Shadow Over Avalon (3 page)

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Ashira rode into the natural gorge encasing her father’s fort. The two narrow entrances to this valley ensured Menhill was impregnable, deterring even the flying lizards where limited wing-space wrecked their hunting.

A patrol approached, heading out to the main trail. Twenty riders drew near wearing brown tabards with sable, couchant polecats quartered with a single ram’s head on their heraldic devices. One man in mismatched clothing rode rearguard. She guessed they tracked something dangerous, a mutation or a predator saurian, for an Outcast to be included. Ashira’s curiosity stirred at the sight of this man. No, not man . . . creature. Sinners lost human status after the priest changed the color of their wristband to black. His expression was grimly fitting for a man with no home, no family and not even a name any longer.

As if aware of her scrutiny, he reined in his mount to circle around her. Light stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. Copper-colored hair hung in greasy waves to his shoulders. Violet eyes, a shade matching her own, raked over her. An old scar bit into his skin to weave from one eyebrow to the edge of his mouth, spoiling a handsome face. His once-rich clothes of gray leather and cream linens had patches, scuffs and dirt marks, and the breeze flapped the ragged green cloak at his shoulders. His one brown boot and one black cried of hardship, yet a fierce light kindled in the deep-set eyes. Ashira shuddered.

“Look well . . . sister.” The voice rasped with disuse, chilling, flat, and made with effort. “You’re coming within . . . my grasp soon.”

“A raid?” Outcasts never lied when they struggled to talk past the vocal damage inflicted at the time of sentencing. “Speak, Black Band, or I’ll have you questioned by our priest.” Her brother always said these death-mongers considered themselves outside the concerns of humanity, caring for nothing except the thrill of battle-frenzy. Which fort threatened Menhill, since the Outcast thought to have her as his payment from the spoils? How dare he!

The Outcast rose up in his stirrups, made a sweeping bow in her direction, far too graceful for any former Bronze or Silver Band. “Not Brethren business . . . as yet. I see a shadow . . . hanging over you. Keep those blades keen . . . War Maid.”

“You dare to threaten me?” Ashira rested her hand on the pommel of her sword. He’d never take her alive.

He smiled, blowing her a kiss before wheeling his mount to gallop after the other riders.

A gray cloud crept over the sun. In the distance, a priest had children sitting outside in a semicircle, chanting morning prayers to the Harvesters. A sharp crack of the whip sounded, followed by a squeal of pain when the youngest misremembered. Ashira looked away, torn between disgust at the brutality and fear of her blasphemous thought that the priest enjoyed beating children. A shudder ran through her. Even her father, the king, couldn’t help her if she angered the priest.

A wild merlin spiraled down with some bedraggled mess in his talons; a male bird, his bluish-gray back shimmering as he landed. The pair nested high up the gorge on a ledge created by a shaft mirroring natural light into the inner chambers. What would he think if he knew she could see each small fledgling from her room? Secure in his lofty position, he was unaware the place he had chosen resembled a wasp’s nest beyond the outer shell, riddled with chambers, passages and halls.

Such a large and prosperous fort, and she shared her father’s fierce pride in his domain. Why then did he dislike her so? Was it transferred loathing for Ashira’s mother, the long dead second Queen of Menhill? This attitude of King Hald’s was clear from the way he treated her half-brother and sister: Kieran, the all-important male heir and the eldest, then Syril, their father’s favorite, and Ashira’s responsibility to guard, the reason she must be a War Maid.

The last traces of exhilaration from the morning ride faded upon entering a ground level stable-cavern. A groom stepped forward to hold Storm for Ashira to dismount. She liked to tend to her own horse but must now stand aside for others to perform the task, after receiving her gold wristband in the ceremony marking her of the highest caste.

Horn calls from the heights warned of traders approaching. Ashira hurried into the fort to bathe and change. With peaceful company coming, she needed to dress modestly – not that she expected to see any of the travellers, but just in case they spotted her about her duties.

