“We’re not going to get far this way,” he said. “I—” He saw where I was pointing. My bag, with its cargo of starwort, still lay where he had dropped it under the overhang, near the smothered remnants of our small fire.
“All right,” he said, scooping it up and throwing it to me. “But you carry it.”
It was a long and desperate morning. I tried to keep up with him, but I knew I was holding him back. The going was not easy, especially once the land rose in scarp and ridge, the meager track traversing rock and scree and scrubland, climbing high above the winding course of the river. The lake and the forest fell behind us as we moved ever eastward and a little north. The sun rose steadily in the sky. I had done many a trip with my brothers through the forest, staying out at night, living wild for a day or two. I was swift and knew how to move in the woods and choose a path. But this was different. To start with, I was far weaker than I had thought, and found I must stop more and more often to draw breath before going on. And I had no shoes. Tough as my feet were, the rocks cut them and they bled. Red made few concessions, beyond grabbing my wrist or arm to haul me up after him, or waiting silently for me to catch up. His expression was somber. Regretting his decision, I thought, and no wonder. He had water in a skin bottle, and shared it with me. The sun rose higher, promising a warm day. We crossed the river; or rather, he crossed it, wading steadily through the waist-deep waters of a ford, and carrying me over his shoulder. When we got to the far bank, he dumped me down on a flat-topped rock.
“So far, so good,” he said, squatting down beside me so that his eyes were on a level with mine. He looked at me closely. The light blue gaze was shrewd.
“They are still far enough behind,” he said. “But not so very far. They have divided their forces, I think. Can you go further?” I tried not to show I understood him. It was not easy. My feet were hurting and my head was getting that strangely fuzzy feeling again. Yet I knew there was no choice but to go on.
“Men,” he said, trying the language he knew I might understand. “Bad men. You—me—walk?” He used gestures to convey this message to me and I was taken with an urge to giggle, despite the seriousness of the situation. I set my mouth firmly, determined to show neither weakness nor any other emotion. I considered vaguely what path I had been meant to take when the Forest Lady had sent me down the lake in a little boat away from the forest. Where had I gone wrong? For this, surely, was the wrong way, eastward, ever eastward with pounding head and bleeding feet, and a grim-faced stranger for company. How would my brothers find me, so far from home?
I looked at Red again. He was studying my feet, and then my hands, and his expression was quite odd. Mocking, I thought; but his derision was not turned on me, but inward.
“Strong-minded, aren’t you?” he said, slipping the pack off his back and hunting inside it. He took out an old linen garment which he proceeded to tear into strips, holding a corner between strong white teeth. “But these feet will take no more today. Here.” His hands worked deftly to bind both my feet with strips of cloth, tying them neatly in place. He was good; I could hardly have done a better job myself. I let him do it, thankful for the few minutes’ rest. Never mind that these soft bandages would not last the day’s walk. I supposed he meant well. After all, if I could not make the distance, neither could he. Unless he left me behind.
“Good,” he said, “and now you must eat something, and then we finish our journey. There are apples growing here, did you see? It seems they ripen early in these parts. Perhaps they are more to your taste than our rations.” And apples there were; little green ones with a faint blush of pink on the skin. Round and perfect. He picked one and quartered it neatly with a small, lethal knife.
“Here,” he said, offering me a segment. I took it, wondering greatly. They had indeed ripened before their due time, and strangely. There were several trees in this sheltered spot, but only one whose fruit seemed ready for eating. On the others they hung hard and green. There are many stories in our country with apples in them; they are the fruit of the Fair Folk, and used more than once to tempt mortal man or woman to stay in the place under the hill far longer than is good for them. Apples are a token of love, a promise. It was clear that Red had never heard what it meant, for a man to share an apple with a young woman. Perhaps, I thought, it didn’t work with Britons anyway. Besides, I was hungry, and there was a long way to go. So I took his gift and ate it, and another piece, and it was the best thing I ever tasted. When we’d finished, I got up to walk on, but Red stopped me.
“No,” he said. “This will be quicker.” He picked me up in his arms like a small child.
