Title: Tales of the The Summer Country: The Spy and the Outlaw

Author: Wallace
 

Note: Co-incidentally, when you say 'Luck Head' in the kind of highland accent wielded by my father's side of the family, it sounds a lot like 'Lock Heed'. That's my excuse.
 
 

Chapter VII: In which the bad guys act evil, the good guys act noble, various and sundry extras are slaughtered to no greater purpose, and bad things begin to happen to basically good people. Also, seeds are sown for the distant future.
 

Ireland - the Emerald Isle - is a land of wide plains and gentle hills. Its people learned to fight across wide, flat land, and they had come to favour the wickerwork war chariot, light, fast, and durable. The Scots, on the other hand, made war in steep valleys and on bleak hillsides. For them, a mount was seldom of use in combat, and so even the wealthiest of noblemen kept few horses. With the coming of civilisation - with the new, Roman-style roads and the gradual movement of the border south into the lowlands - they had started to use cavalry, but mostly as scouts and raiders; the Clansmen would still rather stand face to face with their enemies, and fight to victory or defeat. Two dozen horses had been used in the flight and pursuit of the escaping Witch-Queen, and this had all but emptied the Royal stables. The relentlessness of Black Tom's pursuit had been such that four horses died, and he had killed another returning to Scone to make his report. The remainder were, quite simply, too exhausted to be used that day, and so he and his men must needs wait until the following morning at the earliest before they could set out to hunt Wisdom and the Lady Braddock. Black Tom knew enough about the animals to accept this fact, but this in no way reduced his irritation.

This was nothing to the temper of the Frost Queen. Hidden in the valley, Moira was beyond the reach of her powers, and the approach of the British noblewoman only compounded her rage. She showed no hint of emotion on her flawless face, but around her the courtiers of Scone became irritable and nervous without quite knowing why, and the Cassidy himself shouted angrily at any who came near.

When the Cassidy shouted, stone shattered. Not many people were going near.

Only Wyngarde was calm. Supremely confident in his own abilities, Frost's right-hand man had taken to watching Black Tom while wearing an expression that clearly expressed his own satisfaction at the Irishman's continuing failure.

Black Tom was only cheered slightly when the Frost Queen informed him that the woman responsible for his wounding was dead.  Monitoring Katherine from afar, she had felt a brief burst of shock, terror and panic, and then nothing.

Katherine, of course, was not dead, though she had indeed been shocked, terrified and panicked when the creature had flung itself at her. The brief, leathery flapping of the young dragon's wings had given her just enough warning to soften herself, allowing it to burst through her chest without meeting any resistance. The shock of seeing a small, purple, flying lizard was rapidly eclipsed when the creature, thrown off balance, hit the ground hard and rolled head over heels, finishing flat on its back, wings spread and eyes shut.

Looking down at it, Katherine realised two things. The first was that her mission for the Witch-Queen might yet prove not to be a total failure. The second was that, useful or no, the dragonling was alone, half-starved, and currently unconscious, and needed her help.

Katherine had long ago managed to inure herself to the idea of killing cute, furry animals for food and human beings for survival, but she'd never yet had to try ignoring a cute, scaly animal in distress. She stayed close to the dragon, watching over him - and, in so doing, she inadvertently brought herself under the umbrella of his invisibility to the Frost Queen's powers.

On the evening of the second day after her disappearance, Rahne returned. Still in wolf form, she padded quietly into the hut Moira was using as a hospital. Tessa was still unconscious, Colin McKay had succumbed to a sleeping draught prepared by Moira, and the Witch-Queen herself was finally allowing herself sleep. The princess rose up onto her hind legs, her form twisting to become bipedal, and sat down to watch her mother all night.

Wisdom was a light sleeper. He'd got used to it, in a life full of sliced throats and secret journeys. He didn't think he was alert and capable; he knew it, and it was rare for anyone to move within ten feet of him but that he instantly became aware of it.

On the morning of the third day of his journey with the Lady Braddock, he opened her eyes to discover her hand over his mouth. Her face was only a few inches away from his.