Once back in her own room, Ashira frowned at the sight of her hair. The untidy blonde curls, windswept from her ride, needed braiding. She had just finished weaving it into a coronet, pinned tight against her head when Kayla, aged servant to the women’s quarters, shuffled into her room.

“His Majesty wants you in the audience chamber at once,” the crone mumbled. Excited that punishment for Ashira was in the offing; a runnel of saliva wove down the network of lines crinkling her mouth.

That made three times this year King Hald had learned she rode out beyond her limits against his orders. She reached for a plain gray dress with long sleeves. Maybe he didn’t know of her ride, but she laced up a pair of sturdy sandals for better balance in case of a whipping, despite the extra seconds this cost her. Before she could affix the face veil required for going into a general area in the presence of strangers, she lost her grip of the slippery fabric when Kayla tugged on her sleeve. No time to pick it up off the floor. He became more brutal when he had to wait longer than expected. Her back still hurt from his last rage.

“He said now. Leave it.” Kayla led the way to the audience chamber where she bowed, to shuffle away before any more orders robbed her of time dozing beside a fire.

Her father, seated on a dais at the far end of the vast cavern, appeared flustered. His crown sat crooked, leaving his gray hair protruding from under the rim at one side. He wore a brown tunic over beige hose, his formal attire for important occasions. Kieran stood behind and to the right; her brother’s straight red hair framed a sharp face that made Ashira think of foxes. His presence meant this wasn’t a simple whipping for riding unattended, so what did her father want of her?

Hald’s brittle smile reached his eyes without kindness. Every instinct warned her not to speak. Years of his indifference peeled away to reveal a single glimpse of loathing mixed with some expression akin to pleasure. Today, her father was a dangerous stranger. Icy fingers played over her flesh, raising each hair on her neck.

“Did you enjoy your ride?” her stranger-father enquired.

“Storm needed exercise.” Damn, he knew.

“You could not wait for an escort, or stay in sight of the fort? You decided to risk Syril’s safety by leaving her unprotected with an Outcast in Menhill. You were trained to guard her. Did you give no thought as to why I hired this creature?” Her father smiled.

“I learned of the Outcast’s presence on my return.” Ashira glanced at Kieran, trying to gain some clue from him. He had his gaze fixed on some far distance. Was this to be another whipping, or worse, loss of her horse?

“Had you chosen to obey my orders you would have known of the potential threat to Menhill, as well as why I employed an Outcast.”

“Syril never . . . ” Ashira bit back the rest of her excuse when his hand rose to silence her. She tried to swallow in a sand-dry mouth. Her heart pounded.

He raised his hand again in signal, and the tramp of feet sounded. Hald opened his other hand to reveal the crumpled scrap of a face veil, which he shook out to flick almost within her reach. Something heavy thumped down behind her, sending an echo booming in the great hall, but she kept her eyes focused on the face of her terrifying, stranger-father.

“Welcome, Traders,” Hald said, his tone couched as a quiet threat.

A stolen glance behind revealed five strangers. Kayla hadn’t warned her that these men would have an audience at once. Ashira didn’t care if they saw her in uniform, but wearing this gown without a face veil, and unable to blend into the background like a Silver Band woman, embarrassed her. She knelt at her father’s feet, her eyes fixed on that waving scrap of cloth outside her reach.

“I am in need of ore,” Hald continued to flick the fabric near enough to torment her. “I am told yours is of good quality, but I am not certain I can trade for this much. What did you want in exchange?”

“The cattle of this region yield high quality milk,” a deep voice answered from behind Ashira. “We will barter for four proven female breeders and one bull.”

“It is true our beasts are valuable, so you understand their worth will be hard to match?” His lips stretched with a half-smile.

“The ore in exchange for one bull and four heifers, we will take our chances on fertility,” the man with the deep voice offered.

She wondered at his sudden concession. He sounded relaxed, as if he didn’t care whether he traded his valuable ore. What was she doing here while her father conducted his business?

