The Deepening Dark

By Alastair Rosie

When Rhianna consigns her husband's body to the flames and takes the throne of Haydutia she unwittingly sets herself on a crash course with the Bulkaran empire, which has subsumed all of Western Tuath. Only in Eastern Tuath is their influence limited and General Bolksta intends to crush these proud horsemen of the northern plains. A violent encounter at Hawkmoon leads to her overthrow and show trial but Bolksta's plans to execute her go awry when a wandering band of elves save the day and rescue her.
In the netherworld between madness and sanity Rhianna's fate hangs by a thread while all about the world explodes in an orgy of blood-letting as Bolksta unleashes his goblin auxiliaries upon the villagers. All that stands between them and the slaughter of the innocents are the women of the She Bear. Highly trained but overlooked by their menfolk these battle maidens must work hard to hold back the tide of maneaters and rally rival lords under a common banner. It is a time of heroes and heroines, villains and cowards, and in the deepening dark a faery sword is returned to the world and a fire in the east is unleashed.
The Deepening Dark is book one in the Outlaw Queen series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alastair Rosie
• Release date: Nov 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311867032

Alastair Rosie

I was born in Stirling, Scotland and we emigrated to Australia when I was fifteen months old. I didn’t want to leave and apparently I cried a lot on the plane. There’s a vicious rumour that a missing loaf of bread had something to do with my parents leaving so suddenly, but my critics will do anything to discredit me! We settled in Melbourne and eventually the outer eastern suburb of Bayswater North. I started writing very early on because we had no television and I hate playing sports of any description. I’m one of those Aussies who’s never surfed, hates beaches in the summer and thinks cricket is the most boring game on the planet.I finally got serious about writing in 1995 when my father was on life support and watching him waste away drove me to write something, anything to escape. After he died I just kept writing and haven’t stopped yet. I got my Diploma of Arts in Professional Writing and Editing in 1998 from Box Hill TAFE and got into writing web content. I’d cut my teeth on the old Australian Jodie Foster website, which no longer exists and no, we never met Jodie Foster but it would have been nice don’t you think? I wrote lots of short stories and started a few novels. In between I kept working full time on building sites and in factories. What else do you do with a Diploma of Arts?I escaped Australia in 2003, I think there was an early release scheme going for frustrated ex Brits and I took it. I took the first train to Scotland and apart from brief excursions to England I tend to stay local, more or less. My first novel, The Boston Slasher was released in 2008 and my second book The Deepening Dark was released in December 2013. Angel of Mercy was released on July 1st, 2014 and I hope to release many more books on Smashwords over the next few years.In the future I hope to win Euromillions, retire from full time employment and hire an army of minions to cater to my every need but until then I’ll have to keep on writing and publishing. I hope you enjoy my books as much as I enjoyed writing them. Don’t forget to leave a review, even if it’s only a few words because feedback is something I always look forward to.Enjoy!

Book preview

BOOK ONE

THE DEEPENING DARK

Published by Alastair Rosie at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Alastair Rosie

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Acknowledgements

The list of people I want to thank could probably take a whole book but let me take just a small paragraph to single out certain people who have encouraged me to keep going with my writing especially during those dark periods when it seemed as if the muse had abandoned me for someone more positive.

Thus in no particular order I wish to thank Vivienne Chellew for her constant encouragement, Claire Watson for suggesting I split one monster novel into two or three books, Ozzy for reading an earlier draft and actually liking it, Phil and Patricia Ward, Marisa Rosie, Kirsty and Phillip Rosie. There are many others who have come and gone over the years and in their own way encouraged me to keep going with the manuscript, you know who you are so thank you.

A big thank you to my cousin, Fiona Rennie who supplied the cover art, I fell in love with the cover the moment I saw it.

Lastly I would like to remember my other sister, Linda who lost her battle with cancer back in 2009. She never got to read the new draft but her lust for life still has the power to inspire me, I hope you found your dragon or at the very least a unicorn.

CHAPTER ONE

War is kindled in the coldness after the death of words.

Haydutian Proverb

Late spring, 2856 of the Fourth Age

They came an hour after sunrise when people had risen from their beds, some still shaking the sleep from their minds. A few barking dogs ran around the longhouses, looking for scraps tossed out the night before. The cattle and horses were making their daily pilgrimage across the river to graze on the pastures on the other side. Windows and doors were flung open, and the warm breeze blowing across the Horse Plains brought the fresh smell of grass and wheat mixed with the scent of pine logs burning in firepits throughout the village.

Two sentries on the Hawkwing hill directly in front of the village sounded the alarm fifteen minutes earlier. One, Aegrid, rode furiously through the colossal main gateway and into the central courtyard in front of the great hall. The other stood watch, the feathers on his spear flapping in the breeze as he stared out over the rolling plains to the west.

Aegrid pounded up the stairs and paused in the open doorway, surprised to find Queen Rhianna sitting at an oak table staring down the hall at the tranquil waters of Lake Hawkmoon just visible through the open rear doors. The remains of her breakfast had been pushed aside. She held a silver goblet of mead in her slender hand. A pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses lay beside a leather bound book with her ink bottle and quill. Lionhunter looked up curiously and sniffed the air. His tail thumped the wooden floor and she prodded him with her foot. His head sank between his paws to a wet patch near his mouth.

She looked regal even when she was dressed plainly. A pale green tunic fell to her knees, and blue silk breeches covered her lower legs. She turned to acknowledge Aegrid and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Her emerald green eyes, finely chiselled features, long black hair, and tanned complexion were eulogised in song throughout the Haydutian towns and villages, the fair maiden of common heritage who had stolen the heart of a king.

Aegrid saw that she was studying him curiously. A lump came to his throat. Rhianna, King Veagal’s widow and now the newest ruler of the Haydutians, and he brought her the worst possible news. He looked past her, trying to find words.

What is it? her dulcet tones danced across the room caressing him with their warmth.

He coughed and his steel blue eyes narrowed. They have arrived, two hundred riders, Bulkarans. They bring goblins as well.

She stiffened and looked past him. Eternity hung in the balance. Ardoman, the only other person in the room studied her through piercing blue eyes and nodded. She pushed a lock of the waist length hair over her ear and nodded politely before issuing a quiet order.

