Deliverance, p.9
Deliverance, page 9
part #1 of Archer of the Heathland Series
Despite her words to Brigid, she had waited for Brion or other men from the village to attempt another rescue. But that hope had slowly died in the long, lingering weeks—smothered by a growing despair. So she had taken matters into her own hands.
If she returned to Wexford and found that Brion had been living comfortably in his little cabin, she would beat him to within an inch of his life and then send him packing. A man who wouldn't risk his life to save his woman was not worth having.
She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat and hugged her knees tighter. Maybe he hadn't followed because he couldn't. Maybe he was—she wouldn't think it. She remembered how they had played as little children on the festival days and how he had always paid a visit to the bakery whenever his family came into town.
She remembered how he had looked at her after winning the town archery competition. It had reminded her of a child seeking approval. She remembered the first time they had held hands while they strolled through the forest. And she remembered the time she had watched him from the bakery window as he had lifted the little girl from the mud puddle where she had fallen, wiped her clean with his own shirt, and held her until she stopped crying. Only then had she decided that he was worth marrying.
But those days were long gone. Now she huddled alone in a dark wood, trying to run back home—back to him. She leaned against a long, thick root and closed her eyes. She wouldn't succumb to the despair that sought to drag her down. Things would be better in the morning. They always were.
Finola awoke with a start. Something had crashed near her. She grasped the knife she had stolen from Ithel's house and gripped it hard against her palm. The cold, gray light of dawn struggled to infiltrate the forest.
Voices murmured. Something snapped. Someone cursed. Her heart leapt into her mouth. Could it be Ithel, already? He couldn't have found her so quickly. Or could he? The crashing and voices grew louder. Finola tried to become smaller as she pushed back further under the overhanging roots. She nearly screamed when a painted face poked around the roots to peer right at her. A wicked smirk formed on the lips. Then another head appeared. It was Ithel.
"Get out of there," he said in Salassani.
Finola raised the knife.
Ithel reached for her, but she stabbed the knife toward his arm. The other man shot in his hand to grab her wrist. She resisted, but he bent it back and down until she cried out in pain and dropped the knife. He dragged her from under the tree and tied her hands roughly behind her back. Ithel stepped up to her and slapped her hard across the face. She tasted blood in her mouth and felt the fire of his blow on her cheek.
"If you run away again, I'll kill you," he said.
Brigid experienced a sudden, wild tinge of fear. She paused on the trail with the large basket of clothes on her hip. Little patches of snow still clung to the shadows, but the day had turned unseasonably warm as a balmy wind blew in from the east. The water might be cold, but it was faster and much less work to carry the clothes to the river rather than to haul the water to the house. Nothing unusual occurred, so Brigid continued on down the trail to the river.
Early March had arrived with a blast of warm wind that swept the snow from the ground. The snowpack in the Aldina Mountains filled the river with icy water that rolled towards the rapids with a gentle roar. The smell of fish and wet earth filled the air. Brigid avoided the large group of gossiping women at the big rock and stepped off up river to find a spot where she could be alone.
She settled into the rhythm of scrubbing and pounding and wringing until her fingers were numb. She sat back to rest when the uneasy feeling settled over her again. She scanned the area. The women trailed off toward the village. The sun burned behind the drifting clouds. Birds chirped and sang in the trees. The dull roar of the rapids further below reached her. Everything was as it had been, so she bent back to her work.
She finished the last shirt, wrung it out, and tossed it into the basket before she stood and tried to stretch the stiffness from her joints. A strong arm encircled her, pinning her arms to her side. A calloused hand clamped over her mouth to cut off her scream. She struggled to reach the knife in her boot, but couldn't.
The sudden, paralyzing terror of being kidnapped again burned in her chest. It gave way to a desperate panic as she kicked and clawed while her captor dragged her back into the shadows of the trees. He threw her face down and yanked her hands painfully behind her back. She opened her mouth to call for help, but a knee forced her face down into the dirt. Her hands were tied behind her, a piece of cloth was stuffed into her mouth and a cloth tied over it to keep it in place. A blindfold followed.
