Chapter 15 A Foul Wind
AS THE SHADOWS grew long, a strange wind kicked up.
Lara tried to place it, but it wasn’t any of the Four Winds she recognized. It wasn’t shrill like The Whistle, or aggressive like The Sweeper. Nor did it peck at them like The Sharp Billed Wind or blister the land like The Gales of Complaint.
No, this warm, dry wind gusted in from the west, feathering across Lara’s skin as if she were pushing through old cobwebs.
Usually, the winds brought the smell of the mountains or sea with them, yet this one had an unsettling odor.
Musk and mildew. Uneasiness tightened deep in Lara’s chest as she raised her gaze to the sky, cloudless and pale pink.
But when voices reached her, tangling and overlapping as if each strove to talk over the last, her pulse lurched into a canter.
She cut her gaze right to where Bree rode. Her friend frowned as she looked up at the sky.
“It’s The Gaulas, isn’t it?” Lara asked.
Bree’s lips compressed. “Aye.”
“It sometimes blows in the far north,” Cailean added then, “especially around Gateway.”
“But we aren’t yet in the far north,” Lara reminded him.
She’d grown up listening to chilling tales of The Gaulas. It sprang from The Threshold and carried the voices of those banished there. The damned souls of the Slew—traitors, kin slayers, oath breakers—didn’t merely whisper. They infected. Their words burrowed under your skin like splinters.
The first gust hit her in the center of the chest, and then the voices began.
This mission is doomed. None of you are prepared for what waits for you at The Shattered Crown … not even Mor.
Her lungs seized. The air turned thick. It wasn’t like on the Slighe Fraoch. The Gaulas didn’t risk crippling her. Instead, it undermined her confidence. It made her doubt her choices. It knew exactly how to strike the soft places where doubt already lived.
You can’t trust any of them. Not Mor. And certainly not that traitorous bastard you married.
Sooner or later, they’ll both turn on you.
You’ll fail your people.
Albia will slip into darkness, and history will blame you.
Lara’s belly started to ache. The Gods spare me. With spirits like these on the wind, who needed enemies? The Gaulas was exhausting. Relentless.
The wind shrieked past her ears, but beneath it—woven through it—she could feel them. Not voices exactly, but presences. Thousands of them, pressing close, their hatred and despair lashing her.
Lara started to sweat. It didn’t help that she was exhausted. All of them were after a sleepless night. However, in the wake of wielding her fire magic to gain the assistance of the corpse candles, her limbs were leaden and weak.
And underneath it all, a dull dread gnawed at her.
What if something was terribly wrong with her?
What if she failed those she’d sworn to protect?
Her gaze slid ahead to where Mor rode upon her elk. Dorka was giving her trouble this afternoon. She twisted against her chain, snarling and spitting. Mor’s long curly black hair flew around her as she fought to control the clag-doo. Her face was set in grim, tight lines.
Aye, The Gaulas had dug its hooks into her too.
“I shall sing something to take the edge off once we make camp.” Lara dragged her attention from Mor to see Ren urge her sturdy garron alongside Bracken. The bard’s eyes were hollowed.
Lara nodded, relieved. Ren’s songs had helped against the likes of the Weeper. Hopefully, she’d provide a barrier against this foul wind too. “Aye … do that.”
Sinking down before the crackling hearth, Lara heaved a deep sigh. “Thank The Mother.”
They’d traveled for as long as they dared before stopping for the day on the eastern side of a steep hill that provided some shelter from the wind.
It wasn’t yet dusk, but since everyone was tired and hungry, they’d ended their day early.
Two of the Shee had gone hunting, and as Roth dragged branches of dusty whin onto the fire, they returned with five large hares and two fat red grouse.
They’d eaten all the food they’d brought with them, and resupplying at Dulross had turned out to be impossible.
From this point onward, unless they stopped at a village, they’d be hunting and foraging for each meal.
Thirst wasn’t an issue though. They filled their waterskins from burns on the way; the Shee knew which ones were safe to drink from, as did Cailean, Bree, and Alar, who’d all traveled The Uplands extensively.
