The Legend of Lady Ilena (9 page)

A ray of sun catches the doorway. The rain has stopped. I clasp the torc around my neck and put everything else back in the pack. I pull on my damp boots, trousers, and vest and lead Rol out of the cave.

The path is treacherous. Rol slips several times. I lose my footing often. Once I fall flat in a wide puddle and add a generous layer of mud to my already soiled clothing. At least the sun is warm, so I do not need my damp cloak to keep away the cold.

When we reach the valley, I stop beside the stream and scrape off some of the mud. After Rol drinks, he begins cropping grass. I remove his bit so he can graze in comfort. When he has eaten steadily for a time, I mount and ride on. It feels good to be on horseback again after so much clambering up and down rocky trails. Rol, too, enjoys the level path, and we make good time to the river crossing. The water is shallow and he splashes across with no hesitation.

The trail leads into deep shadows under dense pines. The trees are old, with high branches, and I can stay mounted with a little ducking and dodging.
According to Cochan, the path to Dun Alyn lies through a clearing on the edge of these woods. When I see open space ahead, I hurry Rol on instead of stopping to listen and look around as I should. That is why I miss the first sounds of other people.

We are almost out of the trees when I hear the clink of metal against metal. I pull Rol up, but it is too late. A mounted war band in the clearing has seen me. They are spread out across both paths that branch from the one I’m on.

I wheel Rol to return to the woods, but a man on a large black horse blocks the path behind me. He stares at me from under the brass-trimmed helmet with the same intensity he showed in the Vale of Enfert. I would recognize him even without the checked cloak bundled behind his saddle. I can see his face clearly now; he has heavy brows over hard brown eyes and a full black mustache. He sits his horse firmly, and there is no way around him.

“No.” His voice is deep and smooth. “You’ll not escape this way, lady.”

I whirl Rol around toward the clearing and see the war band moving toward me with spears ready. I haven’t time to get one of my war spears. I sweep my shield into my left hand along with the reins and take my sword in my right hand. Rol leaps forward at my command, and I head him straight for the center of the line in front of me.

Five warriors are advancing across the clearing. All
wear the blue facial tattoos of the painted ones from the Far North. The man in the center and another beside him ride tall horses. The others—two men, one woman—ride ponies.

I urge Rol on and begin the war cry Moren taught me. The sound takes the five in front of me by surprise. I call more loudly and keep Rol headed straight for the center of the line. The man there has his war spear held firmly to the front. As we come close, I signal Rol with my knees; he swerves just out of range of the spear and rears to bring his hooves down on the other horse’s hindquarters. The animal bolts and throws its rider.

I call out the war cry again and hear it echo through the forest. Our momentum has carried us through the group. I urge Rol onto the right-hand path and find that the man on the black horse has moved to block my way.

This time he has sword in hand and starts toward me. “You should have stayed in your western valley,” he says.

As I prepare to meet him, a spear point thrusts against my vest from the back. I topple sideways but manage to stay in the saddle. Rol feels my body shifting and responds by backing away from both attackers. The spear fails to pierce the heavy leather, and I strike with my shield edge against the painted warrior’s spear arm. He backs away to set his spear again.

The battle cries that come from the woods around
us cannot be echoes. The old words, so familiar to me, ring out shrill and threatening from at least a dozen voices. The man on the black horse is within sword’s reach. As the calls intensify, he pulls his mount up short and jerks it around to gallop down the path toward Dun Alyn.

I give my attention to the painted one charging on my left. I catch the spear point on my shield and push my attacker off balance. My sword strikes his shoulder, and he falls with a scream.

When I turn toward the others, a slingstone smashes against my forehead just below my helmet. I reel from the blow and can see nothing but bright bursts of light for several moments. I try to swing my sword before me to fend off attackers, but I cannot lift it high enough to clear Rol’s head.

I am unable to defend myself and brace for a death blow. I hear metal strike metal, and the battle cries are deafening. Finally my eyes clear, and I see that a large war band has entered the clearing from the left fork. Those who attacked me are fighting now for their own lives.

Some of the newcomers break past the skirmishes and surround me until I’m protected by a ring of warriors. The pain in my head worsens, and the blinding light bursts begin again. I slump forward over Rol’s neck and feel my sword fall from my hand.

W
HEN
I
OPEN MY EYES AGAIN
, I
AM LYING ON THE
ground. My helmet is off, and a cold cloth presses on my forehead. The noise of battle is gone, and I hear several voices close by.

“Back to help Belert, I’d guess.”

“A problem for Ogern, this.”

“He’s the Druid. He’ll know what it means.”

“I’m not getting close. Not to that.”

The words make no sense to me. My head throbs, and I move to ease it.
A
moan escapes. Someone presses a waterskin against my lips.

“She drinks like one of us.”

“Aye,” the man holding the waterskin says, “and bleeds like us too.”

“And what about that torc?”

“I’ve not seen it for years.” He takes the waterskin down. “Enough now?”

I try to nod, but the pain stops me. “Thank you.”

I open my eyes and focus on the man beside me.

He is near Moren’s age, with sweat-soaked hair matted against his head from the leather helmet that lies beside him. He watches me closely. He offers bread from a pack beside him. “Do you eat?”

A strange question. In answer I reach out for the bread and break it in two. I hand him back one of the pieces and take a bite from the other. It is stale and tastes of leather from his pack, but I hope eating will cure the strange weakness I feel. I force myself to sit up. My head swims, but the pain is lessening. I think for a moment of Durant and wonder if he is recovering. At least I can see out of both eyes.

Two other men sit against trees nearby. One wraps a point onto a war spear. The other, a youth little older than I, stares at me with wide eyes. I can hear more voices and the sound of horses a short distance away.

