return to my hold. How I long to gaze upon my beloved loch, the resting place of my sweet sister’s soul.’

‘It is much changed, My Lord,’ the lieutenant replied, gesturing for the crowd to fall back. A handful of Guardsmen came forward to assist him in carrying their lord. ‘The Catalyst has parted the waters and therein lies an anchor that joins us to Magoria.’

‘This she also did at Be’uccdha,’ Barrion replied, having seen that sky-mirror when he had attended Lae’s investiture ceremony in the Altar Caves.

‘Clear the way ahead,’ the lieutenant called, and Barrion was hefted aloft by four Guardsmen using their arms as a litter. The lieutenant walked at his side. The air was still and hot.

‘Where is your captain?’ Barrion asked, only thinking then to wonder why he was absent.

‘Lost these last two years, My Lord,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘We fear killed by the Northmen during a sortie to rescue you from Fortress Sh’hale.’

‘Then you are my captain,’ Barrion said.

‘I awaited your return before taking the position, My Lord,’ the lieutenant replied dutifully. Then he raised his head, and shortly thereafter his arm. The group around them stilled. ‘What is that noise?’ he said softly.

Barrion heard it then. A soft whooshing sound. ‘Another wind storm?’ he asked.

‘There!’ a young woman said and pointed to the sky behind them.

Barrion craned his neck but saw nothing.

‘Drop!’ the lieutenant called, and the hundred who surrounded Barrion fell instantly to the ground. The Guardsmen who carried him also hastily complied and Barrion lay wide-eyed as the sound of rushing wind grew closer.

‘The Serpent God,’ his lieutenant said softly.

Barrion watched it fly overhead, a quarter the size of the Serpent God they had encountered on the Plains years ago. It clutched a length of tapestry in its claws and was silent, save for the flapping of its glossy wings, but Barrion saw the red eye and the ferocious jaws and felt sick with horror as he realised it was making for Verdan.

When it had passed, he said, ‘Quickly, man, get us home.’

‘Up. Run,’ the lieutenant shouted, and Barrion was hoisted aloft and jiggled furiously as his new escorts ran with him, crunching fallen foliage underfoot as they returned to their hold, fear in their hearts for all those they had left behind.

T
he brand had burnt out and Pagan lay in the darkness of their secret chamber, unable to sleep, though Lae slumbered contentedly in his arms. A cold wind whistled through the tunnels, perhaps channelled from a storm outside, and in consideration of that he’d carefully rearranged the clothing they lay on to cover her where he did not. She murmured occasionally, and snuggled closer against his chest. Pagan could not help touching her hair, stroking it back from her smooth forehead and wishing that time could be made to stand still.

His Champion’s instincts directed his mind to focus on the danger that surrounded them, and their lack of escape routes. The secret Cliffdweller tunnels nearby, which had once led beneath the cliffs of Be’uccdha to the freedom of the Plains, were likely collapsed. Whole sections of the cliff face had fallen into the Everlasting Ocean. The sky-mirror held only Be’uccdha Castle safe. Which meant that their only safe exit would be up into the castle again. But Vandal waited there, and Pagan knew his son had murder in his heart.

Lae might rally her Guardsmen, but Vandal’s authority as her husband rivalled her own. Not only that, Vandal was younger, perhaps quicker than his father. If all else failed and Pagan was forced to fight his son, he could not be sure of the outcome, except to be sure that if he died, Lae would also. They might be better taking their chances in the tunnels, hoping they would still lead them onto the Plains where they would only be at the mercy of the Maelstrom, whose vengeance was not premeditated.

Pagan prayed that Barrion had found a passage through the storms to Verdan. Perhaps he and Lae might also reach the sanctuary of the Volcastle where Talis could help him decide how to deal with his son.

These heavy matters pressed against Pagan’s mind, yet while Lae slept in his arms, his heart was lulled into a state of bliss.

She loved him.

The dream that he had carried in his heart for so many years had finally been realised, and should they have only this one day and no more, he would die a happy man.

Yet the thought of Lae’s death saw his arms unconsciously tighten around her, and she murmured again, pressing her soft cheek against his chest, her warm breath stirring his skin to delicious goosebumps. Other parts of him stirred then and he smiled. Perhaps Lae was right. He might not be as old as he’d thought.

It would be an easy matter to waken her, and if her previous ardour was any gauge, soon they would both be rolling amid their fallen clothes, consummating their new-found love. Again. His hand rested close enough to her breast to find its way there, and even thinking such a thing caused him to strengthen towards it, to remember how sweet her mouth had been against his and how her lightest touch had made him tremble.

How tempting to forgo duty and revel in the pleasures they could find with each other. Yet how reckless, when Pagan knew that the longer they remained in one place, the greater their risk of discovery when they finally emerged from the tunnels. Vandal would have Guardsmen searching for them. Perhaps even as far as the Plains.

But instead of waking her, he told himself she would need rest before their journey, which in turn allowed him more time to enjoy the sensation of knowing she was his, that the body draped along his own housed a heart that sang his name, just as the Great Guardian had promised.