She was thrown over a horse's back. Her captor leapt up behind her and kicked the horse into a canter. All the terror she had experienced that day at her family's cabin came rushing back, hot and furious, together with the certainty that her life was about to get a lot worse, if she survived.
Emyr looked down at the overturned basket and the wet clothes scattered in the mud. He had come in search of Brigid when she hadn't appeared to help Dealla with the lunch. He followed the signs of a struggle into the trees. When he saw the horse hooves leading up the river, he spun and sprinted back to the village.
He saddled his horse, grabbed his weapons and several days' worth of food, spoke briefly to Dealla, and rode out of the village. He returned to the site of the struggle, bent low over his horse's side and followed the trail. It wasn't hard to see. Whoever had stolen his slave girl had made no attempt to conceal his trail, which struck Emyr as either foolhardy or intentional. Perhaps they had come back to finish the job he could not.
While he rode, Emyr struggled to understand his emotions. He had been so angry at first that he hadn't noticed the anxiety. But as he bent to the task of tracking down the thief, he was surprised how much he worried for the welfare of his slave girl.
She had been a good slave, it was true. He had never had to discipline her, though his mother sometimes did just to keep her in her place. But the redheaded, green-eyed, young woman had become more than a mere slave to him. He had never considered this before, and it astonished him. He had saved her life out of a sense of moral indignation and because he couldn't stand to see such a beautiful creature destroyed for no good reason. Then he had decided to sell her at the great gathering. But if he lost her now, he would lose both his profit, and . . . . He left the thought unfinished because he didn't know how he felt.
As he followed the trail that wound on up the river towards the mountains, Emyr tried to imagine who might have kidnapped the girl. The two men who had offered to buy her might have decided to steal what they could not buy. It might simply be another young Taurini or even Aldina on his own little raid. Anyone could see why a young man might want such a slave girl, but anyone who knew that Emyr was the girl's master should have had second thoughts about stealing his slave girl. Still, doubt filled his mind.
Brigid collapsed onto the grass and leaves. They had only stopped once to rest when her captor set her upright in the saddle and wrapped his arms around her. His body had pressed close to her, filling her nostrils with the stink of his sweat.
As he now lifted the blindfold from her eyes, she blinked. The soft, golden rays of the setting sun fell upon the face of the young man she had first seen in the encampment where she had found Finola. He was young and well-muscled, but the placement of his eyes and the set of his jaw gave him an odd appearance, as if someone had just posed a difficult question and he was trying to work it out.
He studied her for a while, the way a hungry boy might survey a steaming loaf of sweet bread, before he removed the gag and cut the cords that bound her wrists. Fiery pain rushed into her hands. She gasped. Tears sprang to her eyes. Gingerly, she touched her hands together. Needles prickled up and down her fingers. So she let them rest limply in her lap, trying not to move them.
The young man watched her for a moment longer before he began setting up camp. Brigid worked her tongue around to moisten her mouth and spat out the grit and dirt. She considered running into the woods, but she knew that she was in no condition at the moment to go far. So she sat and watched, terrified that she knew what this young man wanted. She also wondered what Emyr might do and if he had already discovered what had happened. Would he come after her? She didn't know.
The young man cooked a quick supper over the fire. He offered her a small bowl of stew. She ate it and drank her fill of water. The pain in her hands and wrists subsided to a dull ache. The headache she had developed also subsided. The young man didn't speak to her. He just watched her with that greedy, hungry expression that made her skin crawl.
A damp chill began to settle into the little vale as the light faded. The young man unrolled two sleeping rolls and handed her a cloak. She wrapped up in it, never taking her eyes off of him.