<Quiet.> Her voice pulsed clearly in his head. He stared at her in surprise. <Hunters.> She went on. <Thirteen men, all mounted. They're looking for us.> She turned his head towards the road, less than a dozen yards from their campsite. Through the low heather he made out the legs of horses, and of men standing by them. Managing to raise his gaze slightly he made out Black Tom, his right arm heavily bandaged but his shillelagh held ready in his left, sitting his horse as his warriors scouted. How had they arrived so early?

<They've been riding hard.> She told him. <All of them are fairly tired, in mind more than body.> Wisdom had been counting. Aside from Tom, he could definitely see at least ten men, but his position and the way they kept moving around made a more accurate count awkward. He would just have to trust the mindwalker. <Yes. You'll have to.> She smiled at him, and then turned her head sideways. <Quiet.>

One of Black Tom's men, a tracker, claimed that there was someone nearby. Black Tom himself noticed that the local animals had indeed fallen quiet, but so far as he could see any disturbance was as likely to be from his men as from their prey, while the hoofprints could, to him, have been any age. Even so, he was cautious enough to investigate.

He was just about to order a brief search, when something made him stop.

'It's nothing.' He declared. 'We ride on.' Several of his men looked at him in surprise, but they mounted up as ordered and moved out.

'They're gone.' Braddock declared after a few moments. She rose to her feet, and Wisdom now saw that she held her unsheathed sword in one hand. She set about loading her horse, and Wisdom had to be hurry to be ready in time to ride with her.

They'd travelled close to a mile when suddenly the Frost Queen's voice spoke in Black Tom's head.

<Really, Cassidy. I would have thought you would at least have noticed that she was tampering with you.> He blinked, and then shouted to his now slightly confused men to turn and ride back the way they had just come, fast.

Elisabeth noticed them late, and shouted desperately for Wisdom to ride fast. The two of them urged their horses into a gallop. The Lady Braddock rode easily, having been riding since childhood. Wisdom was once again in difficulty, but managed to stay on his mount for half a mile. Then they topped a ridge, and began riding downhill hard, the hunting Irishmen close behind them. As they reached the bottom of the slope, Wisdom inadvertently jerked on the reins, turning his horse slightly. It staggered, one of its hooves hit the soft turf beside the road, and it abruptly fell, rolling end over end to spill the spy onto the ground. He landed badly.

It took a moment for the Lady Braddock to become aware that her companion had fallen, and so she was over two hundred yards away by the time she managed to turn her horse. By that time the pursuers had reached him. Rising, he unleashed a handful of blades of heat that sliced through the air towards Black Tom, forcing the Irish Gifted to hurl himself sideways from the saddle. A moment later one of his men struck down at Wisdom with his sword, a single, vicious cut that sliced into the Briton's skull, dropping him instantly.

Beyond them, four more of the Leignsmen had ridden forward to attack the returning Elisabeth, who had drawn her great longsword. She batted the first man's thrust aside before opening his chest with a single, slashing cut, and then slipped sideways to avoid the spears of the next two attackers. Hanging on the side of her saddle, she lanced her weapon up under her horse's neck to impale the thigh of one man, the razor-edged blade biting deep to open the massive artery in his groin. She jerked the weapon free and spun back into her saddle, spinning it over her head to parry another attack before cutting the fourth man's throat.

Two men were dying, a third was seriously injured, and the last was backing his horse nervously, his blade held ready. Beyond him, though, she could see eight more, and at least three of them held bows. Wisdom lay still, bleeding heavily from a head wound, and was either dead or deeply unconscious. She turned her horse's head once more, and rode away.

On the edge of the valley, the old man of the gateway opened his eyes. No expression showed on his face, but the world shifted. After a moment the great russet wolf that was Rahne's other form found that instead of slinking along a streambed a mile down the valley from the village it was instead beside the old man's fire. He looked at her for a long time, and then sent her on her way.

In the depths of his drugged sleep, Colin McKay struggled against the Frost Queen's control. She had great power over men's minds, and great skill in its exercise, but he was a long way from her and she had many distractions.

