The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Fifteen, Scene Forty

Eowain's men straggled up the trail, limping, lame, wounded. The scouts of the Huntsmen went down trail to relieve burdens and guide them in. Many shook with the venomous fever of stings, bites, and lacerations. More shook with fear. All bore tales of darkness and terror witnessed in the night, of snakes, scorpions, multi-legged horrors, rats, bats, beetles, and other vermin.

"An' the woods're swarming with Cailech-men! There're 'undreds more, 'idin' in the wood! An' more comin', from the farther villages! Like wolves, they is!"

Eithne dismounted and joined a handful of drymyn priestesses who'd come from the shrine to tend the wounded. "What of your king? Where is Eowain?" Haunted eyes looked away from her.

"Mighty as a bear, 'e was," reported one man. "A man of iron," said another.

But, "No, my lady. I'm sorry, my lady." None knew what had become of Eowain in the darkness.

"Damn it." Eithne's patience was exhausted, her fear for Eowain's life too great. She seized her family's banner from their standard-bearer, stepped up into her saddle, and raised the banner over head. "Lorcán!" She rose in her stirrups and waved.

The horsemen of Droma had turned in the meadow behind the Huntsmen's line, formed up for a charge, and stood idle ever since. Horses stamped impatiently and blew gusts of mist in the chill dawn. Men fidgeted in the renewed downpour.

Across the field, Lorcán's raised his spear to her in salute. She knew he felt a blood-debt toward his brother, a deeper love than that of mere family for its own. Lorcán slapped his helmet into place and blasted the charge on his horn. The Huntsmen of the Vale, arrayed in skirmish lines with spears and bows, gave them lanes to hold their formation. The horses lunged and plunged through the mud and down the slope. It was a mad charge, a reckless chance with horse flesh. They knew not what else might still lay behind the dark pines of that accursed trail.

Eithne wrenched the reins of her steed around to join the charge, but Lady Alva and her father caught her bridle. Alva whispered a word, and the horse went still beneath her.

Behind her, Medyr scuffed at a rock. He looked away, to the charging Horse of Droma.

"That is twice you've ensorcelled my horse, Mistress-Drymyn." Eithne drew her short steel blade from her belt. "Release me at once, both of you."

"It is too late, you risk too much." Her father's face was desperate.

Only cool, detached strength dwelt behind the leathery mask of Alva's aged face.

"But Eowain—."

Alva was blunt. "May be dead already. There is little hope he's survived his cousin." Alva nodded downslope after the charge. "This charge is noble and they'll surely break whatever strength remains to Tnúthgal, but I tell you now. There is almost no way Eowain survived." Her gaze grew troubled. "That was Kúlkak, the sorcerer, against whom he strove."

Eithne yanked back on the horse's reins. The beast stamped its hooves but remained where it was. "Damn you, ban-drymyn, release me! Who is that? Kúlkak the Sorcerer? I'll run him through. For Dolgallu. For Eowain."

"Stop it!" Alva's tone brooked no cross-word.

Eithne felt herself brought still with a shiver. She yearned to move, to thrash, to fight and kill and avenge. Yet her own traitorous body would not yield to her desires.

Alva tugged at Eithne's bridle. "Kúlkak the sorcerer is no man you want to trifle with, I will tell you that, you fool girl. Now sheathe that damned sword."

In spite of herself, Eithne put away her sword at her hip. "Release me," she snarled through gritted teeth. "Release me this instant."

Alva ignored her. Eithne wanted to shake her head, run her hands through her hair, grab onto something. But Eowain needs help, he needs—. She squashed the thought, struggled to move, willed herself to raise an arm, but her body would not respond.

"Medyr!" She appealed to the Lord-Drymyn of Droma. He'd been Eowain's tutor as a young man. Surely he must feel something for his charge. "Medyr! Tell her to release me! Eowain needs us!"

He turned eyes full of sadness toward her. "It is beyond my powers now, my lady. Beyond my authority." He opened his hands helplessly before him.

Her father's mouth opened as if to gasp, but he put a hand over it. "Is it true then?" He spoke to the drymyn priestess. "Has it begun already?"

Alva's expression grew grave. "There are rumors of witches gathered in the southern woods. Terrible hags that eat the souls of children right from their bodies, who slaughter their kills in the most gruesome manner, and leave dead bodies to hang in trees."

"You knew this?" Lord Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose, then took a step closer to Eithne's leg in the stirrup. "You baited these witches with my daughter? Twice? Is this what all your schemes have been about?"

Alva shook her head. "I cannot say. Gaffer Ydrys only says so much. But He swears by His astrology, and you've seen the fruit of it here."

"But what of Mælgenn's Prophecy?"

Alva looked to left and right, thin-lipped, guarded. "We will not speak of that here."

Realization dawned on Eithne. "But—." Father knew something he hadn't told her. She felt her eyes grow wide, her breathing grow rapid and shallow, but she could not turn to him. Could not beat her fists against his chest and demand to know what—

"We will not speak of it." Alva's voice was firm once more.

Eithne's anger and frustration boiled over. She couldn't move, but she could still speak. "By Annwn, we certainly will speak of it, you witch! Have you not schemed all this together with your own evil cunning?" Eithne would have put the point of her sword to Alva's throat if she could have. Every fiber of her was a-tremble with that murderous intent, yet she could move not even a finger. "What is this of prophecy? How can Eowain be dead?"

Alva frowned at her, spat words in the Old Language. Then she went on in vulgar Gallavach. "We don't have time anymore, my lady. He's dead or as near to it as prophecy will allow. But the moment's drawing near. You must be prepared and in your place when it comes." With surprising strength, Alva pulled Eithne's horse around. With her father, the strange old wild-woman of the woods led her down the trail toward the shrine of the Vale of Thaynú, away from the Huntsmen's line. Away from Eowain's plight.

—33—

Look for the next installment in this Continuing Tale of The Matter of Manred: The Romance of Eowain.

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