34 VOICES IN THE RAIN
LARA WIPED THE rain out of her eyes and peered into the murk.
It was as if The Hag—the Goddess who presided over this time of year—had decided to turn against them.
Halfway through their journey to Dulross, the weather had changed.
Autumn plunged into winter. The Gales of Complaint roared in from the north, bringing sheets of icy rain.
The foul weather slowed them down, and made their horses lower their necks, flatten their ears, and tuck their tails between their legs.
The road had become a mire, and the supply wagons kept getting stuck, forcing the whole army to halt while warriors and wulvers strained to free them.
Dulross was less than a day away now, yet the harsh wind and driving rain made the fort seem far off. The rain had even soaked through Lara’s thick fur cloak. Her fingers were now chilled, and her teeth had started to chatter.
“You should take refuge in one of the covered wagons.”
Lara cast Alar a sidelong glance. Rain gleamed on his face, although unlike her, he didn’t hunch in the saddle. Years living wild amongst the wulvers had toughened her husband—but she wasn’t as hardy.
“There’s little point now,” she replied, even as she tried to still her shivering. “We’re close to stopping for the day anyway.”
That was true enough, although it was difficult to keep track of time when the weather was this bad, for they couldn’t follow the sun across the sky. All the same, their break at noon had been a while ago. And it appeared to Lara that the afternoon was growing steadily darker. Dusk wasn’t far away.
Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, she cut a glance up at the leaden sky. Lighting the torches would be a challenge in this weather, even with fatwood.
Alar didn’t insist further. She liked that he didn’t push things with her. He’d never once tried to bully her into obeying him.
And despite that she was wet and cold, and her legs chafed from riding in the rain, warmth kindled deep in her breast. Her husband was arrogant, bull-headed, and frustratingly enigmatic, but he respected her wishes. He listened to her.
This journey had brought them closer. The rift between them was starting to heal. She looked forward to the evenings, after her attendants had withdrawn, when it was just the two of them. They’d sit by the brazier, cups of wine in hand, and talk quietly about the day.
In those moments, it felt as if they had a real marriage.
Maybe, eventually, we could—
Lara swiftly pulled herself up short. What was she doing?
She was a High Queen on campaign. Daydreaming about her husband was foolish.
Bristling with irritation at herself, she blinked the rain out of her eyes and took note of her surroundings.
She and Alar rode, side by side, near the head of the main body of the army. Cailean and Roth were a few yards in front of them, while Bree rode just behind. Skaal loped in easy strides alongside. Her long coat hung in wet, heavy clumps. She didn’t seem to mind the rain though.
The advance guard—a force of four hundred wulvers—had already disappeared into the mists ahead.
The rest of the wulvers traveled with the rear guard, protecting their supply wagons, healers, slaves, and servants.
For most of the day, they’d wended their way through woodland interspersed by swamps.
Fortunately, the road between Duncrag and Dulross was a proper one, and this section had long ago been raised up with deep ditches on either side.
Lara’s brow furrowed as she gazed around her. They wouldn’t be stopping just yet. Watery marshes—interspersed with rushes—stretched on either side of the highway.
She glanced Alar’s way once more, marking the groove between his eyebrows as he looked right, to where rain stippled the water. His horse snorted then and bucked. Alar kept his seat and leaned forward, placing a steadying hand on the beast’s slick neck. “Easy,” he soothed.
Likewise, Lara’s mount startled. Bracken, usually unflappable, side-stepped, threw up her head, and gave a high-pitched squeal. Stroking the mare’s neck, Lara looked around her. “What’s spooked them?”
Alar didn’t answer. He was too busy staring out across the marshes.
“Can you hear that?” Bree’s voice cut through the rain.
Lara twisted in her saddle. “Hear what?”
“Gurgling.”
Alar’s hands lifted to his blades. “I hear it too.”
Lara held her breath, listening. There—a wet, rhythmic burbling that almost sounded like words drowning in water.