Very well, see to it that the women and boys are well hidden, she reached for the soft boots at her side, not too many to arouse suspicion, just enough to ensure that they cannot steal our souls.

She slid a foot into a fox fur-trimmed boot and fastened the ties, and pile up horse dung in front of the cellar doors. No Bulkaran will go near dung of any description, although I am not so sure it will prevent the goblins. They eat their own dung.

Aegrid bowed, and swinging around stalked out of the room. Rhianna said nothing while she donned the other boot. Ardoman tapped the pipe into a bowl on the table, and stared at the pile of tobacco sitting in front of him. We knew it would come to this, he spoke quietly, the beast is unleashed and woe betide all who defy him.

She leaned on the polished tabletop and stared across the other side of the hall to the carved wooden arch leading to the great balcony. She felt a strange mixture of anxiety and relief, similar to the emotions experienced before she rode into battle. She swallowed and closed her eyes momentarily, losing herself in the strange netherworld between living and dying. The beast had been looking east with hungry eyes for ten years and now it was here.

She wished that her people were behind the great stone walls of Santalia instead of Hawkmoon’s wooden walls. Hawkmoon was Veagal’s birthplace. He’d refused the greater comfort and security of Santalia. It would have been a better place from which to confront the beast. There were barely fifty warriors left in the village, Santalia could raise ten thousand spears in a heartbeat. That they had stayed this long in Veagal’s old home spoke to tradition and superstition, Haydutian rulers always chose their own capital.

She opened her eyes and pulled at a red woollen cloak trimmed with blue velvet. I hoped their coming would be delayed at least a week, she folded her spectacles methodically. Our respect for tradition could prove to be our undoing in these fell days, another three hundred warriors would have strengthened our position. We should have departed for Santalia after we burned his body. Would it really have angered the gods?

Ardoman rubbed the polished bowl of the pipe, but the horses had to be saved. We cannot let the wild herds fall into their hands.

And my husband had to be mourned for six weeks lest his spirit lose its way to the Undying Lands, she swallowed, tradition and necessity, how does one marry the two?

One is born of the other, he replied.

Rhianna managed a tired grin. Ah, Ardoman, you are forever the wise elf in human form. What would I do without you?

Now if I were an elf, he shot back, I would cast a cloak of invisibility over Hawkmoon.

Rhianna chuckled in spite of her churning stomach. Now that would be a sight, she stared at the man who had been her husband’s chief advisor. She’d first met him as a sixteen year old. He’d been middle aged yet still handsome with only a few grey flecks in his long black hair. Fourteen years later his hair was grey and flecks of black floated through it.

She’d avoided him during her first few months of marriage to the king, however with Veagal’s descent into a mead-fuelled darkness, in Ardoman she found a man who longed to teach her the ways of leadership and good government. In the midst of his binges Veagal ranted at his old friend and in his hurt the older man turned to Rhianna, finding a young woman struggling with her new role. People bowed instead of slapping her back, women refused to look in her eyes, and men stood back to let her pass, a far cry from her life as a local war leader. She’d been respected and admired then. Before her marriage to Veagal she could at least throw off her clothes and lie naked on the plains at night with her companions without undue ceremony.

She found an ally in Ardoman. He came to her aid after Veagal struck her three months into their marriage. Acting on warrior’s instinct she struck back, laying a sword at his throat just as Ardoman walked into their bedchamber. He smoothed things over with a counsellor’s wisdom and took her under his wing. It was whispered that if Rhianna had not become Veagal’s wife he would have fallen to an assassin’s blade for his deeds of misrule.

At Ardoman’s insistence she began visiting villages and towns, travelling far and wide carrying the king’s blessings and bringing back tribute. During those long rides she once again became the war leader, an equal among equals, the queen with the common touch who could share a bawdy joke or inquire after a child’s health. Her memory for minor details was phenomenal. To the Haydutians she was simply, the ‘People’s Queen.’

Ardoman moved around behind her and lifted a torc from the table. He bent it and slid it around her neck. She looked down at the twisted gold wires as he spoke quietly. The gods will decide whether we made the right decision. Veagal had to be mourned and we had to make sure the horses were driven to the corners of the grass seas. Now the People of the Horse will face their enemy and give a good account of themselves. You are our queen and our protector. There is not a man nor woman who would not give their lives to defend you.

The words hung heavy on her heart as a calloused hand squeezed her shoulder.

Leave me with my thoughts for a moment. She stared out at the great balcony. I will meet you out there.

He patted her affectionately and walked across the hall past the tables lining the walls. At the doorway he turned and her heart skipped. She would remember the way he looked now forever, the yellow cotton shirt tucked into black breeches, adorned with a black belt and gold horse head buckle. The jewelled pommel of a curved knife hung at his side, the silver-yellow cloak trimmed with black, fastened with a silver clasp. The torc was also silver, his badge of office. She swallowed the fear and smiled weakly.

Farewell Ardoman, queen maker.

She adjusted her belt, feeling the gold horse head buckle, a gift from Agnatha, the Volkzannian queen. The People of the Lion, lords of the southern plains had become her newest allies. She felt the outline and whispered a prayer for wisdom to Beltar, the Horse God of the Haydutians. For weeks, they’d known that the Bulkarans were on the move. One did not move a hundred and fifty thousand men in total secrecy.

Haydutian laws dictated that a king be mourned for six weeks and no one wanted to break with tradition. The customs of the Tuathan tribes had been a sore point these last few years. Along with their armies of occupation, the Bulkarans had brought a disdain for Haydutian culture. The drums had been banned west of the Macsoran Mountains, along with pipe smoking, sword making and a host of other traditional arts.

Just over nine weeks ago King Veagal succumbed to an alcoholic death. His last day was spent in agony as he vomited blood from burst stomach ulcers. He begged her to run him through so that he might die a warrior’s death. She nearly acquiesced to his request, but for Ardoman’s murmured aside that he should die as he had lived these past few years.

He was dead for a week before he was burned and the night after the burning the drums echoed across the Horse Plains, telling of the king’s departure to the Undying Lands. A week later the Bulkaran Army emptied their camps around Lake Horsehead to the southwest and began marching toward Lake Hawkmoon. She considered withdrawing to Santalia in the north, the last refuge of Haydutian kings. Impregnable to attack, it would present an obstacle for the Bulkarans.

