They all ducked, then hunkered down on the lip of the hill. They were well-hidden by rocks and ferns. Anyone who might look up at them from the pool below, or the cliffs rimming it, would see only the endless green-blue-grey of the forest.
A figure cloaked in grey and silver came into view, trudging out from the woods. He was on foot, and walking awkwardly. In front of him he carried a heavy, long bundle of something, wrapped up in a wool blanket. He dropped the bundle at the edge of the cliff and a white, pale hand slipped from it. The fingers hung limply. There was a person inside the wrappings, but they were either dead or nearly so.
The man stood there for a passing moment, breathing heavily, gasping to get some air. He was largely concealed by the cloak, but as he drew breath a few glimpses of silver and black mail underneath shone fitful like stars. Elaborate patterns twisted up and down the black leathers that encased his arms and legs. The richness of the work left little doubt that this was a man of rank. But when his faced finally showed from under the hood, it was surprisingly young, pinched, uncertain. His hair had been carefully arranged, but was not naturally attractive. It was thin, and a strange off-eggshell colour. His skin was also pallid, to the point of looking like spoiled milk. His eyes had a cold slate hue to them.
He was so very young.
A callow youth, really.
This was no weathered prince of war and dark sorcery. He was barely out of being a boy. His cheeks were even spotted with a few red flecks of pimples. Yet, it could be no-one else–Athairdrost had come to his secret place in the forest. It was not the dark prince that some in the company had imagined. Rather, here was a gangly, sour and ill-tempered looking teenager.
He knelt, then unwrapped the blanket.
From where they were hiding, it was possible to see most of a naked young woman. A black line ran around her throat and her eyes stared lightless into the stillness of leaves above. Whoever had slit her throat did it with disturbing care. And they had presumably bathed her afterwards. There was no blood on her at all, just that caked-up and clotted black line to indicate where the incision had been made.
Athairdrost knelt in silent inward contemplation for a moment. He clasped his hands before his face. Perhaps he was praying. Perhaps he was working a spell.
Dapplegrim, who was further back from the edge of the waterfall to hide his bulk whispered, “What’s happening?”
Caewen waved him silent. “It’s the witch-prince.”
“Shouldn’t we attack him?”
“No. I want to see what he’s doing. And I want to hear what the oracle of the pool tells him. There is a girl… a victim… a sacrifice probably… but she’s dead. There’s no saving her. Peaceful sleep be upon her,” she added.
When Athairdrost was done with his moment of silence, he opened his eyes and got to his feet. “Great and elder waters deep, I give this ghost for you to keep.” His voice was creaky, not even done breaking yet. “All blood is drained and cleansed away. Recall old pacts of ancient day. This spirit now yours for play, and sport, for flesh is gone, and heart’s blood naught. And when once day and night are gone, return to me this ghost anon. For that is the bargain, ever we keep, O’ great and elder waters deep.” He knelt again and cut a piece of her hair. He then did an odd thing with the lock: he braided it carefully–taking his time to do so–very, very carefully. When he was done with this strange undertaking, he took the little knotted braid of hair and tied it to his belt. There was a flash of other colours under is cloak as he did this: gold and black and copper, brown, auburn, and rusty red.
Caewen took a sharp breath in. “He’s binding himself to a piece of her corpora. The white ghaists–“
Once Athairdrost had completed this, he crouched down again and lifted the nerveless body up. “A ghost for a secret,” he said, “A time of play for a night and a day.” He hefted the corpse, and it arced, fell and splashed with a powerful crash into the dark waters. It floated there for a moment, but within a second it sank as if something unseen had taken hold of the flesh and drawn it down into the murky still waters. Once the ripples had soothed, there was no clue that a body had gone into the water at all. “A soul for a secret,” repeated Athairdrost. A time of play for a night and a day. But do not forget, to me this one belongs. Ere long I will call her, and to my service you will release her. It is agreed as it was agreed by my lineage in the ages of the elder past. Then as it is now. Then as it ever will be. Unto the ending of time.” He let the words sink into the forest’s hollow silence. “And so I ask of you, elder dweller in the waters, what news of the south? Is it still as it was? Do the kings and queens of the sunlands still prepare for war?” After a moment he licked his upper lip and added, with a tone of uncertainty. “My spies report nothing of this. The missives tell of ordinary things only. A few bickering wars among the southern kingdoms. Nothing else.”
The boy was expecting something, a voice, a boom of noise–maybe the carving of the rocks would glow? Maybe a demon of an ancient time would manifest out of the water? But nothing like that happened. Instead Athairdrost’s head tilted awkwardly and his eyes rolled back in his head. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth and his throat constricted in a freakish way… when words came they were uncouth and eldritch weird. The voice that spoke through Athairdrost said:
“They southern lords and kings and queens lust for war. He sees it in a flickering vision. He doubts him? His sight is far and soaring. To his ears the noise of a bickering quarrel a hundred leagues away is as loud as his immediate prattling and jabbering and squawking. Mistrust him and burn. Mistrust him and die upon the lances of a thousand southern knights, regaled for war in sun-gilt armour. They, the servants of the sun-demoness, are impatient with their lot. They gather in secret. They have outwitted your spies. Strike now and strike hard against them, else you will surely be lost, and all that you know will be sun-blenched ruin.“
Athairdrost fell to the ground. He gasped in a deep breath, and he retched. Twice more he dry retched and then blood came out in spraying dribbling loops of red wetness. “I do not mistrust you, elder of the waters. You have always guided my ancestors right. You guide me right. I give contrition and penitence for any offence given. It was not my intent.”
He was seized by the possessing voice again. “He speaks in prattle and does not listen. To win he needs a great stroke against the south. Great as his sight is, it is beyond him to see the other half of the dream-dawn spell. It is in shadow. It is buried in silver and pearls. Tarnished silver. Storms and waves are heard by him. That is all. Find the lost piece. Find the lost Old Great Spell, so that the north might not burn in a field of fire and sunlight.” This last seizure seemed to drain Athairdrost. Spittle pinked with blood flecked all down chin. His eyes swam. He stood, nearly over-balanced, then threw himself backwards against a tree, and sat there panting like a dog.
“We’ve heard and seen enough,” whispered Caewen. “We ride him down now. Murderer and necromancer.” She shook her head. Her voice grew dark. “My blade will judge his flesh. May those that dwell beyond judge his soul.” She stood up then. “Dapplegrim! Rise and ride!”
Dapplegrim got to his hooves, shook himself and pranced forward. With one fluid movement, Caewen vaulted up onto his back and drew her sword. “Upon him,” she whispered.
A wild, uncanny light seemed to glow in her eyes.
Her face transformed in its expression and became otherworldly and beautiful. She looked for a moment like a goddess of shadows and swords.