Her stomach dropped. Beware of voices in the rain near dusk or dawn. Her nursemaid’s warnings echoed in her mind as the bog began to bubble. Mist rose from its surface like steam from a cauldron.
Cailean’s curse split the air. An instant later, Skaal gave a loud growl, her hackles rising.
Emaciated figures crawled from the marsh.
Lara’s pulse went wild. The Fuath.
The Slew weren’t the only malevolent spirits in Albia that attacked in packs—bog wights did too.
The Fuath were the corrupted spirits of those who’d drowned.
Ragged, water-logged clothing still clung to their bodies, but their mottled blue-green skin, slick and slightly transparent, wasn’t Marav.
Nor were the webbed hands and feet, tipped with curving claws, they used to pull themselves free of the bog.
Long, tangled hair flowed over their shoulders, their large fishlike eyes fixed upon the column of riders and warriors before them.
“Draw iron!” Cailean roared.
Skaal lunged forward.
Metal sang in the rain. Lara’s dagger was in her hand before she’d thought to draw it.
The Fuath swarmed the road.
Alar dropped to the ground, and Lara hastily followed his lead. Horses screamed, rearing back from the onslaught. Warriors formed a tight circle around the High Queen.
A warrior went down shrieking as a female Fuath buried her fangs in his leg. Her companions dragged him into the bog. His cries cut off with a wet gurgle.
Iron hissed through waterlogged flesh. The bog wights’ bodies burst like punctured aleskins, flooding the road.
The sharp scent of pine and ash followed as the enforcers drew upon their strength.
The strident notes of singing rose above the fracas.
Ren and her bards were trying to weaken their attackers.
Some of the Fuath shrank from the sound, and from Cailean as he strode into their midst, iron broadsword swinging.
One slipped past the guards, lunging for Bree. Her blade opened its throat in a spray of brackish water.
Skaal’s growls punctuated the shouts and grunts of battle. Lara couldn’t see the fae hound, but she was nearby. Protecting them.
“Keep close!” Bree shouted. “Protect the High Queen!”
It was too late—they’d already gotten through.
Lara’s world shrank to slick skin and gaping mouths.
Fear pounded in her chest like a war drum.
She swiped at an attacker, her dagger blade scoring a line down a bare arm.
Translucent skin burst open, and the wraith retreated with a screech.
Iron left a nasty cut, but it wasn’t enough to keep them at bay.
“Lara!” Alar shouted. She couldn’t see him now either.
“I’m here!” she screamed back.
A lean figure with stringy hair flew at her, webbed claws outstretched. She drove her dagger up, and felt it punch through slick skin. The wight’s scream sprayed her with bog water.
Another Fuath lunged at her. Claws raked Lara’s throat. Stinging pain followed as she reeled back. The bog wight followed.
Salt. Mirren’s voice sliced through her terror. The pouch at her belt, sealed tight against the rain, was packed full of it.
She fumbled for her pouch as teeth snapped near her face. Her fingers closed around a handful of salt. An instant later, she flung it into the wight’s eyes. It reeled back, clawing at its face in agony.
Another took its place.
Twin blades flashed between them. Alar was there. Somehow, he’d cut through the press to reach her.
“Salt!” Lara screamed to anyone who could hear. “Use salt!”
She flung another handful. The wight writhed away, shrieking.
But they kept coming. The narrow road trapped her people in a column—perfect for slaughter. They were outnumbered, outflanked, and drowning in a sea of raking claws and eel-like teeth.
Around her, warriors caught on. Iron and salt flew together now. The wights’ screams turned desperate, raw.
Lara pressed her back to Alar’s, her last grains of salt burning in her palm. Her blade was slick with bog water and something fouler.
Bree fought her way back to them, blood streaming from her face. Her dagger opened another throat. Water crashed over them in a wave.
The screaming reached a crescendo—then silence.
The Fuath drew back into the mist, leaving only bodies and the steady drum of rain.