But it was only part of the problem. Vast herds of wild horses roamed wild and free as the spring thaw released the grasses from their icy grave, the herds needed managing and the Bulkarans presented a threat. There was no reason for them to enter Haydutia but their presence demanded an answer. Their wealth was spread all over the plains within easy reach of the Bulkarans. The Haydutian horse was well known for its strength and endurance, primarily because the herds were allowed to roam free. In a matter of weeks the first of the horse fairs would take place, culminating in the midsummer fair. Horse traders from other tribes would soon trek onto the plains seeking horse flesh and bringing trade goods with them, but with Bulkaran forces marching into Haydutia it would keep them away.

The other part of the problem was far more immediate. The winter wheat this far north hadn’t provided such a good harvest this spring because of the harsh winter, further south it had been better judging by reports. The new crop had just been sown, but in the light of this cataclysmic event no one was betting there would be enough people to harvest this crop. That could tip the balance decisively in Bolksta’s favour she had mused to Ardoman a few weeks ago. They would be forced to kill more of their cattle than normal or rely on hunting the feral herds of cattle.

One of her first decisions was to forbid lavish sacrifices of grain and other produce in honour of Veagal, the food stocks would be needed for the living not the dead and to her relief the priests had agreed. Apparently they too realised that life went on in spite of a dead king.

Nevertheless, tradition dictated that no major decision be made for six weeks after a royal burning. According to the elders, withdrawing to Santalia was a major decision. It might send the wrong signals and Veagal’s spirit had yet to reach the Undying Lands. The council ended with a unanimous vote. Rhianna should stay at Hawkmoon for six weeks, then she was free to withdraw to Santalia if she wanted. Rhianna worried that night, knowing the reason for their departure. After two years fighting the Macsorans, Veagal’s death created a power vacuum and they sought to fill it.

Two weeks ago the six-week mourning period ended and she issued the order even as she ate breakfast. The wild horses would be driven to the far corners of the kingdom, even to the lands of the Volkzannians to the south. They had to protect their livelihood and income.

Three hundred rode out of Hawkmoon intent on driving the horses far from the rapacious Bulkaran beast that intended to bleed a nation dry. Hunting parties were sent from Hawkmoon and other villages in search of wild cattle, deer, boar, and other game. They were ordered to take more than the usual quota, and in a startling turnaround, Rhianna’s first major policy decision was to scrap the ‘king’s portion.’ Ten percent of a village’s produce or meat taken in the hunt belonged to the king or the village chieftains. Getting rid of the hated king’s portion sent shockwaves through the kingdom, the common people loved her for it and the chieftains grumbled. But her motivation was far more practical than currying favour with the commoners, every morsel of food would be needed, the king’s portion could wait for now.

Two days ago she sent some of her personal possessions to Santalia along with a message to Fingal, stating her intention to set up residence there. She would arrive within the week. Once there she intended to call a council to consider the Bulkaran problem.

~*~

Rhianna stared at the wooden horse heads on the wall. Hindsight was crystal clear. She should not be here. History was riddled with the wreckage of past mistakes. A kingdom could be lost today because she chose to adhere to tradition.

Oh Sheringa, Creator of All Life, grant me your strength and wisdom in this my darkest hour.

She fastened her cloak with a gold brooch and winced as she sensed movement, turning as a tumbling golden mane bounced towards her. The boy was followed by a red-haired girl who was almost as quick. She smiled as the children stopped at her side and threw her arms around Emdahl, taking in the warm smell of grass. He shivered in her arms and traced the symbols engraved into the gold armband around her upper right arm. Lionhunter rolled onto his back and wriggled as he waited for the children to scratch his belly.

What are you doing my little soul breath? Rhianna kissed the top of his head and scratched the hound’s belly with her foot. Freya, knelt on the floor and rubbed the dog’s belly. He sniffed the stuffed bear in her hand and licked it.

He licked you, Bilbair, Freya giggled, he likes you. I told you he would like you.

Emdahl squirmed in her arms as Freya rubbed Lionhunter. I am going to defend you against the dogs from the west, the words tumbled out breathlessly as he pulled back and held up a sharp skinning knife. See, my sword.

Rhianna eyed the knife ruefully. He was a king’s son and yet carried an ordinary blade that was indistinguishable from the skinning knives of others.

Emdahl stared at the broadsword lying on a nearby table. The blade gleamed in the light shining through the long window above them. If he gazed long enough, he could see the double horse-head handle moving in time to the secret song in his heart. Patterns etched in the steel blade spoke of the sword’s original owner, Layla, great grandmother to Rhianna. In Emdahl’s mind Layla was the greatest warrior who had ever lived, except of course his mother who could best any warrior in the kingdom.

Emdahl, she held out her hand smilingly, that blade is for skinning, she took it from him, it is too wide at the tip and see here? She traced an imaginary line down the centre of the blade. There is no blood groove. Even if you could stab a man, the blade would stay stuck in his body and you could not pull it out in time.

I could slit his throat, he made a slashing motion with an imaginary knife, like this.

Rhianna ruffled his shoulder length hair and felt the lump in her throat as she recognised he was nearly eight years old. In a year he would begin his warrior training. Had it been yesterday he was an infant at her breast? She blinked and smiled warmly as she adjusted his red tunic and brushed grass from his back.

Perhaps, she said, but for now we will put the weapons of war away. There is a time for fighting and a time for talking. Wars are not won by spilling blood alone.

You could set Lionhunter on him, Freya’s emerald eyes widened.

Rhianna chuckled. Freya was daughter to Keegan, her late husband’s cousin, and Brigitte, her own cousin. Freya had dogged her son’s steps these last few weeks ever since arriving with her parents from Dragonweldt. She was two years younger, half a head shorter and looked up to Emdahl, calling him her prince. He tried to look aloof in front of his friends, but privately he let his guard down and played silly games. Then he was no longer her prince but simply Emdahl. Brigitte and Rhianna were amused to see it was Freya who took the lead in their private games.

