Crimson Fire (3 page)

Gritting her teeth, she rose to her feet and began to walk.

H
ENGIST WAS BITTERLY
disappointed. The storm had passed, and though pieces of a lost ship had washed up on the beach, no valuable wreckage had been recovered.

He walked slowly up the cliff path, not anxious to return home with empty hands. He had so wanted to bring her some-

thing beautiful, something that might make her smile as she had not done since the birthing. Since that terrible day when their tiny, perfect boy had strangled to death as it struggled to- ward the light, the birthcord wrapped tightly around his in- nocent neck.

Hengist shivered in his heavy, sheepskin jacket, his rough
fi
sherman’s hands thrust inside its deep pockets in a futile bid for warmth. The night was bitterly cold. The waxing moon shone brightly, outlining the harsh rocks, glittering off the now calming sea.

She had not even left the cottage for the festival. He had tried to explain to her how dangerous it was to stay away. Peo- ple might begin to think that she was one of the Heiden, the followers of the Old Gods. But she had not cared about even that. So he had gone to the Sweltan Daeg festival alone, telling them his wife was ill, doing his best to celebrate the legendary day when Lytir, the One God, had sailed away to Heofen.

Suddenly remembering what tonight was, he quickened his pace. This was no night to be out alone. Tonight those who worshipped the Old Gods would be celebrating their secret rites. And who knew what they would do to a follower of Lytir if they caught him alone? He knew the stories as well as anyone. When he reached the cottage and opened the door, he saw exactly what he had expected to see. Hildegyth was huddled on a stool by the
fi
re, humming quietly to herself. Her thin, grief-worn face was almost translucent in the
fi
tful light. Her lank blond hair was half undone from its rough braid. Her sim- ple homespun gown was spotted with grease, and bits of straw

clung to it here and there.

Hengist said nothing. He made his way to the hearth, hold-

ing his chapped, cracked hands out to the warmth. He rubbed them together, looking around the tiny room.

The sleeping pallet was still mussed, the blanket thrown back where he had left it at dawn. The rough plank table jutting from the wall still held his half-eaten bowl of mush from this morning. The room was musty and close—she had not even opened the shutters today. She had done nothing but sit.

A weak scratching on the door startled him. Hildegyth tilt- ed her head a little, and looked toward the door. The scratching sound came again.

“Answer it,” he ordered. He didn’t think she would do it, but she did. Slowly she stood, moving as if in a dream. She went to the door and opened it. A form was huddled on the ground at her feet. A woman’s hand shot out and grasped Hildegyth’s skirt. A voice, barely audible, the tone pleading, murmured something Hengist could not hear.

Hildegyth bent down and grasped the woman’s hand. For a moment she crouched, frozen, every line of her body stiffened in shock. At last, she turned to Hengist, “Help her. Bring her in and put her on the bed. She has brought me a gift.”

Hengist went to the door and picked up the stranger. He laid the woman down on the pallet and then he understood. The woman was pregnant and her time had come.

Hengist looked over at his wife. Hildegyth was smiling. “She brings me a great gift. Our God has provided.”

The strange woman moaned, twisting on the bed. And as she did, the bowl on the table rose up, hovered in the air, and
fl
ew across the room, crashing into the wall.

“A demon!” Hengist gasped. “O God, what will she do to us?!” He grasped the simple amulet of Lytir that hung around

his neck. The tiny carved tree felt cold in his hands as he stared at the woman in horror.

But Hildegyth merely smiled. “She brings me a gift. A gift from the sea.” Still smiling, Hildegyth began to loosen the woman’s gown, stripping her and putting the blanket over her nakedness. She turned to her husband. “Call no one.” Her mad eyes sparkled.

But Hengist knew he could not do that. If anyone ever found out they had given shelter to a witch. . . Thank Lytir that the witch hunter had just been through Dorfas earlier that day. The wyrce-jaga would deal with this demon. The man could have gone no farther than Ottonford and could be fetched in a few hours. He knew it was useless to plead with his wife to change her mind, so without another word, he backed away and was out the door running for the stable.