Looking on as the Shee gutted and skinned the hares and plucked the grouse, their long slender fingers moving with deft precision, Lara reflected on just how vulnerable she was out here in the wilds.
Aye, she’d shown her mettle over the past years, but the truth was that she’d never had to hunt for her own food.
She’d never gutted a hare, let alone spit-roasted one.
She’d grown up in an environment where others rushed to do her bidding.
They’ll all abandon you. The Gaulas’s cruel refrain was back. They’ll leave you to fend for yourself. Turn back now!
Lara clenched her jaw, forcing the words away.
She reminded herself then that she wasn’t helpless.
She’d learned how to wield a dagger and defend herself, hadn’t she?
She’d learn survival skills too. And no matter what happened on the road ahead, she’d hold fast. Even so, the spirit wind’s cruelty got to her. She felt bruised this evening. Tender.
Digging into a pouch she carried at her waist, she pulled out one of the rosewood figurines her brother had carved for her.
The Hag. A bent crone, leaning upon a stick.
Her thumb smoothed the artfully carved lines as she murmured a prayer to the Goddess of the Dark.
The Hag presided over sleep, dreams, death, winter, and the earth.
They were entering her time of year, and Lara needed her grace.
The rich smells of gamey meat drifted over their camp, making Lara’s empty belly rumble.
“Settle, my lovely.” Mor’s voice drew Lara’s attention then. “I mean you no harm.”
She had to hand it to the Shee queen. Mor was diligent. Every evening, she attempted to gentle Dorka. Longing gleamed in her eyes now as she whispered to the feline. But she wouldn’t be tamed.
Ears back, hackles raised, Dorka hissed viciously. And then, as Mor edged closer, the clag-doo swiped at her. She was pushing things. Her voice was more strident than usual, even as The Gaulas continued to wrap itself around them.
Heaviness pressed down upon them—a thousand frantic voices crying in the wind.
The sky had gone the color of deep rose now. It was no longer as cold as it had been before this eerie wind began, although Lara found herself wishing for the bite of The Sharp Billed Wind or the bracing slap of The Sweeper.
Dorka yowled, lashing out once more. A ripping sound followed as its claws caught Mor’s sleeve. She reeled back, and with an outraged caw, Eagal took wing. Mor’s song cut off before she snarled something in her own tongue—Lara didn’t need any translation to understand she’d just cursed.
“You’re wasting your time. Clag-doos won’t respond to Shee songs.
” Alar appeared by the fireside. Like everyone else, his face bore lines of fatigue this evening.
His shoulders bowed slightly under the weight of The Gaulas.
He’d been out collecting wood and just dumped an armful on the pile already gathered.
They were traveling through largely open country now, although whin, broom, and other shrubby bushes were still plentiful.
Mor cast him a glare. However, embarrassment edged her irritation. “Know better, do you?”
His lips quirked into a wry smile. “I’ve spent most of my life sleeping rough in the forests of the North,” he replied. “The wulvers have had a few brushes with clag-doo over the years. They have ways of dealing with them.”
Mor sighed, her chin dipping. Steeling herself against The Gaulas while trying to tame Dorka was taking its toll. She then glanced over at where the clag-doo now strained at her chain, teeth bared. “Go on.”
“The clag-doo once resided in Sheehallion but were cast out. They no longer respond to Shee magic. If anything, your song is incensing her further.”
Mor’s features tightened, and she cast Dorka an almost apologetic look. “What do they respond to then?”
“I’ve never been foolish enough to try and tame one … but if I were, I’d try earth magic.”
Mor’s face screwed up. “Earth magic?”
“Aye … it’s rawer. Primal. You’d likely have more luck.”
Silence fell as The Gaulas continued to batter them, the fire crackled and guttered, and the skin of the roasting hares and grouse blistered.
Mor then turned, her gaze spearing the young woman clad in flowing blue robes who knelt by the fire. “Maybe a bard’s song will help.”