She has her mother’s spirit, Rhianna remarked slyly.

She turned to Freya. Freya nic Brigitte, where is your mother?

Outside with Brea, she has her bow.

Has she now? Rhianna rose slowly and eyed the sword. My son has a knife and you have a toy bear. What can I carry? The Bulkarans will run in terror from Bilbair.

Freya giggled again as Rhianna glanced at another weapon hanging from a hook, a longbow and quiver of arrows. She returned to the sword. Instinct told her to don the sword but common sense whispered that the odds were too great. Better to show a passive face than risk rousing the dogs of war, yet.

A war is only fought when words are as empty air, she held out her hands. Come we will see what the Bulkaran dogs want first before we cut anybody’s throat. Keep Bilbair on a short leash or he will tear them to pieces with his terrible teeth.

She ordered Lionhunter to maintain his position. She slipped an arm around Emdahl’s shoulders and rested the other on Freya’s head. Lionhunter whimpered and wagged his tail, and with a smile she nodded her assent. He rose and padded past her. The great wolfhound was gifted to Veagal eight years ago as a wedding present. The hound had taken to her rather than the king, another bone of contention between them during the last year of his life.

Emdahl tucked the knife into his belt and they moved to the doorway, pausing by the two ornately carved wooden thrones beneath a solid gold sword hanging above them. Lanthanide was gifted to her people by the elves over eight hundred years ago as a sign of eternal friendship. Passed around at council meetings, it was a sign of wisdom and strength. The sword was the heart of Haydutia and one of its most sacred icons. She touched the clasp holding her cloak closed and muttered the words inscribed on the blade.

The heart of a people is in its womb.

Do you think the elves will come to our aid? Emdahl pressed into her side.

I think not, she ran an eye over the horses carved into the armrests of the thrones. Every full moon I pray for their return. They say the elves will only return when the sword is in danger.

I will pray for their return, Emdahl thumped his heart the way older men did when they uttered a solemn oath. The elves are our friends.

A pity one does not tell that to the elves, she thought, long have I wondered at their absence.

She stared once more at Lanthanide. The sword was of no use in a fight, but its symbolical value was unquestioned. It was used to call the villages to war and council, its name invoked an ethereal spirit to bless or curse. Her marriage and the birth of her son were blessed by Lanthanide and the sword was passed over her husband’s inert body, starting him on his journey. Grant me wisdom, Lanthanide, she whispered, let not my heart be moved to anger too soon. Grant me wisdom to forgive my enemies and so overcome them.

Her eyes fell to the white lion skin stretched out before the thrones. She’d contemplated moving it somewhere unobtrusive. The hide brought back memories of her late husband sprawled naked across it with an upturned tankard of mead beside him.

Veagal my love, what would you do this day, sit in your cups or lead your people to victory?

Emdahl shivered, feeling the power emanating from the blade filling his soul with wisdom, truth and strength. None could stand against the might of the elves. He learned the sacred inscription when he was two, had fallen asleep at her breast with his eyes fixed on the golden blade, and whenever he sat down to eat he made sure it was still there.

The boy’s hand disappeared inside Rhianna’s as they moved down the length of the longhouse. Thick posts carved with horses, lions and other beasts lined each side. The timbers were set deep into the earth beneath the polished pine floorboards. On the other side of the posts, rows of tables and bench seats extended to the rear of the hall. At the far end two oak barrels stood on either side of the opened doors. The walls were covered with ceremonial oval shields painted with geometric designs in a wide variety of colours. The designs represented Veagal’s pledges, each belonged to a Haydutian chieftain, who in turn held the pledges of minor chieftains under them. Thus Veagal could indicate the shields and say, behold the power of my people.

In the centre was a rectangular firepit made of bricks. She rounded the pit and turned right toward the doorway and the raised platform between the hall and her own longhouse. Unlike the great hall, her personal quarters had been divided into rooms with a wide central walkway and a firepit in the centre in the manner of Haydutian longhouses.

Aegrid says there are Macsorans among them, Emdahl frowned.

No doubt, she replied smoothly, the traitor, Crimthann has succeeded in turning many of the western tribes to the will of Bulkara. Now he thinks he can do the same to the Haydutians.

I will never bow my knee to a Bulkaran dog. I would rather die a traitor’s death.

A lump came to her throat as they stepped onto the platform, pausing to let Lionhunter squeeze past them. Measuring some eighty square feet, the two open sides were fenced off with a waist high railing topped with sheets of beaten gold. In the centre was a large firepit and burning logs had been stacked in a pyramid shape. A low railing covered with curved metal sheets ran around it. The metal was decorated with embossed images of animals and deities.

Rhianna eyed the great funeral stone to her left. It was little more than a large granite stone jutting out of the lake, close to the water’s edge and the mouth of the River Hawkmoon. Veagal lay in state on the platform for three days while a coffin sized longhouse was built. His body was placed inside it for another three days and carried out to the funeral stone on the morning of the sixth day over a temporary wooden bridge. On the sixth night, the priests went to the body to ascertain he was dead. It was a ritual steeped in tradition. No one knew why it was this way but no one ever questioned it. Perhaps some long distant ancestor had woken to find his bier in flames.

That night the final invocations rang out and his widow lit the pyre, starting his soul on its journey. The bards sang his praises and people drank to his safe passage across the Horse Plains. The next morning the bridge was burned, symbolising his departure from this world.

Rhianna listened to the songs accompanied by pipes and the lilt of a fiddle. Some were bawdy and earthy, others sad and sorrowful. She’d predicted his death months ago when he first began to cough up bloodied bits of phlegm. With the inherent wisdom of her grandmother, she knew that Veagal suffered from the new disease spreading like a plague across proud Tuath. Brave warriors had been denied their right to ride to war against neighbouring tribes, and in the west they were even denied weapons for hunting. Stripped of honour, they turned to the only other thing they loved, mead. Drinking themselves into an early grave, they lamented the doom of Tuath while their women whispered a new lament in the darkness.

Woe betide us when the bravest death for which a man can hope is to choke on his own vomit.

CHAPTER TWO

If you want to kill your enemy you must first know him.

Haydutian Proverb.

