“Gorgrael!” the wraith whispered ecstatically and reached its hungry claws for the man on horseback.
Borneheld struck the Skraeling a death stroke through the eye, cursing the sweat that dripped in his own eyes as he did so. About him his men fought feverishly. They had been attacked by the Skraelings an hour into their patrol and for a time Borneheld thought the wraiths would overwhelm him and his men.
But his men fought bravely, and after half an hour Borneheld swung his horse about, looking for more wraiths, and noticed that the deadly mist was dissolving about them. He breathed easier and took the time to wipe his brow, running his eyes across his patrol. How many were left?
“They’re going, my Lord Duke!” Gautier screamed by his side. “We’ve won through!”
Borneheld stared coldly at him, then indicated the reddened snow under their horses’ hooves. “And how many men have I lost, Gautier?”
It had been only a small mass of Skraelings, but they had been vicious and deadly. Many of the men had died, their brands and swords ineffective against the ferocity of the wraiths. We’ve survived, not won through, Borneheld thought grimly as his horse sidestepped a headless corpse. How is it that Axis’ patrols return unscratched while I lose man after man? Every patrol that Axis led only furthered his reputation, while every patrol Borneheld led fought and came home, but came home with casualties.
“Eight men are dead, two more injured,” Timozel said, reining his horse to a halt beside Borneheld.
Besides Gautier’s flushed face, Timozel appeared cool and composed. Borneheld eyed him speculatively. His respect for Timozel had grown four-fold since the man’s appearance at the fort. This was the second time Timozel had accompanied Borneheld on patrol, and Borneheld was impressed with the man’s fighting skills. Again he pondered the fact that the twenty-year-old Timozel had the assurance and manner of a man much older and more experienced. He was a good fighter, very good, and Borneheld thought he would give Timozel still more responsibility about the fort.
Yet more than Timozel’s fighting skills, Borneheld valued the man’s patent loyalty and admiration. He had brought Faraday to Borneheld. He preferred to ride on Borneheld’s patrols. He conspicuously disliked Axis. Borneheld decided he liked Timozel very, very much.
“My Lord?” Gautier’s voice cut across his thoughts. “Do we leave them here?”
“Of course, Gautier,” he snapped. “Would you have me load down the living with the dead? We are only an hour into our patrol and have another four hours to go. Leave them here, but share their brands among the soldiers left.”
He swung his horse away and shouted curt orders, pulling his men back into formation, and led them deeper into the northern wastes.
Although Borneheld remained alert for Skraelings, his thoughts drifted to Faraday. She was never far from his thoughts, even in battle. Remembering the pain in Axis’ eyes when he saw Faraday encircled in his arms, Borneheld almost laughed. He knew Faraday truly loved him. Whenever Faraday was in the same room as him and Axis, her eyes never drifted towards the BattleAxe. No. She constantly leaned to him! Whispered endearments to him! Borneheld felt very, very in control.
But he wished his patrols enjoyed the success that Axis’ did.
He wondered if he should have sent Faraday south as Jorge had suggested. Would she be safe in Gorkenfort? Borneheld reviewed the defences of the fort and town. He knew he faced a desperate battle if—when—the Skraelings attacked in mass. The town walls were the weakest link in the defences. They were not so high nor so heavily defended as those about the fort, and they needed a capable commander to defend them.
Axis.
Now Borneheld did smile. Axis was a capable commander, Borneheld was prepared to admit that, and he was the best person to trust the town’s defence to.
But if the town fell then Axis would almost certainly die.
There was a shout among his men and Borneheld swung his horse about.
“Skraelings,” a man cried, and the entire patrol tensed again, their swords and brands held ready.
But it was a simple drift of snow kicked up by the horses’ hooves that had spooked the man, and Borneheld reprimanded him.
Skraelings. Borneheld had finally and extremely reluctantly admitted to himself that the creatures he faced were not the Forbidden. Increasingly the wraiths whispered the name of Gorgrael among themselves, and their appearance was too similar to the description of the Ghostmen of the Prophecy. But was the rest of the Prophecy true?