Some time later, when he was thinking he really should wake her, she stirred on her own and he took much pleasure in kissing her awake, though not letting his more carnal desires overtake him. ‘You are beautiful when you sleep,’ he said.

‘In the dark?’ she asked, sitting up and pulling her gown around her shoulders, brushing his arm in the process. ‘If you can see me in this light, your vision is indeed remarkable.’ He heard the smile in her voice.

‘I see you with my heart,’ he said.

‘Ahhh.’ She rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘And what does your heart see now?’

‘Your tongue poking out?’

She licked his cheek with it and soon they were kissing again.

‘So, Champion,’ she said when they had stopped to breathe, ‘where do we venture from here? Before I slumbered I was content to remain in this cavern forever, but now my stomach rumbles.’

Pagan laughed and put his arm about her shoulders. ‘If I had slept, I may have dreamt of a plan, yet instead I pondered how lucky I was to be holding you in my arms.’

‘A nobler thought,’ she agreed, ‘but it brings me no breakfast.’

‘The Cliffdweller caves?’ he asked. ‘There may be food —’

He felt her hair on his arm as she shook her head. ‘No. The caves were scavenged when the Cliffdwellers first disappeared and bounty was scarce in the castle. They are long empty now.’

‘I could venture aloft and return with —’

‘As could I,’ she cut in. ‘But we are both in danger. Whoever goes aloft could be killed and the other would starve or emerge later to meet the same fate. We must stay together to protect each other.’

Despite the desperation of their situation, Pagan had to smile. ‘And how will you protect me?’ he asked.

‘I have a blade-sharp tongue, if you recall,’ Lae said, reminding him of the jibe he had thrown at her when they were warring children. ‘Words are my weapons.’

The statement called for a witty rebuttal but Pagan felt himself sobering. ‘Words will not counter the cold steel of a sword,’ he said, and tightened his hold on her shoulders. The mere thought of Lae beneath Vandal’s blade was enough to turn his insides cold. He had thought jealousy the more terrible emotion until now. ‘We must avoid my son at all costs,’ he said. ‘I think we should explore the secret tunnels and find a passage there to the Plains and beyond to the Volcastle.’ Hoping the storm had abated by then.

Lae was silent, then said, ‘I think you are right. I would rather us die in the Maelstrom together than risk you being struck down before my eyes.’

Pagan did not need to say that he felt the same way. ‘And your empty stomach?’

‘What empty stomach?’

Pagan kissed her again. ‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘If you raise yourself any higher in my esteem I shall think myself unworthy of you.’

‘I am not brave,’ she said. ‘I merely prefer to choose my own method of demise,’ and before he could reply, she kissed him again most thoroughly. ‘I cannot imagine how grief kept me from your arms when I find such solace in them now,’ she said and he felt her fingers warm on his cheek.

Pagan could say nothing. He was too filled with relief and gratitude that the barrier between them was gone. Although, one day he must show her his own memories of Lenid, for there was little chance of retrieving hers from Vandal.

‘Come,’ she said, ‘let us begin our journey.’ She slipped out from under his arm and he heard her shake out the dress she had draped over herself.

He was just turning to rise himself and search out his own clothes, when he heard a muffled cry and a voice that sent icicles of fear into his heart.

‘Did you think I would not find this place when I own her memories?’

Vandal. Pagan turned to the sound even as his hand patted the ground beside him, searching desperately for his sword. He heard Lae struggling and he suddenly stilled, realising a weapon would not save her. She was already under his son’s blade. ‘Beloved,’ he said, ‘do not move.’

‘Very wise,’ Vandal agreed and Pagan fought the darkness to pinpoint the sound, sick with frustration that he had not heard the approach, and now could do nothing but obey. ‘You will remain here until we are gone. If you follow I will kill her immediately.’

‘I will obey,’ Pagan said.

‘When an hour has passed you may come aloft and find your whore in my bedchamber. If she still lives then, you may watch her die.’

Lae made no sound, yet Pagan told himself she was safe. He could smell no blood. ‘I will do exactly as you have told me,’ he said to Vandal.

‘Then we will depart,’ his son replied, and though Pagan ached to say something to Lae, to reassure her of his love at the very least, he knew he must not aggravate Vandal if she was to live.

The soft shuffling of their feet faded and silence descended on the small cavern. Emptiness surrounded Pagan, and fury at his own inadequacies came and went. He should have realised that if Vandal had been inside her mind to steal her memories he would have seen others as well.

Pagan had underestimated his enemy. He could not afford to do that again. Clearly his son wanted maximum pain inflicted. Therefore it would make sense that he would keep Lae alive until Pagan arrived. He must not think about what may be happening to her in the interim or grief would overcome him. Her life now depended on his concentration. He would not leave the cavern until he was sure Vandal was gone. But he would not waste the whole hour waiting either.

In preparation for his departure he quickly donned his clothes and found his sword, strapping it on in the dark. Then, when he had paused and heard no sounds around him, he stepped forward to retrace his steps to the ladder that would return him to the tower, and to Lae.