Wolfsangel by M. D. Lachlan Page B

rhythms of hunger and excretion, but when hunger is constant and water scarce these cease to mark time. The woman’s milk failed and the children’s wailing became constant. Then, after a while, it ceased.

    ‘Who?’

    A voice was close in the dark, the word like a note on a flute.

    ‘Lady?’

    ‘Who?’ Again, like the hoot of an owl, its breath near to him, foul and hot.

    Authun imagined some giant bird next to him in the dark, picking him over in its claws.

    ‘I am Authun, king of the Horda. I bring tribute of gold and slaves to the palace of the witch queen.’

    ‘Who?’

    Authun felt something climb over him. It was a human form, frail and light but still the king had to restrain himself from reaching for the sword. No. Whatever it was, they were at its mercy.

    ‘Who?’

    Authun breathed in. Would the Valkyries find him down here, he wondered, to take him to Valhalla to feast for ever? Or would it be just that damp dark, always. He reached to his side. Then he realised the cords on his belt were loose and the children were gone.

    A guttering flame burned the king’s eyes and he moved to shield them. In a glimpse he saw, leaning over Saitada and the babies, a tiny old woman in a white shift. Above her, in a flicker of gold, almost like a flame herself in that light, stood the witch queen, that grim child, pale and beautiful, crowned in an impossible tangle of golden cables, rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires, like a dragon’s hoard in miniature.

    At her throat was a rich necklace whose jewels burned with a light familiar to Authun. It was the light he’d seen as he sacked the five towns, the light of the burning village from which he’d taken the child, the light of destruction. Then it was gone, and he could see nothing.

    A baby was thrust into Authun’s hands. Then some sort of object. It was a small leather bottle, half full with liquid, he could feel. No one spoke, though he understood what it was - medicine to give his wife, to complete the deception.

    ‘The mother will come with me?’ said the king.

    ‘Who?’ The older woman’s idiot hoot again.

    Authun must have been dreaming because all around him tiny lights came on and went out, the faces of the strange sisters appearing for an instant and then vanishing again. Wherever they were, it seemed, was wreathed in gold - arms and armour, cups and plates, fine arm rings and gilded chests of coins. The king used the light to locate his sword. His hand closed on it and he had to will the tension from his fingers. If he was going to fight he would need to be relaxed: too tight a grip would rob him of speed.

    ‘The mother?’

    ‘Who?’

    Authun was finding his ordeal almost unbearable. He longed for the real light, for the feel of the breeze and the taste of rain. And then it was dark again and he didn’t know for how long.

    He awoke by the bank of a river. The Moonsword was gone but the baby was at his side. He was terribly thirsty and plunged his head into the water and drank like a dog. Then he turned to the child. It was filthy but looked well enough. It was crying, at least, which Authun took for a sign of health. He looked at the Troll Wall, far in the distance, still immense. He washed the child and thought of all the sorrow that had surrounded it up until that point, the deaths and the deception that had brought them to where they were. Even the death of the bandits played on his mind. There were his kinsmen left on the river beach; Varrin, weighed down by the byrnie, swallowed by the sea; that poor girl with her hideous face - what had become of her? At the very best she had lost one of her babies. At the worst? Still alive and alone in that awful dark for as long as it took for thirst to kill her. On any other day of his life Authun would have regarded these things as simply the way of fate, unpleasant briars he’d had to pick through to get to the clear path ahead. But though he didn’t know her name, he thought of