Freya ran toward Brigitte who was carrying a longbow and arrows in a leather quiver that had been carved with her secret signs. At her back a broadsword hung from a shoulder strap, the scabbard was also carved. Her flaming red hair was kept from her face by small braids decorated with ‘kill’ feathers. On her neck was a tattoo of a snake, its mouth swallowed the tail at the base of her throat. Despite her weaponry she still looked like a Haydutian lady in a blue velvet dress that fell past her knees.

An hour ago she woke Rhianna when she fetched Freya from the bed where Rhianna and Emdahl slept. I should let you sleep some more, cousin. Brigitte understood that these last few weeks had been hard for Rhianna.

Rhianna mumbled and fell back into a light sleep, only to be disturbed again when Freya sneaked into the room and tickled Emdahl’s face with a feather. The boy woke with a start and seeing it was Freya, swung his hand, only to meet thin air as she darted from the room giggling and screaming for her mother. Emdahl slid off the bed and scowled at the bearskin flap hanging in the doorway.

Now the morning was well under way and the Bulkarans were on their doorstep. Rhianna looked past Ardoman, squinting at the dust cloud making its way along the trail through the grasslands, his knuckles white against the gold rails.

They were coming along the Elfmoon Road. The road was a continuation of the old West Road that followed the course of the Elmheart River where it tumbled out of the hills. The watercourse and road then skirted the southern extremities of the western Argillian until they reached Lake Elfmoon, the river exited the lake and continued its meandering journey to the town of Chenysough and the River Hawkmoon. The road on the other hand split into two, with one road circumnavigating the lake to swing back on itself while the second fork led directly to the village of Hawkmoon. No messengers had come from the villages at Elfmoon so unless an army was hidden in the hills overlooking the lake this was the extent of the Bulkaran force sent to Hawkmoon. That possibility alone nagged at her, a small patrol would not come this far north unless there was a larger force at their backs but where were they?

The dust cloud to the west was visible behind the low hills but the riders wouldn’t be seen until they reached the great hill of Hawkwing. The gorse-encrusted hill on the other side of the wide valley was an impressive landmark, three hundred feet high it had been sculpted for millennia by natural forces. The peak draped over and down to form small wings and in the shelter of these hollows sentries kept watch. At the top on a small plateau was an altar for sacrifices of grain and other crops, accessible via a ladder. A road wound around the hill. At the four major festivals marking the turn of the seasons the trail became a race track where people vied for prizes or honour. From its heights the sentries could see for miles in all directions.

The village of Hawkmoon was built on a plateau to the south of Hawkwing, the ground rose quite steeply here creating a natural protection against the lake and river. The river entered the lake here and exited at the southern end of the lake on its journey to the River Volkzannia. The Hawkmoon started life far to the northeast in the Black Mountains, its southward passage through the hills created the most breathtaking scenery in northern Haydutia. The hill forests and highland plains were the Jewel of Haydutia, the last refuge of the Horse People. The narrow valley between Hawkwing and the town was made up of rich soil and closer to the river the crops were planted, while on the other side the wheat fields had been planted just recently. With abundant food grown here, supplemented by fish and wild game it wasn’t hard to understand why Veagal had preferred to stay here.

Hawkmoon was the largest lakeside town with some six hundred souls living behind its walls and towers. The cattle were kept outside the walls in pens near the river. It was unlike traditional Haydutian villages that traditionally reserved the fort for the chieftain and high ranking Haydutians and allowed the village to grow around the fort. Haydutian forts were usually a last line of defence and the focus of community life, councils, celebrations and festivals were often conducted in the great halls while trading and everyday life went on outside the walls. Only at Hawkmoon and a scant few other towns were the village longhouses located inside the walls.

The longhouses were arranged in a series of semi circular rings looking onto a central circle and great hall. Any invading force would be forced to fight uphill all the way to the hall. Behind the hall were stables and a rear gate that opened onto a narrow path leading down past the lake to the river. For a good part of the way the Back Wynd was out of sight, making it an ideal escape route in the event of the unthinkable. Santalia relied on sheer size and stone walls for protection, Hawkmoon utilised the natural lie of the land and sheer rat cunning to defeat all but the most determined of enemies. In five hundred years its walls had been breached several times but it had never been completely overrun.

Half a mile from the town a bridge wide enough for two wagons crossed the river, it was one of the few stone bridges across the entire length of the mighty river. Smaller wooden bridges normally sufficed but their permanence was subject to the vagaries of nature and time. Small islands dotted the estuary with bigger ones on the lake, their rich soil supported a staggering variety of flowers and herbs. Even their enemies called this place, ‘Beloved of the gods.’

The lake was the largest in Haydutia. Fifty miles long and ten miles wide it curved around in an oxbow shape. Its depth had never been measured and on windy days, the strength of the winds created freak waves that could overturn a small boat in seconds. The lake was both friend and foe, providing an unending supply of fish and shellfish for the half dozen hamlets hugging its shores. Wild horses and cattle, deer, pigs, wolves, bears, lions and other animals congregated around its shores during the warmer months. The shores also supported the lakeside forest. The trees thinned out a few miles from the lake, giving way to the vast plains. Lake Hawkmoon was a source of pride to the Haydutians. The hunting here was good and the grazing land rich and bounteous.

Rhianna turned to the north, the high country was divided into two regions, the western and eastern Argillian. The mountain forests provided abundant game, herbs and timber. Higher up however the land gave way to the High Plains, from whence came the sturdy mountain horses known as the Argillian horse. When crossed with the longer-legged plains horse the result was the famed Haydutian horse of legend. Strong in the chest, long in the leg and with vast reserves of stamina, they were exported far and wide throughout Tuath and beyond.

The other famed Haydutian export was hunting dogs, bred from wolves and refined over centuries of selective breeding to produce the lean hounds of today. They were used for hunting and herding, whatever echoes of their wolfish ancestry that remained was seen in the occasional litter of grey pups. They were much larger than their wild cousins and used for hunting lions. Haydutians loved their hounds almost as much as their horses.

The hills also yielded iron ore, gold, silver and of late, diamonds. The land had once been a dwarf stronghold, many caves had been dug out beneath the hills. Enough ore was taken from the hills to keep the forges at Santalia burning every day. Haydutian metalwork had reached an apex generations ago and was considered far superior to western Tuathan steel.

