Daughters Of The Storm (45 page)

Bluebell found it easier to travel without her sisters. She only had herself and her animals to account for, so she could push herself to go a little further, a little faster. Still, she had to find a place to stop for the night. She was in the wilds of Bradsey now, a chaotic landscape of rocky heath punctuated by ancient gnarled groves strangled by vines and thick with moss. No inns for miles. She didn't want to sleep in the open, so when night fell she took herself into one of the groves and found a small clear area, where it looked as though lightning had struck a tree and burned down all the saplings. It smelled of old ash and dirt. She sent Thrymm and Thræc to bring her a rabbit and started a fire. She gutted the rabbit with her knife, fed the innards to the happy dogs, and spitted the rest on a spear to roast. As she sat with her back against the struck
tree, listening to the sounds of night and the cracking of the fire, she realised her body was aching. No, her ribs. Her ribs were aching. She couldn't remember how she'd hurt her ribs.

Then she understood. She hadn't suffered any physical injury. Her ribs were hurting because she was unhappy. Today, she had lost her favourite sister. Hundreds of miles away, her father lay under an enchantment. And her body was aching from the weary pressure of these sodden clouds.

Thrymm sat up, ears pricked. Bluebell was instantly on alert. ‘What is it, girl?'

Then she heard it: a crack in the undergrowth, between the trees. Somebody was approaching.

More than one somebody. The dogs ran to her side as she stood, watching as four men emerged — from different directions — and formed a loose semicircle around her. Behind her was the mound of deadfall. There was nowhere to run.

She dropped the rabbit in the fire and leapt to her feet, the Widowsmith in her hand. She whistled the dogs forwards and ran at one of the men. The dogs took one down, barking and snarling furiously. But the other three raiders flanked her immediately. She slipped between them, trying to make them approach her front on so she could protect her back and sides. Cold steel flashed and she felt searing blood pouring from her ribs. Her heart thundered behind her eyes. Why hadn't she put her mail on? Where was her helm? The first raider dropped his arm a little too low and Bluebell judged her timing perfectly, slicing vertically into his head. The blade became momentarily embedded in his skull, losing her a fraction of time. She warded off another blow, but it glanced off her arm. More blood. The wound in her side pulsed hotly.

She swung, precision and speed. Right across a raider's knees. He fell forwards, nearly tripping his friend. Thrymm was on him a moment later, tearing out his throat. Only one left. Bluebell
pulled all her strength towards her, crippled his sword arm. He dropped the blade with a clang. Bluebell lifted her sword to bring it down on his head. A moment later, he had a knife in his hand and he plunged it into the soft flesh between her shoulder and collarbone, then withdrew it with a satisfied grunt.

The force and speed were still in her arms as she split his skull in two. Then she dropped her shield and sheathed her sword, dismayed by the amount of blood she was losing. It covered her hands. She looked around. Across a raider's body, about ten feet away, lay Thræc.

‘Oh, no,' she said, hurrying over. She placed her hand over the dog's ribs. No movement, no breath. ‘No,' she said again, and tears squeezed from her eyes. ‘Come on, girl, breathe.' She couldn't distinguish the dog's blood from the raider's. Thrymm was there now, whining softly. Bluebell touched the dog's head with her bloody fingers. ‘I'm sorry, girl. She's gone. She's gone.' Bluebell coughed out a sob. Thræc had been with her for eight years. ‘She's gone,' she said again, sitting back on her haunches and letting herself cry. The wound in her shoulder had stopped bleeding on its own, but the one in her side was leaking blood alarmingly. What was she supposed to do? There was no help anywhere nearby. If she could get Isern to take her to Yldra tonight ... She didn't much like the idea of travelling in this much pain, but feared that to spend the night here without help could mean she didn't wake up in the morning.

She looked down at Thræc's body again. Reached bloody fingers to touch the back of the dog's neck. Thræc had loved being scratched right there. Bluebell sniffed back tears and snot, and stood. ‘We're going to give her a hero's send off, Thrymm,' she said, glancing around for fallen sticks. She had to move a little way into the grove, breaking off twigs and small branches, then bringing them to the centre of the clearing. Then using her axe to chop
larger branches. She took each raider's sword to form a rectangle, then between the blades she began to build a funeral pyre, one layer at a time, small enough for the body of her beloved dog. All the while, she ignored the wound in her side, fearing to see how much blood she was losing. She was too far from help and she knew it. She wouldn't make it to Yldra's and she had no idea which direction the nearest village was in. They had left the last of civilisation behind that morning. So, out here in the wilds with her dogs and horse, she would probably die alone. To distract herself, she kept building the pyre, until it was as high as her hip. Thræc lay very still on top of the raider's body. Bluebell bent to scoop her up and laid her gently on top of the pyre. Then she soaked the pyre with Ash's fire oil, lit it, and stood back. Her knees were weak, so she sat. A slow ache pulsed in her side, a growing darkness moving up her chest, rib by rib. Cold shuddered inside her, very low, between her navel and her spine, making her legs shake. She pulled her knees close and leaned back on a tree trunk. Thrymm sat next to her, leaning her warm body against her. Bluebell put her hand on Thrymm's head, felt the smallness and lightness of the dog's skull, and thought about her own smallness and lightness, her own impossible ephemerality. The fire bloomed, pressing its pattern of light against her eyes. Then her eyes were closing, the coldness growing. The thought glimmered on the edge of her mind: perhaps it was a mistake to come here. Perhaps she should have let her father die and taken up her place as Ælmesse's leader. Now there would be nobody left to rule. Only Ash knew of her plans for Rowan and Ash had taken herself into exile.

