They explored the little woodland, thinking perhaps that the others were sheltering within. The air was cold here. Their breath curled in the slants of sunlight. Suddenly, Caewen reached out a hand and stopped the boy from moving any farther. She lifted her sword and light seemed to fall from it and play upon the ground.
“There is something here. It watches us.” Then she narrowed her eyes and spoke. “Shadows. Warm shadows and soft. Shadows that are friends. Shadows that shelter from the heat of the sun. Shadows that suffuse the edges darkness. Move aside. Allow light to fall where light does not fall.”
There was a whispering, as of half-warm voices replying, kindly. The shadows and shades that were cast by the branches heaved and moved over the ground. It looked as if a wind had moved aside leaf and twig, branches, tree and bough: and yet, the canopy had not moved. Light flooded into the space, coming by weird paths and twisting ways through the air. The boy couldn’t help but stare wide-eyed. He’d seen small magics performed by Caewen, but never a spell like this.
A shape was immediately visible in the bright light.
“Hold,” said Caewen in a firm voice.
It resolved into a phantom. A woman in white, her vague skin as transparent and white as mist in dusk sunlight. All her clothing and hair billowed around her so that she looked much larger than she was. The expression on her face was strange: pain-wracked and angry. Caewen advanced. “Speak. What are you? Who set you here to ambush us?”
But the deathly thing only made weak, sad sounds.
Caewen raised her sword, and seemed about the strike: but paused. In the bright, piercing light, it was possible to see ghostly tears on ghostly cheeks. “What are you?”
The hesitation seemed to be enough for the creature to regain some control. She threw her head back, so that her throat was a swan-like expanse of white, and she shrieked into the air. The sound made the boy fall to his knees. He clutched at his head.
Far off voices answered. Wailing keens of mourning rolled in from places far away, and yet not far enough.
At the same time, the air all about was disturbed. Weird shapes appeared. Creatures that might once have been young woman, with dead faces, dressed in silver armour, carrying thin spears of ivory and white, their wafting garments studded with shining stones. Some wore funerary marks of worked silver, emotionless and staring. Some looked with dead, wet eyes, like drowned girls staring up through watery depths at the living.
The boy felt a hand grab his shoulder, hard. He was yanked upwards and onto his feet.
“Away! Now!” yelled Caewen.
Together, they ran.
The visions of the dead maidens in funeral armour retreated like receding water.
“What were those?” said the boy. “The white ghaists?”
Caewen shook her head. “Yes and no. Phantoms to make us despair and surrender. We saw a vision of what they are in full wroth. But there was just the one of them waiting in the woods. It was a trick.”
As they broke from the wood’s edge, the high shrieking voices of other ghosts arose again from among ruins and hills.
They ran over the open ground, and had been running for a good minute or longer when the boy looked around and said, “I hear hooves.”
A pause.
“It’s Dapplegrim,” said Caewen, pointing. “Look.”
Together, they ran towards him. The boy chanced a look over his shoulder. There was a vague disturbance of shadowy pallor at the edge of the woods. It looked as if the ghost was watching them, and not pursuing.
“Why didn’t you strike?” he asked. “Were you afraid?”
“No.” Caewen shook her head as she paced along. “I couldn’t. The creature–whatever it is–it just seemed so sad. If it is the Prince Athairdrost who drives these ghosts after us, then I think he does so with will, or force, or pain.” They stopped then and looked back. There were moving shapes in the distance that might have been pale young women in pale dresses, but they were far away. The one that had been left in the woods still remained where it was, unwilling or unable to move: it was not clear which.
Then, as they stood, Dapplegrim rounded on them. He was coming towards them at a hard pace from the direction of an eastward rise of hills; the grey and black shape of Dapplegrim; he was speeding as fast as he could.
He tore headlong and directly at them, kicking up great sods of dirt. “Where have you been?” said Caewen as the–now panting–horse dug his hooves into loose topsoil and came to a rest.
“Where have I been?” he said, wheezing for breath. “Where have you been? You were gone three days. On the first night we waited, but boggarts found us and we were attacked. Then the white women came, and we could not stay nearby. We barely escaped. This last day there have been draig-riders in the sky, hunting and hunting. You’re lucky they haven’t spied you already. Something has happened to make the prince afraid of us. Boggart and fettered ghost, draig and Sorthe knights. These hills are crawling with enemies, all hunting us.”
The boy thought for a moment, then said: “When I dreamed of him, on the hill with the ghostly ones, I think he saw me.”
“What?” said Caewen. “You didn’t mention that before.”
He hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t think it was important.” Then he said, more quietly, “Sorry.”
“Well, no doubt the prince thinks that there is some great sorcerer searching for him. A mage-lord, capable of casting other people’s souls long distances. No wonder he is afraid of us.”
Dapplegrim snorted. “If only he knew. Why is that one waiting? It could have caught you before I reached you, I’m sure of it. Hur.”
All three of them looked.
“I drew away shadows and drenched it in sunlight. That might have hurt it. Perhaps it is injured. But… also… I could not bring myself to strike it down. I don’t even know if this blade could have hurt it–“
Dapplegrim glanced at the weapon. “It has that power.” He bent closer and sniffed the metal. “I see the fetch was right. There was a weapon in the darkness.” He cocked his head. “And, Caewen, you seem different too, somehow. I’m not sure how, but different–“
She expressed a small shrug. “Maybe. Let’s go. I presume you’ve found somewhere safe?”
“Safe enough,” answered Dapplegrim. “Get up.”
There was no saddle, as Dapplegrim had worn no saddle when they had left him. Instead, Caewen wrapped her fingers in his mane and pulled herself astride him. Dapplegrim didn’t seem to mind. Then, leaning down, she offered a hand to the boy. “Up we get then, child.”
He took her hand and felt himself being bodily hauled up onto Dapplegrim. He had no idea how strong she was, and he was reminded of the difference in years and experience between them. She was at least twice his age he guessed–and he’d been underfed most of his life–so perhaps that was what explained the difference in strength. It reminded him of the strength of his mother’s arms, as she picked him up in his dim, distant memories of her.
Once they’d both climbed up onto Dapplegrim’s back, he galloped away, as fast as a swallow flying, as fast as wind chasing over the ghost grass, sending up clouds of downy silk and seeds as they went.