Moonlight

Chapter 5: Bitter Cold

BITTER COLD

Xander shivered under a steady fall of snow. Half of his men had died in battles. Another quarter abandoned him, stating they had followed Bannock here, not this whelp. The few that endured murmured of their lives back home and empty bellies. Food, for supernatural reasons beyond their power, had been hard to come by. They struggled to win battles against smaller armies. Impish voices cackled in the woods even though the opposing force ranked before them. Men went mad and chased after the voices, lured by the song of sirens and wood nymphs, creatures of the night, or selkies in the sea. Xander himself would have followed if not for the image of that girl on the shore of the pond in the moonlight the spring before.

He had endeavored to find his way back to the pond, but he could not. He would get lost in the woods, turned around, and surrounded by a haze of ghostly fog. He undertook aligning the stars in the sky to those he had seen that night, but they did not match. He wondered, in his grief, if he had dreamed it.

Xander removed a slab of boiled leather from a cauldron over a small firepit. When it was cool enough to touch, he sank his teeth into it, yanked off a bite, and chewed. He tried to convince himself that it tasted like venison, or boar, or roast lamb. Xander choked. He pounded his chest to make it go down. His belly protested even though it knotted with hunger. He braced himself against a gust of winter air that bit into his skin. His hair whipped back, and he winced. His once boyish frame had grown lean and tough in this environment. Wiry black hairs formed at the corner of his jaw, upon his chin, and under his nose. If not for the clothes on his back, he might freeze. His tent had become tattered and mostly useless. Bannock had said the war would not take long. It should have ended by summer if Aodhagáin was as weak as Xander’s father, Rab, made him out to be. Six months after the leaves had changed their colors, Xander remained. If he had not known better, he would have convinced himself that Rab had sent him to his death.

***

Waging war came easily to Ciatlllait. With Sylas at her side, they drew away the ranks of the upstart intruder. The commander of the opposing army seemed to play with his soldiers like a boy with tin men, moving them in predictable formations. His attacks were paltry. The one thing he had managed to hold was his campground. Ciatlllait felt that he had become more of a nuisance than a source of entertainment. With Sylas’s help, she could pick off the last of the boy’s men and send him packing. Causing them to suffer, however, continued to be amusing. She liked seeing them scurry like rats in the dungeon, picking in desperation at whatever food they could find. Holding them to their camp made Ciatlllait’s subjects feel safe. It was exactly what she wanted. Let them think they were safe. When the spell finished Aodhagáin off at last, Sylas would become king, and a new race would emerge on the Summer Isle.

She would need to solidify her position as queen, however. No one would follow her after Aodhagáin died, lest she give him an heir. They would cry out for Aowyn as their queen. She, the rightful heritor of the throne. Ciatlllait seethed. Sylas had said he would take care of the whelp. While it pleased Ciatlllait that Aowyn could no longer speak out against her, the girl still accused with her eyes. Bewitcher!

This would not do. So many nights she had sat beside the princess, scheming. She had to be careful. People were watching. If anyone else saw in Aowyn what Ciatlllait saw, it would be the end of the usurper queen. Aowyn persisted as a thorn pricking at Ciatlllait’s ambition. She must be rid of the girl. Turning to her runes and bones and demons in the shadows, Ciatlllait asked, “How?”

***

Xander wandered the woods. He had told his men he would return with food, but it was no secret what he really pursued. Those who stayed in his ranks enjoyed hearing the young man’s tale of the girl in the moonlight. They thought little of it, but it kept their hearts light despite the losses they had suffered. Signs of spring began to crop up. The snow became patchy. Ice in the streams and rivers receded. Smaller creatures grew bold, coming into their camps at night seeking food after months of hibernation. The worst of the winter had hit hard and fast. The Summer Isle never tarried gray and cold for long.