As he mounted his horse, the locked shutters of the cottage
fl
ew open, banging rhythmically in time to the sound of the demon’s moans.

H
ENGIST AND THE
wyrce-jaga rode up to the remote cottage, their horses lathered with sweat. It had been more than four hours since Hengist had left, and Lytir alone knew what had happened. But the cottage still stood and the night was quiet.

Eosa hauled himself down from his mount. Hengist, too, dismounted, and the two men stood outside the closed door, lis- tening. A low, wrenching moan reached their ears. “The witch is still alive,” whispered Hengist.

Eosa’s thin, cruel face turned to Hengist. The witch hunter was dressed in the customary black robe of the wyrce-jaga, his blond hair cut short and tonsured. His amulet of Lytir was

made of gold, and it glittered palely on the hunter’s chest in the moonlight. “So it would seem. Let us go in, then, and deal with it.” Eosa reached for the door. Hengist drew back, afraid.

“Fear not, Hengist. I have killed hundreds of witches for our God and do not fear them. Lytir will protect us.”

The stranger on the bed still writhed, bathed in sweat, her honey-blond hair still matted and blood still dripping down her face, soaking the straw. Hildegyth sat on the
fl
oor, waiting, smiling her secret smile. Suddenly, the
fi
re
fl
ared up;
fl
ames leapt and twisted as the stranger caught sight of the two men.

“It is time,” Hildegyth said. “See, now she brings forth my gift.” The stranger arched her back in agony as Hildegyth reached for her. And suddenly the child was there, squirming on the straw. Hildegyth drew the baby to her, gently blowing into the tiny lungs as it drew breath and began to cry. She laid the body down on the straw and cut the birthcord, paying no at- tention to the still-suffering woman. She cuddled the tiny form to her breast and turned again to the two men. “See, she brings my child back to me. My beautiful baby boy!”

The woman on the bed was quiet. Her amber eyes, trapped, stared at Eosa.

Eosa pulled a
fl
ask from his belt and bent over the woman.

“Drink,” he commanded. The woman shrank back, turning her face away. A shutter
fl
apped weakly, and the
fl
ames in the
fi
replace writhed. “Drink,” the wyrce-jaga said again, grab- bing the woman’s hair and forcing her to tilt her head back. The woman moaned, and, as she did, Eosa forced the contents of the
fl
ask into her mouth. She choked feebly, and swallowed. “There,” Eosa said, standing back. “It’s safe now. She can

do no more harm. Tomorrow she will be burned. And the

child with her.”

“No!” Hildegyth cried. “No! Not my baby.” She set the child down on the pallet, next to its mother. “You can’t. The God has given him to me. He is my gift.”

“No. The child is a demon, as is the mother. They will be burned tomorrow.”

Hildegyth said nothing, merely turning away and resting her hands on the table, her shoulders slumped. Hengist came to her. “Wife, it must be as he says. The child and the mother must die.”

She nodded, and for a moment, Hengist really thought that all would be well. Then Hildegyth sprang from his grasp and launched herself at Eosa, the eating knife in her hand. She plunged the knife into the wyrce-jaga’s belly and twisted it. Their faces just inches apart, Eosa gasped in agony, blood pouring from his mouth, the dark liquid covering the glittering amulet on his chest. He crumpled to the
fl
oor, staring up at Hildegyth in disbelief. And, still staring, he died.

Hildegyth knelt by the dead man, then nodded her head in satisfaction. She rose and went to the pallet, looking down at the woman and child lying there.

“Hildegyth,” Hengist whispered, “what have you done?” “He was going to kill my baby,” Hildegyth said serenely,

her hands, her gown, her hair spotted with blood. “I couldn’t let him do that.”

“But you’ll let me be accused of murder? What do you think will happen to us if they
fi
nd out?”