Behind Elisabeth the Leignsmen tied three men to horses. The man whose chest had been opened by the Lady Braddock's eastern blade was dying, but both Black Tom and Wisdom, though seriously injured, might yet survive. Wisdom was deep in a coma, his face a mask of blood, while Black Tom's right side, from scalp to waist, was a mass of heat-cauterised cuts. He had avoided being stabbed by the blades that Wisdom's gift generated, but in so doing had allowed them to slice along the length of his torso and face, burning a terrible furrow in his flesh as they passed.

Carrying their prisoner, their master, and their comrade, the warriors set out to return to Scone. None of them considered pursuing the British woman; they had no desire to face that terrible blade once more.

At noon, the old man came down into the valley.

He walked slowly, with the stiffness of age, but somehow covered the ground with remarkable speed. He walked past his people without looking to left or right, heading for the hut that had been taken over by Moira, within which she tended to Tessa.

McKay, still unconscious and tied to his litter, had been placed outside.

The old man stood looking down at the Nomad's killer for long minutes. The Nomad - the Derfel Scoatt - had guarded the People for centuries. Each Nomad raised his own replacement, and then accepted death. Death had come early, though, in combat with the fur-covered warrior, himself fighting against his own loyalties. The Nomad did not yet have a replacement.

The child Buck walked over to stand beside the old man. She was sucking the fingers of one hand with rapt concentration, but after a moment she looked up at her silent companion, and then focused her attention on Colin McKay.

The old man reached down to touch the Gifted's forehead, and then his heart. Slit-pupilled eyes opened silently, and the Champion of Scotland stared at the sky. Buck reached over and started tugging at the tightly-knotted thongs that held him in place.

'I...' McKay began, and then coughed. His throat was parched dry, and it took a moment for his voice to recover. 'I have a duty to my Queen.' His gaze was clear; the old man had enabled him to throw off the Frost Queen's influence. 'I must protect her, and rescue her husband.' Despite his thirst, his voice sounded clear and steady as ever it was.

The old man simply looked at him, as the Buck finished untying his legs. Cramped muscles flexed, and he returned the gaze.

'I must restore her. I do not have the time for other duties, now.'

The old man touched his throat, and, for the first time that any could remember, spoke, a single word.

'Penance.'

Colin McKay bowed his head.

'I will raise her as a warrior.' He replied. 'But if my queen calls on me, I must serve her.'

The old man turned away as Buck finished undoing the knots. He climbed the hillside with the same speed with which he had descended, and soon vanished into the clouds that hung low over the valley.

Never look back.

Elisabeth Braddock was in many ways a remarkable woman. Born into the oldest family of the nobility of the island of Britain, she had from an early age been considered exceptionally lovely even by the standards of her Fay ancestors. Her suitors had included almost all of the nobility of the island, and many from farther afield - although the one man she had chosen to pursue, the then crown prince Scott, had refused her, and she had settled for standing Godmother to his firstborn. There had been some disagreement as to whether she was truly Gifted, or simply wielded the magic that was her heritage in an unusual manner, but her powers proved insignificant, at least when compared to her older brother. Fearing him she had fled the Summer Country and taken ship for Rome, from there travelling ever eastwards.

She had not looked back then, no matter where her trail took her.

In time she had reached the far-off land of China, where her pale beauty was considered coarse, and for perhaps the first time in her life realised the full significance of her powers. Though she had trained in their use, she had considered them secondary - she was a mindwalker, yes, but first she was one of the most beautiful women in the world. Now, they were her primary means of survival, and she had used them to her own ends.

Her exercise of her abilities had not gone unnoticed, however. She had been captured by the Hand, a sinister cult of assassin-warriors based in Japan, the most eastern of islands, and delivered to their then paymaster, the powerful sorcerer and warlord known only as the Mandarin. She had fought until her fate became inevitable, and then accepted it, never looking back and always seeking her route forward. Even as a prisoner and a slave, even as her captor's magics twisted her mind and body, she had known neither fear nor regret.

Then had come the armour-clad sorcerer Stark, enemy of the Mandarin, and the armies of the Mongol Great Khan. They had freed her, and given her the wherewithal to return home. She had no longer felt it necessary to hide, and had seized the opportunity. She had never considered returning to the east, even though she had left friends, allies and a lover behind there.

Now she rode north, away from the scene of the recent battle, conscious of the fact that she might be pursued. She did not look back; Wisdom was lost, and lingering would help neither of them.