He sat down beside the fire and began poking the glowing red coals with a stick. Brigid concluded that he was either deciding what to do or building up the courage to do it. She shifted, feeling the knife in her boot push against her leg. She moved again to make sure that she could get it quickly while using the cloak to conceal both her hand and her boot. She started trembling again and tried to swallow the terror that kept rising in her throat.
The gray of evening slowly faded into the dark of night. The boy finally stirred. He came to sit beside her. Brigid stiffened. He reached out a hand to touch her hair. She flinched away from him. Anger flashed in his eyes. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face him. He spoke in Salassani.
"You're mine now."
He had a different accent than the people from Emyr's village, but Brigid understood him.
She shook her head.
"No. I belong to Emyr. He captured me," she said in Salassani.
"And I have taken you from him. You're mine."
He paused and reached for her hair again. This time she let him touch it, her mind racing. It seemed clear what he intended, and she would rather die. She drew her knees up under the cloak. Her right hand slipped down to the side of her boot.
"By Salassani law, you are mine, and I will make you my woman."
Brigid stared with wide eyes. Fear tightened her stomach. He touched her shoulder. She jumped up with the knife in her hand, but still concealed by the long cloak.
"I won't be your woman. Take me back."
The young man stood up slowly with a broad smile on his face.
"It's too late for that."
Brigid shook her head. He stepped forward. She backed away.
"Stay away from me," she said. She struggled to control the trembling in her voice.
"Let's talk about it," he said.
But as soon as the words left his mouth, he rushed in to grab her. A cry of surprise escaped Brigid's lips as she brought the knife up in a backhand swipe across his chest the way her father had taught her. His eyes opened wide in shock and dismay. His momentum carried him into her, but she sidestepped and shoved him away. Her knife opened another long wound along the inside of his arm. He stumbled on for a few steps and stopped to gaze at the gash in his chest. Blood soaked his tunic and dripped from his arm.
Brigid struggled to keep the tears in. The blood pounded in her ears. The breath caught in her throat. The knife felt slippery in her hand.
He pivoted slowly toward her and blinked. His expression surprised her. He seemed more confused than angry. Brigid held the knife at the ready.
"I said stay away from me."
His eyes narrowed. The shock changed to rage. He yanked his own knife from its sheath and rushed her. Brigid jumped to the side as his blade sliced a thin cut on her shoulder. She spun swinging her knife into his back. It scraped on bone as it sank up to the hilt. Brigid jerked it free and whirled to face him again, revulsion and terror surging through her in equal measure. He sank to his knees with a groan of pain.
Tears streamed down Brigid's face. The nausea rose in her throat, and she trembled. It was all she could do to stay on her feet.
"I'll kill you," he said. He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward his horse.
Brigid watched wide-eyed as he fumbled with the short bow he had strapped to the saddle. When he withdrew an arrow from the quiver, she spun and fled for the cover of the wood. The cloak fell from her shoulders. Stumbling footsteps followed her. She sped downhill several dozen paces until she came to a shallow cutaway that sliced through the forest. She paused and jumped into the darkness at the same moment that the bowstring sang.
Chapter 18
A SHOUT AND a cry shattered the stillness. Emyr reined his horse to a stop. He had tracked the single horse all day until the sun had gone down and the trail had disappeared into the shadows. He had been pondering his next move when the cry reverberated through the trees. Emyr kicked his horse toward the sound. Voices drifted to him. The rich aroma of burning wood reached him before he saw the orange twinkle through the trees.
He dismounted, loosened his sword in the scabbard and nocked an arrow on his short bow. He ghosted from shadow to shadow, always staying downwind so that the stranger's horse wouldn't get his scent and give the alarm as most Salassani horses were trained to do.
The sounds of a struggle reached him. Leaves rustled. A bowstring thrummed. Something crashed. A bowstring thrummed again and the crashing and thrashing slowly died away. A growing dread began to creep into his chest, but he refused to believe that someone would go to all the trouble of capturing Brigid, only to kill her outright. So he crept through the deepening gloom, moving as silently as he could.
