Uneasy Allies: The Kaerling, #7

By Freya Pickard

Five disparate people drawn together in pursuit of one goal.

 

I so enjoyed the latest instalment of The Kaerling. The action was pacy and compelling. The characters had really settled into themselves and were well-rounded. I read it all in one sitting and was totally engrossed! Jenny Poulter

 

Their mission was simple – to rescue Lally and Derri from the evil kaerlings.

 

But catching up with the kaerlings proves to be anything but simple, and the five companions discover that they can't completely trust each other.

 

This is the seventh volume in the epic saga that is The Kaerling.

 

The Kaerling is a series of linked novellas that can be read individually as well as in chronological order.

 

Warning: contains scenes of a sexual nature and some violence which some readers may find upsetting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freya Pickard
• Release date: Sep 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201329419

Freya Pickard

Pushcart Prize nominee, Freya Pickard, is the quirky, unusual author of The Kaerling series, an epic fantasy set in the strange and wonderful world of Nirunen. A cancer survivor, she writes mainly dark fantasy tales and creates expressive poetry in order to leach the darkness from her soul. Her aim in life is to enchant, entertain and engage with readers through her writing. She finds her inspiration in the ocean, the moors, beautifully written books and vinyl music (particularly heavy metal and rock). She enjoys Hatha Yoga, Bhangra and Yogalates and in her spare time creates water colours and pastel drawings of the worlds in her head.

Book preview

for Troy

Year of the Unicorn Ascending

Summer Fire to Leaf Fall

Chapter One

RUE CRUMBLED HERBS into a glass bottle and sealed it with a cork. She poured the leftover dried leaves into the large, clay pot she kept specifically for conception remedies, and replaced the lid. The air was cool and dry in her stillroom, filled with aromas of summer. She slipped the small bottle into her cloak pocket and closed the door behind her.

The still room led straight into her living area where the tarnished kettle dangled on its hook to one side of the cold hearth. The large table was worn with age, just as she was. Rue looked down at her long fingers. They had not lost their suppleness, but the skin was beginning to wrinkle and sag. She slipped off her soft indoor shoes, and, as she pulled on her sturdy boots, she heard the cack-cack-cack warning cry of the blackbird.

A chill of foreboding shivered along her spine and she stood upright, listening. The rooks were in uproar at the bottom of the hill; that meant a group of people approaching. She sighed. She had known this day would come, and indeed, had been waiting for it, for more than a year. She supposed the death of the White Hart had been the final straw.

Rue stepped outside her cottage and locked the door, leaving the key under the woven doormat. She walked slowly down the earthen path, noting the herbs in her garden; rosemary, bay, mint, thyme, garlic, saffron, fennel, sage, oregano, vanilla, fireroot and ashtongue. At the gate, she turned and looked back at the place she called home. The grey stone walls fit snugly beneath the low thatch.

The tramp of boots on damp earth drew her attention beyond the gate. With her back to the cottage, Rue could only see a short way ahead. The narrow track wound its way around the foot of the nearest hill. Overhead, the rooks still clamoured. Rue wrapped her dark cloak around her black woollen dress and walked slowly along the path.

Once round the corner, her cottage lost to sight, the green downs revealed the armoured men clearly. They marched two abreast, their chainmail jingling with each step. She smiled to herself; was she really that dangerous?

At the head of the column marched an older man, white-haired, amber-eyed, still sinewy and strong, though his youth was long gone. He raised his right arm when he saw Rue and the column came to a neat halt. He waited until she stopped before him.

Rue Borrulacht, in the name of the Prince Consort, Danartha Fuar, I, Sean Regan, arrest you on suspicion of murder. There was regret in his unusual coloured eyes as he placed his hand on her shoulder. You will accompany us to the Cathair where you will await his Highness' pleasure.

Rue did not let her fear show; his Highness would get no pleasure out of her.

Stio! Regan turned to one of the men behind him. "You will escort the prisoner to the Cathair and deliver her safely to the breitheamh."

Rue resisted the temptation to flee. She was still sprightly and could run short distances, if she chose. But the only level path led back to her cottage, and she was not about to try and run uphill with twenty one soldiers in pursuit. Not only was it undignified, it indicated guilt.

She allowed herself to be led past the waiting soldiers by Stio, a tall, slim, muscled man, with broad shoulders. She'd once healed him of dorcha'nimh, a rare poison that numbed the limbs and constricted the action of the lungs. His face was partially hidden by his leather helmet, but his dark blue eyes showed his disapproval at the turn of events.

THERE WAS A BRIEF HEARING at the Cathair, in the breitheamh's chambers, and, as Prince Fuar was not present, Rue was remanded indefinitely. Out hunting again, Rue thought, keeping her private suspicions from showing on her face. The breitheamh, a tall, gaunt man, peered at the document before him in the late afternoon light.

Rue Borrulacht, you are charged with the murder of King Toradh Uasal and of the murder of Queen Raithneach Uasal's child last year. You are also charged with the wanton killing of the White Hart this summer. All three charges are punishable by death. How do you plead?