She would have to find the Witch-Queen alone.

This was not an easy prospect. She had talked very little to Wisdom on the road, and had no real idea where the Witch-Queen was hidden ('With friends. Well, they haven't tried to kill us yet, so they probably aren't enemies.'), or how to find her ('We'll be met. Probably.'). She did what she knew; she rode north, and cast her mind out ahead of her to watch for further attention from the Frost Queen.

Near sundown, her horse spooked, dancing nervously as she first exercised her considerable horsemanship abilities, and then the more subtle side of her gift, to keep the beast from bolting in outright panic. She cast around with her eyes for the source of its skittishness, and that was when she saw the wolf.

The Frost Queen watched from afar as her warriors approached, bearing with them the comatose bodies of Black Tom and Wisdom. The news was not good; she had neither liked nor trusted the Cassidy's kinsman, but he had been perhaps the most useful of her followers, a skilled warrior and fearless leader of men. If he died, she would have to rely on locals, controlled by her power, and on Jason Wyngarde, the illusionist who maintained her appearance - and he was even less trustworthy than Black Tom. She had been able to play the two of them off against one another, keeping them in constant competition for her favour, but with the field cleared, Wyngarde might well come to realise just how heavily her position relied on his assistance. And that could be disastrous.

The problem with using Wyngarde was that he could control people almost as effectively as she could herself, and on a far larger scale. Luckily, he had no real defence against her abilities.

Her horse wouldn't go near the wolf. In the end Lady Braddock dismounted and removed its bridle, at which it followed its training and turned around, cantering southwards. Elisabeth herself took only a change of clothes, her cloak, purse and sword with her as she walked after the creature. Exactly why she was following it she could not have said, and attempts to contact the creature's mind brought her up against a layer of pure predatory instinct that somehow had been shaped into a desire to guide her - to where, she could not gather. So she climbed the hillside, trusting more or less completely in luck to get her where she needed to be. Whatever else the creature was, it didn't seem hostile - if anything, it was more nervous of her than she could imagine being of it.

The slope was steep, the going difficult, and Elisabeth realised that, since returning to her homeland, she had allowed herself to slip gradually out of condition. And why not, she had thought, considering the circumstances? No longer a travelling warrior or enslaved assassin, there had been no reason to stay in training. So now she sweated and gasped for air as she scrambled up paths that, for her four-legged escort, presented no difficulties. After what felt like forever, but was really only a couple of hours, the ground flattened out. The wolf ran ahead, leaving her to trudge wearily forward. There was a fire burning and, tired as she was, she could do nothing more than slump wearily beside it.

After a moment she raised her head, and saw the old man sitting across from her. Dark eyes studied her from a face as old as time. After a moment she had to look away, and when she did so she saw a simple clay bowl of water sitting beside her. It had not been there when she sat down - her footprint was right by it - but she had lived a strange enough life that she did not let this fact trouble her as she lifted the bowl and drank deeply. The water was cold, and sweet, and utterly refreshing; she felt her fatigue melt away even as she swallowed.

When she put it down, the bowl was as full as before.

The old man was still watching her, and Elisabeth sent forward a cautious tendril of power to probe his mind. She got nowhere; his mind was there, but the more she tried to enter it the more it seemed to fade into the background. It was like trying to read the mind of a mountain; like a mountain also in that, while definitely there, she could not tell where it began or ended. It was as if she was already inside his mind.

He showed no reaction to her attempted invasion. She sat back and watched him. Her sword rested on the ground beside her, but she did not even consider reaching for it.

'I seek the Witch Queen.' She announced instead. He did not answer.

Elisabeth glanced down at the bowl of water, and then lifted it and stood to carry it around the fire and lay it by his side. As she did so she could not help but notice that, though the fire burned steadily, the mountaintop was barren and there was no sign of any spare fuel.

'I thank you for your hospitality.' She said finally. She had been with him barely ten minutes, but nonetheless it seemed... necessary.

When she walked away, the wolf now walked by her side.

Moira exited the hut, and stretched. She was tired, but could not rest quite yet. Her work with Tessa was done, but soon, she hoped, Wisdom and Katherine would return, bringing with them powerful allies. She glanced up the slopes of the valley, and then turned away towards the nearby burn. As she walked, Colin McKay fell in beside her, the child running at his side.