“You’ll have to hold on,” he said. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”
It was a losing race from the outset. Perhaps, if his prediction had been right and the pursuers had gone after his two companions, we would have made our way to safety in time. The Briton pressed on tirelessly, bearing my weight with no apparent difficulty, putting me down to scale a rock wall, pulling me up one-armed as he clung on; or helping me around an overhang or down a crumbling bank. But before long it became evident that they were closing in on us. I did not know how far there was to go. There was a damp, fresh smell in the air that suggested a large expanse of water, and many birds wheeled overhead. We were passing through thickets of rowan and, as we went, our clothes were torn by brambles, and our faces and arms whipped and scratched by twigs and thorns. The pace was fast; I felt the steady thump of the Briton’s heart as he began to run soft-footed under the trees. He swore under his breath. And I heard the undeniable sound of many boots crunching on leaves to our right, and to our left, and behind us, and the hiss of an arrow coming over his shoulder to lodge, whirring, in the trunk of a stately berry-laden rowan tree. The Briton whispered an oath and dropped me.
“Run,” he said, drawing his short sword and turning his back to the tree. “Go on, run!” He made an urgent movement with his arm; he meant me to go on alone, while he fought them off. “Go, damn you, go!” I found I could not move; and then it was too late. They were all around us, stepping out from cover, men with the field armor my brothers wore, men with the long clever faces and dark curling hair of my own people. Men with hatred and vengeance in their eyes. One was reloading a longbow; the others had drawn swords. They took their time advancing.
“There’s a knife in my left boot,” muttered Red, moving his sword from hand to hand. “Take it. Use it. And run if you can.” I snatched it and he glanced at me sharply before he stepped forward, thrusting me behind him, and the first of our attackers charged, yelling and wielding his blade in a maneuver I recognized well from the practice yard at home. My brothers would have responded by ducking, and slashing at the opponent’s knees. Red didn’t duck. Instead his boot came up, lightning swift, and he knocked the sword out of his opponent’s hand, catching it neatly in his own. In an instant, it seemed, he sent the man reeling away with blood staining his right sleeve.
They gathered in a semicircle, not too close. Among them were men I had seen before, at my father’s table. I stayed behind Red, as far as I could.
“He can fight,” said one. “The bastard can fight. Who’s next?”
It was like the tale of Cu Chulainn, when his son comes to do battle. But I had not realized men still played such deadly games. A sort of single combat, where each took his turn with the interloper, until at last he was vanquished, or they had enough and moved in together to finish him off. It could be a slow way to die.
“I’ll take him on,” said another, hefting his sword. “My brother died in the ambush on Ardruan; aye, and many a good friend as well. Let him pay in blood for the blood that was spilled there.” The archer stood back, his bow drawn; it was clear that, while they might choose to have each his turn with the Briton, there could be but one end result. The second man set grimly to the fight; he had more skill than the other, and his tactic was clear—to edge Red out from cover, away from the rowan at his back and into a more vulnerable position. But Red had the advantage of them all in both height and weight; and he was no mean hand with the sword himself. In addition, he was light on his feet for such a big man, and the clashing of blades and sound of labored breathing went on for some time. The men who were watching kept up a running commentary; derisive of their own when he made an error, and Red’s blade drew a delicate scarlet line across his cheek; foul and abusive when they addressed the Briton. They accused him of the vilest things. It was a cruel sort of sport.
Red fought on without a word, apparently tireless. I supposed he understood their meaning, if not their words. His silence, I think, unnerved his opponent, so that for just a moment he took his eyes off the Briton. The moment was enough; the flat of Red’s blade whacked down on his forearm, and he dropped his sword, his arm suddenly useless. Probably broken.
“Bastard,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You fight dirty, like all your people.” Then the rest of them closed in, and it was suddenly four or five against one, and chaos was all around me. Red had been keeping me behind him; but now he was forced to whirl this way and that, as one man after another came in to the attack. Further away, the archer waited, silent. I held the small knife in my hand, wondering if I would have the will to use it, if I got the chance. Bodies were falling to the ground, there were groans and curses, and I could see at least one man was dead; his head was at a most improbable angle. Red had moved away from the tree, and was wheeling among his opponents. I gave him a matter of moments.