Ren frowned. “It might … but I’m busy.” Indeed, the bard was readying herself for an exhausting long night. Once supper was over, she’d hold vigil over their camp.
“Not right now, you aren’t.” Mor beckoned to Ren. “Come here.”
It wasn’t a request but a command. The bard scowled. Lara didn’t blame her. Ren wasn’t a dog to be ordered around. The Gaulas rose to a howl then, as if tasting the tension around the fireside. Mor’s Ravens had all stilled, anticipating trouble, as had Cailean, Bree, and Roth.
“You’re used to others doing your bidding, but Ren doesn’t answer to you,” Lara said finally. Shades, she didn’t have the patience for this. Not tonight. The chatter of the spirit wind made her head ache, and she was so tired, her skull felt as if it were stuffed with wool.
A muscle flexed in Mor’s jaw. Lara was aware then that Alar was watching her, his gaze penetrating. She ignored him.
Moments passed before Mor huffed an irritated sigh.
Her gaze then sought Ren’s once more. “The Gaulas will plague us for a while yet, I fear,” she said eventually.
“You can’t shield us from it every night.
You’re just one woman. It’ll break you in the end.
Let me deal with the wind tonight, and in return, you help me tame Dorka. ”
Ren frowned. “How will you deal with The Gaulas?”
Mor’s lips tugged up at the corners, and she cast her cousin a knowing look.
Vyr grimaced. “The ruling bloodline of my people is gifted in magical song too. But our power is different from yours. It’s why I’ll be able to weave moonlight when we reach The Shattered Crown.
Together, Vyrnek and I can take turns in coaxing starlight into a net of sorts, one that will keep the worst of the wind at bay. ”
Ren didn’t look convinced. However, the dark smudges under her eyes revealed just how tired she was.
She’d held vigil often over the past nights and would be desperate for a night of unbroken sleep.
Rising to her feet, she dusted off her robes.
“All right then,” she muttered. “I have no idea if I can help … but I will try.”
Mor inclined her head in thanks and stepped aside to allow the bard to approach the clag-doo.
Dorka crouched on all fours now. Her golden eyes fixed upon Ren. Unblinking. Hungry. Earlier, one of the Ravens had thrown her a hare carcass, but ever since Mor had taken her captive, she hadn’t been able to hunt.
Ren studied Dorka for a while. The wind tugged at her robes and pulled tendrils of red-gold hair free of the tight braid she wore. Extending both hands, she then closed her eyes, and as everyone looked on, the tattoos on her exposed forearms and neck started to glow.
Mor’s nostrils flared, and she moved back farther.
The scent of pine and ash swirled through the air.
And then, Ren started to sing. It was a soft, haunting melody—one that Lara had never heard before.
It made her breathing quicken and caused something to twist deep in her chest. Without meaning to, she glanced over at Alar.
He too was watching Ren, a groove etched between his dark eyebrows.
But, somehow, he marked her gaze, and his attention flicked back to Lara.
They stared at each other for a heartbeat, as Ren’s song swelled.
An ache rose under Lara’s breastbone. Longing.
Heart pounding now, she tore her gaze away. Gods. It was the song. It was worse than The Gaulas, for it was tearing down her defenses. Confusing her. Weakening her.
Meanwhile, Dorka continued to watch Ren. Her tail had been beating against the ground, yet it stilled now—and as the song continued, the hackles on her neck, shoulders, and spine smoothed.
Eventually, Ren’s voice died away, and when it did, another sound vibrated through the air.
A deep, rumbling purr.
It was coming from the clag-doo.
To Lara’s shock, Ren then moved toward Dorka before reaching out a hand and stroking her sleek forehead. She bowed her head and pushed against Ren’s hand, her purr loudening.
Mor whispered something before stepping up next to the bard. “What manner of song was that?”
“An old one,” Ren murmured, her voice soft now. “A lullaby of sorts my mother used to sing to me when I was afraid of the dark … when no amount of reassurance would quieten my fears. It’s a surrendering sain.” The bard glanced Mor’s way then. “Dorka was afraid. She has now lowered her guard.”