'Has she got a name?' Moira asked when she reached the burn. She had failed to bring a container of any kind, and so resorted to simply lying on the bank and plunging her head into the water.

'The Nomad's successor is always called only the Buck.' Her champion replied, slightly hesitantly. Not so long before, he knew, he had believed her an impostor, and would even now have been seeking her death. He was not sure what the old man had done to free him, but, for that, if nothing else, he would care for the child.

Moira glanced at the girl. She was perhaps four years old, small and sturdy. She was also filthy as only a child can be.

'May I ask a question?' McKay asked.

'Ye've always had the right of speech in my presence, man. What's stopping you?'

'Why did you send for Lady Braddock, and not the Phoenix Queen? The Summer Country are your allies, and Scott is wise enough not to send an army where one is not wanted.'

'True, but I would not ask Jeannie to leave her children. They're still too young to do without their mother.' She held out a hand to the child. 'Come over here. You need a wash.'

It had been a long time since Moira had washed a child by herself. She had done it a few times for Rahne, when she had first come to the court and had been too wild to let anyone other than the Witch-Queen near her. She had never bathed her own son; her husband had thought it unseemly for a queen.

She began to scrub the girl's face with a rag torn from her own dress, but was then distracted by the wild tangle of her hair. After a few minutes struggle, she gave up, and borrowed a knife from McKay, hacking most of the filthy mass away and then ducking the child's head. When the hair was as clean as she could get it, she returned to the Buck's face, cleaning it thoroughly. The girl was pale even by the standards of the Highlanders, and compared to the weathered, tattooed Picts she looked like a ghost. Her white skin contrasted sharply with surprisingly fine black hair, which Moira already regretted cutting.

There was a mark on the girl's face. Not a tattoo, or a scar, or even simply ingrained dirt - a birthmark. It covered one eye, a black circle on her white skin. Moira had never seen its like before.

'And don't you look better cleaned up, Buck?' She asked, rhetorically. She'd never yet heard the Buck speak.

'Beatrice.' The girl replied. Moira almost jumped in surprise.

'Beatrice?' She asked. The girl's voice had been strong and surprisingly clear, no hint of fear at these relative strangers.

'My name's Beatrice.' She repeated. 'I'm going to be the greatest warrior in the world.' She turned to look at McKay, who discovered that the mark over her eye lent her gaze an unusual intensity. 'You killed Jack.' The cat-man bowed his head by way of response. 'You'll teach me to beat you.'

'I will. But it will take many years.'

'I can wait.' Beatrice told him. 'Until then, I'm Buck.' And then her mouth and her face closed, and she was silent.

They had arrived in the valley from opposite directions, but at the same time, the people informed Moira, and their heads were purple.

'Purple?' McKay asked.

'We did not go close.' The small warrior replied.

'But you'll be letting them come on in?'

'They passed the Gateway.'

The Queen and Champion of the Scotii walked out to meet the newcomers: two very different women.

The last time either of the Scots had seen the Lady Elisabeth Braddock she had been a tall, graceful girl, possessed of an ethereal beauty, with golden hair and milk-white skin, with the softness that comes of lifelong shelter from the elements. Despite her rumoured power, neither of them had been particularly impressed. The woman now walking towards them was tall and graceful, but there the similarities ended. Her skin was a rich golden brown, her body lean and hard, her clothing practical. She was still beautiful, but where once she had been like a delicate flower now she was like a finely-made blade. Before, she had possessed the grace of a dancer; now she moved like a predator.

Her hair was a deep purple, and hung down her back in a long braid.

Beside her walked Katherine the Jewess, still dressed in her woodsman's garb. She was largely unchanged from their last encounter, but still her head was purple.

A young dragon was crouched on her shoulder, its tail wound round her neck. Seeing the Lady Braddock, it raised its beaked head, and hissed at her.

Colin and Moira, Katherine and Elisabeth, looked at one another for a long moment. It was Katherine, the youngest of those present, who first broke the silence.

'Your dragon is dead, Moira. Where's Pete?'