“But they won’t
fi
nd out,” she said absently, picking up the baby and smiling down into its tiny face. “You’ll take care of that.”

“How—”

“Did anyone see you when you fetched him?” “No, no, but—”

“Well then.” She cooed to the child, dismissing Hengist from her thoughts. She looked down at the mother, lying spent on the pallet. The woman looked up at Hildegyth, hope steal- ing into her amber eyes.

Hildegyth, still holding the baby, said gently, “The wyrce- jaga was right. You must die. You are a witch. But I will save your child and bring him up as my own. He is my gift. My gift from the sea. The God has sent him to me.”

The dying woman reached out a trembling hand toward the baby, and then looked up at Hildegyth.

“I will care for him.” Hildegyth smiled. “He will grow up bright and strong. He will be my child. And I will never tell him about you. He will never know the truth.”

The woman’s face twisted in horror. “Oh, but you must,” she gasped. “You don’t understand what could happen. Send him home. Please, I beg you, send him back to Kymru.”

“To Kymru! The land of witches? Oh, I could never send him there. He stays with me. He will be of Corania, and serve the One God.”

“My baby, my child,” the woman whispered. “Oh, what will you become?” Again the woman looked up at Hildegyth, pleading one last time. “I am no Dreamer, but I tell you this. He will bring death and destruction to your land unless you send him home. Will you?”

“No. He is mine.”

The stranger gave an odd, twisted smile. “Then may the gods help us all,” she whispered, as she turned her face to the wall and died.

Aecesdun, Marc of Cantware Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire Ostmonath, 486

T

Soldaeg, Sol 4—Gewinnan Daeg Eve

he celebration in the mead-hall of the Eorl of Cantware was at its height. The air was hazy as smoke rose from the hearth in the center of the huge hall, whirling and

eddying its way under tables, past benches, between boisterous warriors, up to the tall rafters and out the small hole in the tim- ber roof. The coarse laughter of drunken men rebounded off the rough wooden walls, tangling and wrangling in the smoky air until it rose, like the smoke, to the rafters and out, escaping to disturb the night.

Surrounded by merriment, coarse jests, and bawdy songs, Havgan sat self-contained and controlled, as always. He smiled at the jests and joined in the war songs, but his thoughts were elsewhere, facing the truth—that the world of warriors he had longed to be a part of was just another world in which he was out of place, cut off. It was almost as though his very soul spoke a different language than all the rest. He had thought, long

ago, when he was just a
fi
sherman’s son, that if he could ex- change that old world with this new one, his nebulous longings would be satis
fi
ed. So he had planned and schemed and drawn himself up out of the world of lowly peasants and into this world of privileged warriors. He had been so sure that this new world would
fi
t him. But it had not.

Havgan glanced up at the high table where his lord, Wiglaf, the Eorl of Cantware, surveyed the warriors packed into his hall. The Eorl’s large, meaty hand grabbed his gold-banded drinking horn and, draining it to the dregs, held it out to be in- stantly
fi
lled by an attentive slave. Wiglaf’s long, graying braids almost dropped into the cup. His beard was spotted with food, and his dark blue tunic strained to cover his large belly. But his blue eyes were alert and cunning, as always.

Havgan glanced at the others at the high table. Sigefrith, the Alder of Apuldre, the father of Havgan’s closest friend, laughed and drank, but something in the man’s dark, intelligent eyes showed he wished to be elsewhere. The Alders of Gre- newic and Liminae both had glazed looks in their eyes, their movements becoming more and more clumsy.

Last of all, Havgan glanced at Sledda, Wiglaf’s nephew, who sat very quietly at the end of the table. He drank his mead sparingly, as a clever man should. He was wearing the black robe and yellow taBard of the wyrce-jaga. His white skull gleamed through his recently tonsured hair, and his pale gray, heavy-lidded eyes glittered, searching the hall restlessly. It was a look that all wyrce-jaga had, even if they were newly come to their posts, as Sledda was.