The hills also provided another resource, silk was farmed in the more sheltered valleys. How the silkworms survived this far north was testament to the vagaries of nature. Haydutian silk was rougher than Volkzannian and Cuirreanian silk but harder wearing. Because the output of the silkworm farms was so low, the price of a bolt of Haydutian silk generally fetched more than silk produced elsewhere. Talhania, Virgin Queen of Cuirrean had been gifted a set of silk riding gloves by a Haydutian merchant.

An adjunct to the wealth of the Argillian hills was the great Trade Road, a seven hundred mile long road wending its way northwest to the Ghiatan port of Seaforth. For hundreds of years it had brought goods to and from Seaforth. She stared at the lake. West, east and south of the lake were thousands of miles of open plains, teeming with animals. The plains were hemmed in by mountains, the Macsorans to the west and the Black mountains to the east. The People of the Horse and the People of the Lion were considered a purer breed of Tuathan. The majesty of the wind-sculpted landscape and the sparseness of the population lent a romantic air to the girdle of Tuath.

Yes there was wealth here for the taking, she turned back to the hills.

This mighty land was bisected by the Hawkmoon River flowing past the town that bore its name, at the southern end of the lake it cut its way across the plains. It was said if you held the river and the Great Trade Road, you controlled the plains. Dozens of rivers and smaller streams fed the river on its journey south. The bridges over the river were many and the Haydutians and Volkzannians were avid boatmen. Shallow drafted longboats ferried everything from supplies and trade goods to warriors, it was the source of life and when the spring and autumn rains came it burst its banks. Goods from Seaforth and the world beyond came down the Trade Road and were loaded onto longboats and ferried south to the towns and villages along the river, and from those settlements out onto the plains.

She stared down at the lake. The dockside harbour was out of sight from here but she knew that these last few days it held only six longboats, not enough to ferry her people to safety with their supplies, but enough to get the old and children away.

Time to make a decision.

~*~

A bearded Haydutian from the southwest had brought news of being surprised by Bulkaran cavalry. They came at dawn and took a large number of young boys and men to work in the mines and serve as slaves. They also took five young girls. The rest had been recorded by a scribe noting their height, colouring, age, distinguishing marks and family heritage.

The officer left a message. We will return in the summer for the emperor’s pleasure.

The kidnapping of women incensed the tribes. Bulkara’s ally, Crimthann, was using other Tuathan tribes to aid and abet the bleeding of the tribes. No one knew why so many women were taken, it was a Bulkaran oddity. The women who remained gave birth to boys, who were then taken by the Bulkaran tax collectors to be used as slaves or auxiliaries. Was Crimthann trying to extinguish the Tuathans? It was noted with bitterness that his own tribe, the Biltairans were spared this woman tax.

While the villagers drank around the firepit and muttered amongst themselves, Rhianna walked under the stars with Keegan and Brigitte. Keegan had a tankard of mead and Brigitte her pipe. Rhianna stared at the image of the great he and she bear in the sky, and felt the darkness in her soul mirrored against the diamond-studded, velvet blackness.

Crimthann could not sacrifice Biltairan women without risking rebellion among his own ranks, Keegan spat, the Biltair are no longer Tuathan although they share the same air, they are Bulkaran.

Rhianna had to agree as she leaned on the railing and puffed a shared pipe with Brigitte. Once honoured as great merchants and sailors, the Biltairans were no better than pariahs under the mantle of Bulkara. Crimthann’s betrayal had been most keenly felt in his unravelling of the sacred traditions that held all tribes together, the drums, tobacco and the cult of the she bear, an ancient warrior society uniting women of all tribes had been annihilated by Crimthann’s thugs.

Ten years ago the warring tribes of Tuath had united for the first time in history to fight against the invading Bulkarans from the northwestern Bulkaran Islands. Far to the west at Lambing Moor they faced the most disciplined army the world had known and betrayed by their differences, fell beneath the relentless shield walls of the Bulkarans. Life had never been the same since. Crimthann, a minor Biltairan chieftain seized the initiative and signed a peace treaty with Bulkara, and through clever manipulation, terror, and outright betrayal brought the western tribes under Bulkaran control. It was only east of the Macsoran Ranges that his influence petered out. To show their gratitude the Bulkarans proclaimed him Governor of Tuath, a strange title considering the tribes had always been independent of each other.

We would be safer in Santalia, Brigitte ventured.

For how long? Keegan scowled, until they control the grasslands?

We will be there soon enough, Rhianna replied, then we will call a council. I will not sit by and watch these Bulkaran dogs pillage our lands.

She had been true to her word. According to tradition, she could issue certain basic orders immediately after the burning of her husband’s body. The night of his burning she issued private orders to a detachment of Young Lions and she bears that all villages along the Anara and Fishlan rivers were to head for the Hawkmoon and beyond. They rode out an hour before sunrise and headed south with her words carved into rune sticks.

Burn what you cannot carry, leave nothing behind.

In the days after the burning she was satisfied to hear that the villages in the southwest had been evacuated. The refugees were welcomed by other villages keen to bolster their defences against what many saw was a prelude to invasion.

~*~

Rhianna pulled the cloak tightly around herself and closed her eyes against the breeze. The riders had briefly disappeared behind Hawkwing. Once around the other side they would be in full view, and she would have a split second to decide whether to allow them entry. Closing the gates would be a signal for the archers and slingers to take their position on the wall. The rest would be ready to defend the honour of their people and their queen.

She felt a slight shiver as Emdahl pressed his body against her, if anything should happen to him. In her peripheral vision she saw one of the gold horse heads that graced the entrance to the great hall. The symbols of regal power looked sorrowful in the morning light.

Was this how it was in the end my love?

She swallowed and turned back to the hall. Sunbeams highlighted the carved thrones and soft velvet cushions, placed so they caught the sunrise and sunset. Above her were gold figures running the length of the longhouse. Veagal’s hall was the Golden Hall of Haydutia. She bit her lip wondering in a moment of insanity why her husband’s great grandfather had built a hall that oozed wealth and prosperity without enclosing it behind stone walls like the Santalians. Rhianna choked back her fear and turned to Ardoman. Sensing her fear, he turned and touched the horse’s head carved into his leather breastplate.