Artor, no! I will not believe it! Borneheld prayed, invoking the sign of the Plough under his cloak. Although he found the Brotherhood of the Seneschal irritating at times, Borneheld was a devout man and believed utterly the word of Artor as revealed in the Book of Field and Furrow. The Forbidden were evil. They worked magic. They harboured foul ambitions.
Borneheld believed the Prophecy was of their creation, designed to trap Artor-fearing Acharites. But Borneheld was not deceived. The Forbidden had taken a single sliver of truth—Gorgrael’s invasion—and embellished it with lies in order to accomplish their own invasion.
Whatever happens, he vowed silently, whatever happens, I will never consider an alliance with the filthy Forbidden. He was the WarLord. He was the heir to the throne. And he would be the one to save Achar.
Not Axis. Borneheld was beginning to wonder if Axis had begun to believe the Prophecy—why else should he have the Brothers recite it in front of him?
“Before Artor,” he whispered, “I vow that I will save Achar from both Gorgrael’s Ghostmen and the Forbidden. I will be the one to save Achar.”
“You will,” Timozel said intently, pulling his horse close to Borneheld’s and leaning over to stare his Duke in the eyes.
Borneheld frowned at Timozel’s intrusion, but Timozel took no notice of his Duke’s irritation. “I have had a vision from Artor,” he said, his voice low but fanatical. “I have seen great victories. I have led great armies for your cause. And we will win through. Our enemies will cower before us. We will sit beside a leaping fire and drink fine wine, you and I, Faraday by our side.”
By Artor! Borneheld thought, the man is touched! But at the same time he felt the thrill of power run down his spine. Was Timozel truly Artor-inspired? He had appeared at his side just as he had vowed to Artor. Did Timozel speak with Artor’s authority? Borneheld struggled to make sense of it.
Timozel reached across a gloved hand and grabbed Borneheld’s arm.
“Artor has vouchsafed me this vision time and time again,” Timozel said fiercely, his eyes daring Borneheld not to believe him. “You will be the one to save Achar from both Gorgrael and the Forbidden! Believe me!”
“Yes,” whispered Borneheld. This is what he needed to hear. “Yes. I believe you. I will save Achar and I will not need an alliance with the dark Forbidden to do it.”
Timozel released Borneheld’s arm and sat back in his saddle. “You will win through,” he said softly. “Not Axis. We do not need Axis.”
Borneheld’s eyes hardened with conviction. Timozel spoke the truth. “Yes. We do not need Axis. Yes, I will win through.”
“Yes, we will,” Timozel said, his eyes flaring with fanaticism again, “because we fight in the hand of Artor!”
They met no more Skraelings that day.
47
IN THE HANDS OF THE MOTHER
With both Borneheld and Timozel gone Faraday took full advantage of her spare afternoon. Since she’d met with Axis in the Retreat Faraday felt much calmer, much more at peace with herself. She could feel the tension in the garrison, knew that the general feeling among commanders and soldiers alike was that a major attack from the Skraelings against Gorkenfort was imminent, but Faraday was at peace knowing Axis loved her, knowing he knew she loved him.
Now Faraday and Yr were safely cloistered in Faraday’s bedchamber. Faraday had swept about the chamber and removed the few traces of Borneheld that there were, dumping an old comfortable pair of boots, an undershirt that needed
mending, his second best tunic and his shaving gear into one of the chests.
“There,” she said in satisfaction, turning to Yr. “He’s gone.” She smiled. “We’re finally alone, Mother be praised.” She knelt down at the chest where she kept her clothes and rummaged about for a moment, finally lifting the enchanted bowl from its hiding place. “Ah,” she said softly, rubbing her fingers gently around its rim, “finally we have time, you and I.”
Faraday had found no opportunity to use the bowl since Jervois Landing. Either Borneheld had been too close for comfort, a meeting with Axis too important, or she had felt too depressed to try to reach the Mother. But Faraday felt in the marrow of her bones that if she didn’t use the bowl soon she might never do so again.