The man beside me removes the compress. “Does it hurt, lady?”

“Some.” Words jar against the pain.

“Cormec, you’re a braver man than I.” The young man stands. “You and Toole stay here if you like. I’ll be out with the others.”

“Tell them we’ll move on shortly.” He turns to me. “Will you be able to ride?”

“Yes. I think so.” Am I their prisoner? Who are these men? The two shields I see are large and round,
with scrolls worked around a band of animals. They are much like mine. I swallow the last of the little piece of bread and reach out for the waterskin.

He hands it to me and asks, “And should we send word on to the chief?”

I consider this. I must not be a prisoner if my advice is sought. “As you wish,” I say. Cormec and Toole exchange glances. I should have said something else.

Cormec speaks. “Get our horses, Toole. We’ll try to make Dun Alyn by dark.”

These, then, are Dun Alyn’s people. That explains the battle cry. The call I learned from Moren is the war cry of Dun Alyn.

It seems strange that no one has asked my name or lineage.

Toole eyes the spear he’s refitted and tucks a sinew end into the binding. Only then does he unfold himself to stand above us. “And shall I have the horns blow?”

“Aye, of course,” Cormec says. “My mind is elsewhere.”

Toole nods and disappears into the trees. In a few minutes I hear war horns sound a quick rhythm, and there is a general bustle. Toole returns leading three horses.

I take a deep breath and lift myself to my feet.

Rol has been rubbed down. A scratch on his croup is freshly salved, and my sword rests in its scabbard on the saddle.

I turn to pick up my helmet and shield, but Cormec is ahead of me. “Let me, lady.” He hands them to me.

I hang them both on harness fittings and clamber into the saddle. The rest of the troop waits at the fork. Talking stops when we appear, and all eyes are on me. Two young men nod to Cormec and swing onto the trail toward Dun Alyn. The three of us follow them. The rest of the band falls in behind us.

It is dark when we approach Dun Alyn. The moon has yet to rise, and I cannot see to guide Rol. He matches pace with the mounts on either side of me.

Light from torches and evening fires glows above the walls. A stiff sea breeze brings smoke and the scent of food along with its salt tang. We move out of tree cover and climb a steady ascent to the first gateway. The watch has seen us, and torches flare.

“Well met, Cormec,” someone calls. “We’ve been expecting you for hours.”

“Who is that with you?” Another voice speaks.

A torch pushes close. I can see the man who holds it. He stares at me, then speaks in a hushed voice. “By the gods, Cormec. How can it…?”

The sentries step back to let us pass. Their eyes never leave me.

The entrance to the inner wall is wide enough for six horsemen or two chariots side by side. I think of the story of Cara and Miquain; this is where they rode to their deaths. Huge stockade gates secure the
opening. When we halt with the first horses’ noses almost touching the pales, a voice sounds from the other side.

“Yo! And shall we open?”

The others look to Cormec. He answers with words I do not recognize. It must be a password. The gates open. These sentries stare as intently as those at the outer entrance.

“Is the chief at meat?” Cormec asks.

“Of course. Though it’s said he eats almost nothing now.”

“We must see him at once.”

One of the sentries hurries away ahead of us.

The compound grounds stretch a long way into the darkness. There are fires here and there on the ground. Small homes cluster near the walls, and light from their inside fires glows out of windows and doors. Larger buildings take shape in the distance, and we head for the largest.

I had hoped for time to compose myself, to wash, and to replait my hair. I need to think of what I will say to explain myself.

There is to be no opportunity. We ride directly across the grounds and dismount at the entrance to the Great Hall. I find that my knees are weak, and I cannot walk without stumbling. No one reaches out to assist me.

The doorkeeper blocks our entrance for a short time while he considers me. Finally he shakes his head
in what looks to be bewilderment and motions us through the door. I gulp deep breaths in an effort to steady myself.

This hall is larger than the one at Dun Dreug. Dining has finished; a bard is playing as we step inside. The warm scent of cooked meats still hangs in the smoky air. Fires blaze in hearths throughout the room, though shutters are open to the night breezes.

Those nearest the door see us first. There is silence, then a wave of comments.

“By the gods!”

“It can’t be!”

“Where
…?”

And from someone off to the right: “The torc! The Great Torc of Dun Alyn.”

I call on strength I didn’t know I had and begin the long walk to the dais at the far end of the room. My head spins from the wound, and my knees tremble from fear at this strange reception. I force my head high; whatever may happen, no one can say I look the coward. Cormec stays beside me but offers no hand of support. When my arm accidentally touches Toole’s, he flinches and drops behind us.

By the time Cormec and I reach the platform, I cannot hear any more talking. The music has stopped, and the room is silent save for the snap of branches in the hearth fire and a rustle as people turn to follow our progress.

The man at the center of the table raises himself
slowly from an elaborately carved chair. He must be Chief Belert. I am conscious of the bloody wound on my forehead, the strands of hair that fall loose around my face, and the mud caked on my trousers. I square my shoulders and return his gaze with as much dignity as I can muster.

“Who … who are you?” The words seem to come with difficulty. He holds on to his chair back for support, and I can see that his knuckles are white against the dark wood. The beard and curly hair that frame his face are gray with traces of brown. His eyes look blue, though it is difficult to see clearly in the torchlight.

He looks to the man beside me. “Explain this, Cormec!”

I am relieved to have the attention shift. I have dreaded questions, have pondered how to answer them. I still have no idea. My head hurts, and dizziness makes thinking difficult.

Cormec is speaking. “We were coming from the north toward the fork. We heard the battle cry. We looked at each other, and no one could say who might be calling. The voice sounded like one we knew. The words were clear.”