My queen.

She smiled and tugged his sleeve.

We will see the dying of the day and the dawn of a new one soon enough, old friend.

She watched as two men rounded the front of the hall and marched resolutely up the long walkway leading to the platform. Aelfred Firebreather and his cousin, Aelfred Horse Spirit were members of the king’s bodyguard when she was a mere troop leader in charge of fifty warriors. Now they were oath sworn only to her. Both had bucklers, swords and spears. A third individual stepped out from her longhouse. Keegan was also girded for war. The pommel of the sword at his back glistened in the sunlight.

Rhianna noticed Brea standing by the railing. At eighteen years of age, the younger woman had just reached adulthood. Her long blonde hair framed an angular face with prominent cheekbones and bright blue eyes. Lithe but shapely, she’d caught the attention of men thanks to her quiet beauty and unhurried, compassionate nature. Brea would take pity on anything and that quality complemented her beauty, but exposed her vulnerability when she least expected it. She had been Veagal’s healer and in her gentle way Brea was now part of the family. She would take her final healer tests in the summer.

Born at Dragonweldt to the south, Brea had been brought here by Veagal after she set his broken arm. The king was so impressed with her skill he insisted she stay in his house. But it had been Rhianna who adopted her as a sister after her mother died of a lung infection. Her father had been killed years before in a hunting accident. Brea would join her and Emdahl at Santalia. The experience will do you good, besides, I need some female company there.

Brea flicked her hair over her ear displaying her nervousness, unlike Brigitte who held her bow at the ready. Freya stood a few feet in front of Brea and the young woman reached for the child, who fell into her arms without a second thought. Brea leaned over and whispered in her ear. Why wasn’t Brea hiding in the cellars? She frowned. Instinct begged it, the Bulkaran tax collectors sought virgin women above all others. She considered ordering her into the cellars but then decided against it. She could no more order the woman into the cellars than lose her right arm, her loyalty to Rhianna went far beyond the call of duty.

Rhianna looked up as the sound of thundering hooves grew louder. She stepped forward and shielded her eyes as the first horseman rode around the Hawkwing. An annoying twitch pricked her foot. She lowered her hand as many other riders rounded the hill, spreading out in a line that formed a rough horseshoe shape. Lionhunter sniffed the air and uttered a low growl.

What do you think? Rhianna sought the counsel of Keegan.

It’s hard to say. Keegan stared at the horsemen. No wagons mean they will not be taking any women today. No Bulkaran will stomach a woman riding behind him.

What are they doing here? Rhianna grimaced.

Now that is the riddle, Keegan nodded at the great funeral stone behind them. Perhaps the answer lies in the death of my cousin?

Rhianna lowered her head and bit her lip. I think we have the beginnings of an answer. She leaned on the rail and stared at the gate some three hundred yards away. One word from her and the gates would swing shut.

She bowed her head and bit back the memories of the Tuathans scrambling through the bloodied mud of Lambing Moor, their cries of victory turning to howls of anguish as the retreat horns were sounded. To sound a retreat in battle was unheard of, but this had been a different battle and a different foe. The shield walls closed in on their prey like the spikes of a steel trap leaving only one way out through the goblin horde that was streaming down the hill their battle swords and axes held high. For thousands of years, the curse of Tuath had been inter-tribal warfare. At Lambing Moor former warring tribes died together, united in death.

Rhianna heard soft footsteps, and looked up to find Aegrid approaching. One look in his eyes told her that he had carried out her earlier command, although it broke his heart.

The last riders cleared the hill, those in front trotted forward at a shouted command until they formed a shallow V aimed at the front gate. Their pace slowed suddenly, they were no more than a horse width between each rider. It was an impressive display of horsemanship. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Macsorans, and the dreaded goblins.

They can ride, Keegan leaned on the railing casually and spat, but can they fight?

They fought well at Lambing Moor, she murmured half to herself.

The day we were betrayed, he spat again.

It was our differences that betrayed us, Rhianna replied distantly. Haydutians refused to fight alongside Biltairans. Aramisians would not fight with Ghiatans on their right, but wanted them on their left. Macsorans would not fight unless they were able to move independent of the other tribes, she nodded at the horsemen. In the face of such discipline we were but the call of the lone wolf, striking fear into our enemies but easily defeated. The only tribes who showed the true meaning of unity were the Yekatans, Katanyans and Nenamon.

Easterners, Aelfred Firebreather used the derogatory term for the tribes of the Black Mountains.

Ardoman winced at the comment as Rhianna turned and smiled crookedly.

Are you forgetting that your queen was once an indentured servant to Kim’osy, who for twelve months was high king of the Eastern Alliance? I lived with the Yekatans for three years. Trust me, we have much to learn from the easterners... Three tribes, each with their own identity, entered into a non-aggression pact five hundred years ago. Never in that time has any tribe come against these Easterners. What the kings of the west tried to create at Lambing Moor was born in the east. We would do well to look to their example if we mean to rid Tuath of the Bulkaran curse.

Aelfred Firebreather exhaled and Ardoman chuckled lightly. Wise words from our queen, old friend. Now let us measure the strength of these vitaria, he used the Haydutian slang word for Bulkaran. Vitaria meant scavenger. Rhianna nodded as Lionhunter leaned his great body against her legs. Her hand slid through his wiry coat and she nodded at Aegrid.

Ask if he sees wagons.

Aegrid let out a bellow that attracted the attention of the guards in the towers at the gates as he began flailing his arms in a series of complicated shapes and gestures to relay her question. It was a time-honoured ritual and apart from the message of the drums and the rune sticks, one of the few universal dialects in Tuath. A horn sounded mournfully three times to catch the eye of the lone sentry. Immediately afterwards, a guard took small paddles and passed on the message to the man on the hill. He in turn sent back a reply that was seen by all.

There are no wagons, she glanced sideways at Aegrid. Are the women well hidden?

As many as we could without arousing suspicion, he replied. Those who remain are volunteers to protect the flower of the tribe.