“I can’t spare enough cattle for a fair exchange.” Hald’s voice dripped pleasure. “However, I can supply other breeding stock of a sort you need, so I conclude these parcels of copper are meant as a bride price. My youngest daughter, Ashira, is six years into her second decade. Do you agree to the match?” The king gave a hand signal to his guards. A precise rustle sounded as they drew their swords in a unified threat to the strangers. Hald meant to keep the ore.

Ashira forgot how to breathe, unable to believe her father’s decree. She turned at an angry rumble to catch a glimpse of four blank-tabarded soldiers surrounding one tall, black-clad man with a thundercloud expression. Outnumbered five to one, they faced bad odds in a fight.

“Did you really think I knew you not? Still hesitating? Doubtless overwhelmed by the honor,” the king said, taunting them. “I will hear your consent, my lord.” The trap snapped shut around the outmaneuvered men, echoing in the high-roofed hall like the dull thud of a coffin lid.

“Agreed.” The dark man’s voice grated. “I’m leaving now, Hald. Tell your men to stand aside.”

“You all heard and witnessed?” Hald’s smug tone aimed at his soldiers and Kieran, sealing the marriage. A roar of assent shook the air. He dragged Ashira to her feet, sending her reeling into the midst of angry, cheated men.

Strong arms caught her before she fell, dragging her along as the strangers made a swift retreat. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. Ashira was bundled astride a horse with the man mounted behind her, his arm like a band of steel round her waist when he spurred his steed to a gallop. The drumming of hooves echoed as the gorge that housed Menhill rushed past.

My father traded me.
This thought went round and round in Ashira’s head like a mad moth attracted to torchlight – traded away for a few parcels of ore, so he could keep his precious cattle. Why did he hate her so?

This morning’s premonition took form. Outcasts lived so close to death some people believed they could see beyond the gray veil of time. Did Copperhead’s vision include his own death when he said he would have her? Did he mean they would meet in one of the seven hells? Ashira didn’t need foresight to guess her own fate. This ruler, forced into an unwanted union, would not show weakness to his fort by letting her live. Death it was then, but she’d fight through this hell for a chance to gain the Harvester’s golden afterlife. But only those who died at peace with themselves reached the promised heaven; she needed to close off every bad thought this day.

Puffy white clouds hung motionless in an azure sky. A pheasant flapped from cover, squawking with fright, to clatter skywards at the thunder of hooves. Lush pastures peppered with cattle flowed by. They were headed south, away from higher sheep hills.

The company slowed on approaching a small thicket, and a whistle shrilled. Ten mounted soldiers in red tabards bearing a sable dragon device emerged to join the group. Each clean-shaven man also had his hair neatly trimmed to his shoulders, showing a disciplined fighting unit. They led five laden pack animals and two unburdened beasts. Every newcomer’s face reflected disbelief, anger, and a trace of fear. Not one man dared look at the black rider behind Ashira.

When wild moorlands replaced meadows, the pace settled to a steady trot until the trail dropped down to wetlands showing signs of habitation. A small community of peat cutters had set up summer camp, plying their trade by carving into the brown, water-filled trenches. Marsh marigolds raised defiant heads, bright yellow sunbursts near the banks, and farther back, mounds of dark, rolled slabs dried in the sun, a source of sweet-smelling winter fuel much preferred by forts. Far above, a peregrine falcon spiraled up on a thermal, screaming his lonely challenge.

A peregrine for a prince, the order of falconry dictated. Hope flew with that bird for a second until she recognized it was a wild one without dangling jesses. Kieran wasn’t looking for his despised half-sister.

The company took the trail into high moors visible beyond acres of coppiced willow trees. She craned round to see more, trying to guess their destination.

“Those are harvested for cane work,” the rider said, his voice deep as he tightened his grip on her. “See that smoke over there? Craftsmen are boiling shoots for darker contrast shades. They’ll be cutting withies all this month. We’ll trade here. Know that I couldn’t care less if you make a scene, but these simple folk will be embarrassed.”

A few minutes later, the company reached a crude collection of daub and wattle huts thriving with industry. The man dismounted, giving his reins to a soldier. He stalked off without a backward glance.