Emyr reached the circle of firelight and stood watching, waiting. No one was in the circle. The horse stood grazing on the grass to one side. Two blanket rolls lay crumpled on the ground. The fire had not been fed. The flames burned low, the wood almost spent. Cooking utensils lay scattered about.
Faltering steps came from the far side of the clearing. Emyr melted into the shadows again. He pulled the bowstring taut, ready to shoot. A man stumbled into the firelight. One hand clutched at his chest, while the other dragged a bow. At first, Emyr didn't recognize him. But as the man staggered to the fire and fell to his knees, the ruddy flames illuminated his face. He had no paint, so Emyr knew that he had not been successful in a war party yet. But he was surely old enough to have participated in more than one. Emyr recognized him as the boy in the camp where they had met the remnants of the group that had raided the village of Wexford.
In the light of the fire, Emyr noted the dark stain on his chest. He searched the clearing for Brigid. Emyr knew that she had to be there somewhere. She had not left the trail along the way. He was certain of it. So he hesitated. He didn't know who had injured this young man. They might still be lurking about. Someone had attacked him and probably taken Brigid with them.
He watched the young man's horse, whose nostrils flared at the smell of blood, but otherwise it showed no sign of disturbance. Emyr called out to the boy while still remaining in the shadows, his bow ready.
"Who are you?" he called.
The young man's head shot up. He reached over his shoulder for an arrow, but the quiver wasn't on his back. It was still tied to his saddle. He struggled to his feet.
"Don't try it," Emyr called. "I can see that you're injured. Throw your weapons away."
The young man paused. He dropped the bow, pulled his knife from its sheath, and tossed it away.
"Get rid of any weapons I can't see," Emyr called.
The young man shrugged and raised his hands. They shook violently from the effort. As Emyr stepped into the clearing, the young man's face showed recognition. He dropped to his knees again.
"She's a demon," he whispered.
"Where is she?" Emyr asked. He stepped closer.
The young man waved a hand back the way he had entered the clearing.
"Gone."
Rage filled Emyr. He stepped toward the boy ready to kick some fear into him when he saw the great gash opened across the young man's chest. Ribs showed through, pale and white. It was a horrible wound. Blood bubbled a red froth as he breathed. It soaked his shirt and pants. The young man crumpled sideways.
Emyr glanced around again and stepped up to him. He set his bow on the grass just within his reach, but beyond the reach of the young man. Now he also saw the hemorrhaging wound in the young man's back where more bloody bubbles blossomed. The injury might have cut the spleen and maybe the liver, but it surely punctured the lung. Emyr rolled him over. The boy's breathing was shallow.
"What happened?" Emyr asked. "Why did you take her?"
An ironic smile slipped across the young man's lips. "I thought to make her my woman," he said. "But she fights like a she-bear." He coughed, closed his eyes, and died.
Emyr sat back on his haunches and shook his head. What should he do? If he tried to track her at night, he would certainly lose her trail. But if she was injured, she could die before morning without help. He glanced down at the young man.
Fool. He should have known that even had he succeeded, Emyr would have killed him. He could not let an insult like this go unpunished. Not if he ever wanted to live in peace in the village. A shamed man had no peace. It was better to die.
He picked up his bow and strode to the edge of the clearing. The young man had shot at least two arrows, and he was apparently aiming at Brigid. What if one of them had found its mark?
Emyr decided that he could not wait until morning. But he couldn't go blundering about in the dark either. He returned to the fire, built it up, retrieved his own horse, hobbled it, and set about making torches. The pine trees on this slope of the Aldinas were called fire pine by the locals because the slightest injury to the bark caused them to weep copious amounts of thick, amber resin. So Emyr collected all the pine pitch, birch bark, and dried grass he could find—enough for half a dozen torches. He packed a bag with medical supplies and food, lit a torch, and faced the forest. The preparations had taken him the better part of an hour.