What bravery is seen in the dying of the light, Rhianna swallowed. Grant entry to thirty only and close the gates behind them but the goblins may not enter. I will not stomach the man eaters within a spear’s throw of the village, she grimaced, but let them see our horsemanship first.

Aegrid bowed his head respectfully and relayed her command to the gatehouse guards. A moment of silence was followed by shouted commands sounding across the village. Warriors mounted horses and collected spears, swords and shields while the observers on the platform looked on.

Tell the drummers to send a message, Bulkarans enter the Hawkmoon and send messengers down the Back Wynd to tell the other villagers to wait for my command, and alert Chenysough as well, this last was hurled out as an afterthought.

Come, flower of my dreaming, she squeezed Emdahl’s shoulders, let us teach you how to face the enemy. If you want to kill your enemy you must first know him.

A sudden breeze swept across the lake, rippling the waters. It caught her hair as they entered the hall. Rhianna turned for a split second as the memory of Lambing Moor rose in her mind’s eye. She felt a chill down her spine. By the time she collected her sword, the drum beat was already pounding out the warning and the riders had departed, heading westwards along the shore. They were well out of sight to the cavalry and by the time the vitaria reached this elevation they would be long gone. The hamlets on the shores of the lake would relay the message to other villages. By midday, even Santalia would know she had opened the gates.

Somewhere out there, Kilian was driving the horses far from these vitaria. He was Champion of Hawkmoon. It was to Kilian she turned when she needed a leader to protect their wealth. His men were all seasoned warriors, they could have mounted a robust defence even without Shauna’s she bears. Shauna had also gone with him, taking the Hawkmoon she bears and the she bears from the other nearby hamlets. Her parting words still rang in her ears

The daughters of Woesryn will do their duty for Haydutia.

With a sigh she stepped inside the hall again to gaze once more upon Lanthanide. A shiver ran down her spine and the itch in her foot became insistent.

You should not be doing this.

CHAPTER THREE

Look to the Grass Seas. Behold the glory of the Horse Lords approaches like a rolling tide.

Haydutian invocation.

Captain Areal Azgul, commander of the First Horse stared up at the hill fort with a sense of relief tinged with fear and anticipation. Now was the hour of decision and he felt the weight pressing down on him.

At the start of winter they’d passed through the cavernous, forbidding passes of the Macsoran Ranges that bisected Tuath from north to south, exiting the mountains a mile north of the great Falls of Anara whose waters tumbled a thousand feet to form Lake Horsehead and the Lower Anara. The thick mist covered the western shores of the lake completely. The constant thunder was an ever present reminder of the power of nature and hard-bitten veterans paused in wonder. However months later Azgul and his men had become so used to it that when others commented on the noise, they had to physically stop and stare at the falls before nodding.

On the eastern shores of a bitterly cold lake he met the Haydutians for the first time. Free and proud, they were unlike the western tribes who surrendered their weapons and their wealth almost too willingly in exchange for food and a reduction of the woman tax. The horse lords of the northern Horse Plains were the first of the eastern tribes to see a sizeable force of Bulkarans since Lambing Moor.

That day, even the most cynical mounted trooper meeting the fur-bedecked warriors under a snow-laden sky had to admire their horsemanship. Where Bulkarans learned their cavalry skills in long gruelling drills, the Haydutians were born to the horse. As they circled the encampment, Azgul eyed their great barrel-chested mounts with undisguised admiration. Their leader, Taranown, ran a cursory eye over the partially dismantled cabins, the remnants of an abandoned hunting village.

You have come to stay?

For the winter, Azgul replied tersely. Our lord, General Bolksta, will arrive in the spring to meet with your king.

May the gods take you, Taranown spat contemptuously. He waved his hand and the thirty riders thundered away leaving the First Horse baffled. Did they mean to fight or let them freeze to death?

~*~

The answer came soon enough when winter came early to the Horse Plains. Blizzards blew hard across the plains with such intensity that Azgul, who had grown up on the Pandoorian Plains, thought that Taranown’s gods had indeed reached for them with icy fingers. The damaged cabins provided little shelter. When a man remarked to one of the Macsoran scouts that the Haydutians would be as cold as they the man shook his head in disbelief.

They will be sitting around fires with their loved ones and their hounds, eating and drinking to their heart’s content while we turn to ice. Unlike us they have prepared for winter all year.

They buried another horse found frozen to death that morning. It was not only horses that died. The men suffered as the blizzards continued with unabated fury for days and nights on end, as if the Haydutian gods were determined to shift these interlopers from the shores of the lake. Azgul lost a dozen men in the space of a week. They simply walked out into a white landscape that had lost all defining features, even the falls froze solid. These unfortunates just kept walking until hypothermia overcame them.

Azgul finally took advantage of a temporary lull in the weather and drew all the men into one hut that was expanded using the lumber from other huts. The remaining timber was dragged inside and a great fire built in the middle. On a suggestion from the Mascorans, the horses were corralled inside, saving the First Horse from complete annihilation in the maelstrom of the worst winter in years. Parties of men went out to gather firewood and what little game could be found. Azgul felt his doom approaching for the first time in years. Remembering that an officer does not show fear, he used the time to learn what he could of the Haydutian tongue from the Macsorans.

He learned many other things about the horse lords. They boasted the finest light cavalry in this part of the world, only the Volkzannians to the south could be compared. The nation was divided into two main subtribes, northern and southern, these were subdivided into smaller tribes named for the local region. Taranown’s people were the Anara and found along the Lower Anara that stretched all the way to the town of Gleneara. There they became Glenearans. Each region was governed by its own lord, who in turn was pledged to Veagal. Unlike the western tribes of Greater Tuath, the village chieftains could refuse the order of the king without risking his anger.

The wealth of Haydutia was found primarily in their horse herds. The horses were rounded up every spring and sold at summer markets in the local towns and villages. Even their enemies in Macsora acknowledged the superior breeding of the Haydutian horses who could survive the bitter winters. Some horses were exported to Cuirrean far to the south, Queen Talhania reputedly had a stable of Haydutian horses that she bred with her unicorns to produce the famed Cuirreanian unicorn. It surprised him that their most prized resource was left to roam at will.

The Macsoran smiled. "Would you risk running into a band of Haydutians? There are two crimes in Haydutia that carry the death