An immense sadness gripped her. Not despair. Just sadness that the dark was coming before she was ready for it. She would have moaned, but there was no breath left in her lungs.

Amber light fluttered. A sound — a soft sucking wind — passed her ears. She wasn't dead. Firelight flashed and faded as she struggled to open her eyes. Hoofbeats approaching. More raiders, perhaps. They would finish her quickly. Still her fingers stretched out sightlessly for her sword. She tilted her head back and opened her eyes. The moon was just on the other side of full, silvery-blue. A strong wind drove streaky clouds across it. The moonlight moved, the firelight moved, her vision wavered. The whole world appeared to be shaking to pieces, and the hoofbeats and barking grew closer. She thought of Sighere: had he gathered her retainers and come to look for her? What use was their help now? She was mortally wounded.

Next to her Thrymm started to whine. She tucked her tail between her legs and trembled against Bluebell's side. Bluebell tried to focus. The sound was coming from every direction at once, like an army approaching but at high speed.

A flash of grey-white between the trees. Then on the other side. Bluebell blinked hard, trying to clear her vision. A horn sounded in the dark, a great echoing war horn. It thrilled her to her core, sending warmth pulsing through the cold dark inside her. She forced her eyes open. The world swung into sharp focus.

From the trees, a ghostly rider burst into the clearing. Behind him, a retinue of riders and dogs made of gossamer and shadows. The head rider galloped towards her, pulling up suddenly. His horse reared up on its hind legs and whinnied loudly. Bluebell sat, unable to move, staring up at him. He dismounted with a thud, as though he were flesh and blood. Bluebell was at eye level with his thigh. She saw every detail of his clothing — the stitched shoes, the leather straps around his gaiters, the hem of his cloak. But all of it was pale and silver-grey, there but not quite there. He crouched in front of her. Her heart hammered, making the blood pump quicker from the wound at her side.

‘Bluebell,' he said.

‘Who are you?'

‘Your father's father. Sent by the Horse God.'

‘Am I to join you?'

He shook his head. ‘It is not your time. You have many more battles to fight.'

‘I am mortally wounded.'

He removed the glove from his right hand and reached it towards her side. As he touched her, a brilliant white light exploded into her mind. She could see now this was both her grandfather and the Horse God himself, eight feet tall and wearing his horned helm, travelling with his Wild Hunt. Her veins swelled, thrumming with sublime fire. The pain in her ribs was searing, but then when he pulled his hand away, it disappeared completely. She touched her skin with bloody fingers. She was whole again; the wound was gone.

At once, the coldness that had been making its claim on her withdrew. She could see and hear clearly. The rider climbed back on his horse and looked down at her. ‘Save my son. Save Æthlric.'

‘I will.'

‘And Bluebell,' he said, lifting the reins, ‘beware your sister.'

‘Beware my ...?'

But he didn't hear her question. With another blast of his war horn, he was galloping away. The other riders streamed behind him in ghostly shades of silver and grey. Hooves thundered, shaking the ground. Dogs barked wildly. Bluebell watched them go until the last group of dogs disappeared into the trees. She was almost certain she saw Thræc among them.

Bluebell woke when dawn scraped the sky. Her clothes were bloody and stinking, but the skin over her ribs was smooth and well. She had dressed the other wounds last night, and neither of
them was bad enough to stop her from riding. So she ate and took to the road, Thrymm obediently, if dispiritedly, at Isern's heels.

The rocky ground grew smoother, the groves further apart. Here and there, stones had been arranged in circles a few feet high. She didn't see another soul on the road. The plains opened up, vast and flat, covered in tussocky grass and wildflowers. Finally she came to the standing stone Ash and Unweder had told her of. She left the road and headed directly north, uphill. Long past the time when she should have seen Yldra's house, Bluebell began to worry. Had she missed it? Impossible, surely, if it was — as Unweder said — out in the open.

But then Unweder had also said Yldra was notorious for protecting the way.

Bluebell doubled back, then followed the same route. Still nothing. Thrymm sat down and whined softly. If only Ash were here ...

But sometimes she and Ash could communicate without words, so perhaps she had a little of that magic in herself. She grunted at the thought of it, wanting so badly to be back inside a life where things were exactly as they seemed. But nevertheless she doubled back again, this time paying very close attention to the sensations in her body. There. A slight prickling behind her forehead. She shook her head and stared hard into middle distance. And there it was. There it had always been. A little hut with lime-washed walls and a round, thatched roof. The path was right in front of her, right under Isern's hooves.