Not guilty, on all charges. Rue replied in a steady voice.

The breitheamh looked surprised. But the Prince Consort himself has brought the charges against you.

As if that should make her plead guilty! Rue refrained from laughing aloud. The Prince Consort is entitled to his opinion, she said in a neutral voice. But I am not guilty of any of the charges. I demand, as is my right, as a free citizen of the island of Kiros, a full trial, where my accuser lays before me his evidence.

The breitheamh looked at her with respect. Very well, then. You will be interred in Oirthir Tower, until evidence can be gathered and a trial date decided upon.

The breitheamh gathered up his papers as Regan's hand touched Rue's shoulder. Give her one of the chambers in the upper tower, with a window. The breitheamh said softly, so only she and Regan could hear. The judge hadn't forgotten that Rue had once saved his wife's life.

RUE SAT ON THE SINGLE wooden chair in her cell. The room was circular and small, containing a hard bed and a chamber pot. The narrow, barred window looked south along the road to the harbour and the misted, sinking sun cast indeterminate shadows on the scrubbed floor. At least the cell was dry. She glanced at the blanket on the bed. It was rough but clean; a soldier's blanket. She did not think that prisoners were usually allowed such luxuries. Rue was grateful for the thought. She glanced back towards the heavy wooden door that could only be opened from outside. In the middle of the upper panels was a square grill. There would be no privacy for her here.

The young guard on the other side of the door stood to attention, studiously not looking at her. She recognised his pale hair and red-cheeked face; he was one of Regan's men.

Sighing, Rue undid her hair, placing the metal pins carefully in her lap. Slowly, she combed out her long, dark tresses with her fingers, noticing the streaks of grey. With much care, she coiled the braids on top of her head like a crown, securing them in place with the pins; pins that her lover, King Toradh had given her, many years before.

She smiled as she remembered Toradh. Twenty years they'd had as lovers, after his young wife died, giving birth to his only heir, pretty little Raith. Twenty years of counselling and talk, of secret midnight trysts and tender nights. Everyone knew, of course, but no one objected. The King had produced an heir; that was all that mattered.

Rue felt anger simmer inside her. As if she would have killed the King! She had kept him alive and well for as long as her arts enabled her. There was no remedy for death, particularly the death that grew within, silently leaching vitality from the body.

And as for causing Raith's miscarriage last autumn! She breathed deeply and closed her eyes, trying to maintain an air of composure. She had nearly thirty years experience bringing children into the world. Even now, she knew there was nothing that could have saved Raith's child. The tiny body had been deformed. Even if the child had been born at the end of its term, it would not have survived. But trying to explain to men who didn't want to listen, that it was the natural way of things, was like asking one of the standing stones at the hilltop shrine to turn around and dance in the air.

And the one man in particular who had caused her so much trouble, was Raith's husband; the Prince Consort, Danartha Fuar. He was well-named, she thought for the hundredth time, and wondered why the King had approved the match. She had warned him against it, but he had let his daughter's heart win over his head.

She became aware that she was biting her lip and relaxed. Opening her eyes, she saw that the sun had set and the road was shadowed, the far sea dark. The air in the cell was cooler already and she pulled the cloak more tightly around her body. In her pocket was the glass bottle with the remedy for Raith, to help her conceive again. She would have to speak to Regan and ask him to take the herbs to the Queen.

Meanwhile, she must find a way of proving her innocence, before she became ill, or died in this bare, hopeless cell.

Chapter Two

LORED FINISHED HIS circuit of the camp and tied off the wards around the slim trunk of a larch with a slender thread of power. Nothing could be seen and only a slight tingle of energy could be felt by an ordinary person. Only someone with the gift of power would be aware of the wards and Lored had linked the spells so carefully, that another taku-kevir or even a kaerling, would have to be on top of the enchantments before they could sense them.

Feeling stiff and weary, Lored made his way back to the campfire, collecting an armful of firewood on his way. Otta had ignited the kindling earlier and Tari and Undine had fed larger pieces of wood to the flame as Lored wove the wards. He could hear Erl talking to the horses, as he groomed them and, reaching out with his senses, he found Otta about half a mile away, bow in hand, a brace of rabbits at her belt. Tari and Undine were now chopping the roots and leafy vegetables they'd gathered while Otta had been building the fire. The tripod, with Lored's cooking pot full of water stood over the flames.

They had quickly fallen into a daily routine, even though they'd only been on the road a week. Erl would dig a latrine pit and then care for the horses. Otta was in charge of lighting the fire and shooting game for the pot. Tari and Undine cooked supper and breakfast, and Lored ensured that no one found their camping place. Undine could have done a better job at setting Zoratti wards, but she had insisted, privately to Lored, that her true powers should not be revealed to the others, unless absolutely necessary.

They were a strange group, Lored reflected. The five companions were bound together by their need to rescue two people who had been taken by the kaerlings. But they were all here for different reasons.

Undine and