She waved Yr over to the bed. “Sit down, Yr. I won’t need your help.” Faraday wore a loose gown she could slip out of easily and had water standing ready in a pitcher close by. She unpinned her hair, then shrugged out of the gown, tossing it to Yr. She was thinner and paler than she had been before her marriage to Borneheld; her anxiety about Axis suppressed her appetite and Borneheld often kept her awake long into the night.
Faraday looked briefly at Yr; today the Sentinel’s eyes and mind were unreadable. Lately Faraday had been learning, to Yr’s discomfort, how to read the woman’s mind the way that Yr read hers.
She occasionally learned some surprising things from Yr’s unguarded thoughts. Faraday suppressed a smile; Yr’s tastes and talents could wait to be discussed and explored another day.
She placed the bowl on the floor at her feet and then slowly poured water from the pitcher into it. Then she squatted down, cut her thumb and suspended the drop of blood over the water.
“May this blood serve to renew my bond with the Mother,” she intoned softly, her eyes almost unfocused in their concentration. “May it serve to remind me of my pledge of faith and service to the Mother, and may it serve to bring me closer to the Mother.”
She tilted her hand and the drop of red blood rolled into the water. “Mother, with this my blood may you wake for me this day,” she said, as the water in the bowl flared emerald and strength and power flowed through her. She picked the bowl up gently in her hands and slowly stood. Once straight she extended the bowl out before her. The emerald glow suffused the room.
“Mother,” Faraday said clearly, her voice joyous, then she closed her eyes, let the power flare and race through her body, and stepped through the Gate.
Suddenly she vanished from the room, the bowl suspended in the air, the light pounding from it with the strength and rhythm of a gigantic heart. Yr’s mouth fell open and she half stood. This was not supposed to happen! By the Prophecy, what was going on here? She slowly walked over to the bowl, careful not to touch it. If the emerald light still throbbed then the connection must not yet be broken.
Faraday walked through the light, feeling its power throb through her, feeling its love enfold her. For a while she laughed and skipped her way, she felt so alive, so free, but eventually she settled down to a more sedate walk. Perhaps the Mother did not appreciate such irreverent activities. But who could not help feeling joyous this close to the Mother?
The light began to change about her, resolving into shapes and shadows, and her feet stepped onto the grassy paths that led to the Sacred Grove. She was so happy she hummed a silly little melody which rippled through her head. The trees formed about her and above the stars whirled in their god-driven interstellar dance. Faraday felt very contented, very happy. She never wanted to leave this place. Exultation filled her.
She stepped into the Sacred Grove. Soft whispers of wind cradled her body as she walked across. Power drifted through her. Shapes shifted and slipped through the deep shadows behind the trees. There was no fear, no loathing in this place, only peace and happiness. At the far side of the Grove a Sacred Horned One appeared. He was the silver pelt that had greeted her and given her the bowl on the night Raum had brought her here. He greeted her again, his hands on her shoulders, his soft furred cheek against hers.
“Tree Friend. We have waited long for you to come back to us.”
Faraday’s face dropped and tears sprang to her eyes. “Forgive me, Sacred One,” she whispered. “But it has been so difficult.”
The Horned One gently nuzzled his damp nose into her hair. “I know, child. We have been with you and we know what you do to serve the Mother and to serve the Prophecy.”
He turned her slightly to one side. “Faraday. On this visit the Mother would see you too. See? She waits. Go with love and peace, child.” And suddenly he was gone.
Faraday looked to where he had indicated. Another path stretched out of the Grove. Strange, it had not been there previously. It stretched for many paces into the surrounding forest and at the end Faraday received an impression of light and warmth, of love and comfort, and the dim figure of a woman who stood at the very end of the path. “Mother,” she whispered in awe.
As she walked down the path the light at its end got stronger, more compelling. Finally it became so blinding she had to close her eyes. Heat struck her face as though she were standing under the strong sun of a southern land.
“Daughter,” a woman’s voice said, and warm strong hands grasped hers. “Come into my garden.” The impression of searing light and heat suddenly faded and Faraday opened her eyes.