“Run!” he shouted without looking at me. “Run, damn you!” Then one of the men thrust and he parried it, and at the same time another slashed low at his legs, and a third came at him from behind, and he let out his breath with a hiss as his weapon fell to the ground. And I felt a grip on my shoulder, and my hair, and I was turned about to face one of Seamus’s men at close quarters.
“I know you,” he said slowly. “I know you from somewhere, I’m sure of it. What’s a good little lass like you doing out here in the wilds with a British freak? Huh? Or perhaps not such a good little girl after all. Selling him secrets along with your body, maybe? We’ll see what my lord has to say about that.” He yanked my hair back painfully.
“Hang on,” said one of the others. “Isn’t she—no, it can’t be. She died. This two year ago or more. Can’t be her.”
“You mean—”
“But it is her. Look at the green eyes on her. Like a cat’s. It
is
her.”
“Tie her hands. We’ll take her back.”
“Make her a prisoner? You could get in big trouble for that. You know whose daughter she is. And you know what Liam’s like. Think what her brothers would do to you, if they found out. She’s our own kind.”
“Fat chance of them ever coming back. Besides, why’s she with
him
? Tie her hands.”
As the man reached for my wrists, rope in hand, I struck upward with the little knife, and he let out an oath, and released me. Blood was welling from his hand. I dropped the knife. Red was under attack from all sides; he seemed to be having trouble staying upright, as if one leg was giving way. One of the taller men had a knife close to Red’s neck; Red gripped the man’s wrist and held the knife away, muscles straining. Above the bright blade, his eyes met mine, and their expression at last showed something beyond icy calm. He was going to die, and I would be taken home. Home to the lady Oonagh, and certain death for my brothers.
I called for help. If at any time I needed the Fair Folk to intervene, this was it. Not that they’d been much help thus far. I called out to them, to anyone that might hear, with a silent scream from deep in the heart.
Help him. He should not die, not like this. Help me. For if I perish, so do my brothers
.
The rain came. It came from a clear sky that turned suddenly gray, as the warm day was in an instant as chill as midwinter. A drenching, uncanny, druidic rain that blinded and deafened; that cut off each man from the world. It was like standing under a great waterfall; it was like being in the heart of a storm. I could see nobody, hear no sound but the roaring of the torrent as it thundered down, soaking me in an instant, turning the ground to mud under my bare feet. Then I reached out through the sheets of water, and a large hand took mine, and the two of us were running, stumbling, slipping through the mud, sprinting blind between bushes and brambles, gasping for air, our faces and bodies streaming, our feet making sucking noises in the wet earth. I could hear Red’s breathing this time; the labored, gasping sound of a man with a serious injury, who pushes himself too far. I thought he could not go much further; and then the ground gave way, and we were sliding, falling, down a steep drop, clutching at branches, crashing through foliage, bouncing off rocks that bruised and battered us, until finally we came to rest on hard, dry ground. The sound of our precipitous descent died slowly; small stones still fell from above, dislodged by our passing. Then it was quiet, save for the sound of the rain, and the two of us gasping for air.
“Are you all right?” asked Red eventually in an odd sort of voice. I blinked the water out of my eyes, used both hands to push back the saturated curls that were plastered to my face, tried to wring my hair dry. We were inside a cave; glancing up, I could see the narrow gap through which we’d fortuitously fallen into this sheltered space. The ground was hard rock. Behind us, a narrow passage seemed to lead to some larger cavern, but it bent around, obscuring further vision. I looked out the other way. Light streamed in through a curtain of concealing foliage; the rain, it seemed, had ceased as abruptly as it started. I moved toward the entrance.
“Careful,” said Red, grabbing hold of my shirttail as I passed him. I wrenched it out of his grasp, but went slowly, for the rocks became slick with water near the cave entrance. I peered out through the network of vines and creepers. And stood stock still in wonder.