Before her stood a pleasant-faced woman in late middle-age, her dark-brown hair greying and coiled loosely about her head. She had cheerful blue eyes and a friendly smile with slightly crooked ivory teeth. She wore a soft pale blue robe, belted about her waist with a rainbow striped band. Behind her stretched the most beautiful garden Faraday had ever seen. Smooth paths led between flower beds containing flowers of every shape and hue imaginable. Tall trees shaded the flower beds from the sun that shone overhead. Water tinkled from an unseen stream, and insects and birds buzzed and sang about the flowers and trees. Seats were placed invitingly under trees and across green lawns. It was a garden which invited company and friendship.
“Mother,” Faraday smiled.
“Faraday,” she replied. “The Horned Ones may call you Tree Friend, and other men may call you wife and lover, but I will call you Daughter.”
“Ah,” Faraday’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Come, child.” The Mother linked Her arm with Faraday’s and led her slowly down one of the paths. “I would talk with you a while.” Yet despite Her words, for a long time they did nothing but walk, Faraday entranced by the beauty and the peacefulness of the garden. Every so often she would turn to smile at the Mother who squeezed her arm affectionately in reply.
“Look, Daughter, a pool. Shall we bathe?” Faraday looked at the charming pool hidden among rocks and ferns and laughed delightedly. She slipped into the water as the Mother folded Her gown carefully and left it on a rock. When the Mother joined her in the water She brought with Her fragrant soap. Slowly She washed Faraday, Her fingers soothing and gentle as they traced over Faraday’s body. Faraday closed her eyes and leaned back into the Mother’s arms in the water, letting both water and the Mother’s hands support her as she floated.
“Mother,” she whispered, unable to believe the sensations that the Mother’s hands caused her, “that feels so good!”
The Mother smiled and lifted Her hands to massage the girl’s scalp, soaping her hair and rubbing Her fingers softly yet firmly across the girl’s temples. “You have known only the awkward touch of your husband, Daughter. I have the hands of love.”
For a long time Faraday lay there in the water, letting the Mother minister to her, letting the Mother’s love sweep through her. “Mother,” she said finally, when she thought she could bear no more. “I must beg a favour of you.”
“My Daughter?”
“I do not want to bear Borneheld a child. I do not think I could tolerate it.”
The Mother bent and kissed Faraday’s brow. “You will bear only children given and received in love, Daughter.”
> For a long time Faraday lay in the water under the Mother’s touch, then, finally, regretfully, sat up in the water. “Ah, thank you Mother.”
The Mother grinned cheerfully at her. “Have I made you feel better, Daughter?”
Faraday grinned back. “Much better, Mother.”
“Then, let us continue our walk.” When Faraday re-emerged from the pool she found another robe folded neatly on the rock besides the Mother’s blue gown. It was a beautiful gown of a soft material, coloured in shifting shades of green, blue, purple and brown. It reminded her of the shapes and shades of the emerald light as it shifted and darkened and formed into the shapes of the trees down the path to the Sacred Grove. “It is beautiful,” she said as she belted it about her waist. It left her shoulders bare and felt delightfully cool in this warm garden.
“Yes, it is,” the Mother nodded. “You must wear it for special occasions. You will know when. Keep it safe until then. Now, come.”
As they walked, again arm in arm, they talked of inconsequential things for a while: the garden, the birds, the quality of the water gurgling beside the path in a small streamlet. But gradually the Mother’s face turned more serious, and She stopped Faraday beside a weeping silver birch tree.
“Daughter, I have another gift to give you and some advice before you return to your husband.”
“Return? So soon?”
The Mother smiled lovingly at Faraday and caressed her cheek. “You have been gone some three hours. Your maid grows frantic. Soon you will have to return. But first I have another gift for you.”
She held Faraday’s head firmly in Her hands and Faraday felt the Mother’s love flow through her. Then the warm glow of power that she had felt ever since she had entered the emerald light flared and seared through her body, as though fire consumed her flesh, and Faraday cried out and fell against the Mother. “Shush,” the Mother soothed, letting Faraday’s head go and cradling the weeping girl in Her arms. “It is better now, see?”