***
For a time, nothing existed but the seething of dreams, a darkness thick and murky as swamp water. It was a slight rustling that finally roused her to consciousness, a rustling and a soft whistling that sounded like a tune she’d heard as a child a very long time before.
The memories flooded back as she drifted upwards, to awareness. Memories that stirred a hollow sense of panic.
That face!
She became aware of a soft weight pressing down on her chest. It took a moment to understand that she was conscious again, that the blue-whiteness filling her eyes was the play of clouds splayed across the heavens. Not the ethereal blank backdrop of nothingness.
The transition to sensory perception was not as gentle as her visual recovery, accompanied by a discomfort as deep as a battle wound.
It hurts.
Awake now, she could feel the ache across her entire body. Intense but profound, as though she had done herself some great internal injury. Although the pain felt acute it was also oddly generic and difficult to isolate. The muscles in her legs, however, burned with a distinctness of their own, as though the very tissue and sinew had been stretched beyond its limits. A ferocious thirst arose in a throat that was parched and dry and sore. Her stomach rumbled, ravenous for food.
Another rustle.
She struggled to rise but found she was lying on her back, spread-eagled on a bed of furs. Each hand and leg had been separately tethered to a small stake in the ground. A heavy fur cloak had been tossed across her chest.
‘Are the rages still on you?’
The voice, masculine, came from behind. She struggled to raise her head and although she succeeded in tilting her neck at a slight angle, she was unable to make out the speaker. Fortunately, the source of the query moved into view a moment later, taking a seat on an overturned log lying on the ground by her right hand.
He was a young man. Broad shouldered and handsome with a full moustache and a thick mane of black hair that spilled down to his shoulders. The thick strands had been tied up in braids around his face, exposing the tattooed patterns on his left cheek and forehead. His noble heritage was evidenced by the embroidered, coloured tunic and pants of good quality. A green wool cloak hung draped over his shoulders, fastened beneath his chin with an elaborate bronze pin.
Liath Luachra struggled to focus and she blinked, pupils and eyelids burning. Her stomach hurt from heaving. Her joints were swollen, disjointed by strain. Her scalp and face felt scratched and torn and a headache pounded inside her temple. She stank of sweat and stale urine.
She ignored the pain. She knew how to deal with pain. It was the restraints that terrified her, the unfamiliar sense of powerlessness. She tried to speak but the word came out as a hoarse croak, her parched lips unable to articulate the sounds correctly.
‘Gaaahh.’
The response, oddly enough, seemed to satisfy her captor for he gave an easy smile. ‘Good. The rages have passed.’
With a nod, he rose from his seat and pulled a long knife from the scabbard on his belt. Unable to move, Liath Luachra watched him approach with mounting apprehension, glaring in defiance as he crouched down beside her. She forced herself not to flinch as he lifted the knife but he didn’t seem to notice her relief as he used the weapon to cut the leather thongs around her right hand. Keen and freshly ground, the blade made short work of the bindings, the severed strips falling to the ground with a single slice.
Free at last, she made another desperate attempt to rise but it was a dismal failure. Her body, pushed beyond its limits, simply refused to respond to her mental commands. She was left lying as helpless as a fish left beached in the shallows by the departing tide.
Beside her, the squatting man continued to watch her as though anticipating some particular reaction that she was unable to provide. When it became apparent that no response was forthcoming, he sighed, slipped a hand underneath her back and hauled her into a sitting position. As she was pulled upright, the fur cloak shifted and slid off to one side. She was suddenly aware of the chill touch of air against the exposed skin of her arms.
Satisfied that she was not about to fall, the man grabbed a water skin lying on the ground beside them.
‘Drink.’
He held out the leather container and she grasped it with weak hands, hauling it to her mouth to gulp the water down. Much of the liquid splashed down one side of her face but she succeeded in getting some through her parched lips.
After several long swallows, she continued to drink despite feeling sated. She could feel the water swell her internal tissue, filling her dehydrated body from the inside out.
Finally, she dropped the skin and considered the tall man who had returned to his seat on the rock. Stroking the tender, red welts on her wrists, a consequence of the bindings, she made a point of ignoring him while she looked around and assessed their surroundings although the effort set her head spinning. A muscle at the side of her face twitched, the nerve shot, but she ignored that too.
They were in a crude campsite. Located in a tight clearing, it was surrounded on all sides by forest, tall trees with wide, spanning limbs that blotted out patches of sky. She noted that her ‘benefactor’ had also constructed a rough lean-to, a shelter constructed with branches hacked from the surrounding trees. She placed a hand palm downwards on the ground beside her. It was cold but free of snow.
‘Fiacail mac Codhna!’
The young man made a pretence at a bow.
‘It always pleases a man to be recalled by the fairer sex, Liath Luachra.’ He smiled, revealing the perfect set of teeth – fiacla – from which his nickname had been derived.
Her response was a growl.
‘Even,’ he continued, completely undaunted ‘If it be for all the wrong reasons.’
‘You had the good sense to cut me loose. Don’t provoke me, big man.’
If he was in any way perturbed by the threat, the young man certainly showed no sign of it. He slapped his knee and roared with laughter, a deep, rollicking guffaw that only served to infuriate her further.
‘You prancing cockerel. What are you doing here? For that matter what am I – ’
She stopped in mid-sentence for she had suddenly noticed two other men sitting cross-legged on the other side of the little clearing, separated from her by a roaring campfire. Both were dressed in colourless, woollen jerkins and cloaks and bore the facial scarring and tattoos of seasoned warriors. Stocky and dark-haired, they shared similar pug noses and narrow foreheads, a strong resemblance that left little doubt of their close kinship. Although they were sitting half-shrouded in shadow, Liath Luachra was angry with herself for not spotting them straight off. Despite her open scrutiny, they stared back at her in silence.
‘What are you doing here?’ Fiacail completed the question for her. ‘Well, there’s an interesting tale.’ He paused to reach back to the fire and pulled a wooden bowl from the embers. The strong smell of a warm meaty broth hit her nostrils and it took all of her self-control to prevent herself from licking her lips.
Fiacail handed her the bowl. Making no pretence of manners, she raised it straight to her lips and shovelled the steaming contents down her throat, ignoring the scalding it gave her tongue.
‘You know,’ continued Fiacail, politely ignoring her lack of finesse. ‘It’s always been a matter of some amazement to me, the efforts to which some young women will rise to seek out the pleasure of my company. Now, I’m hardly the one to brag but ...’
‘Fiacail,’ she snapped, tossing the empty bowl aside with a frown of regret. She could happily have gorged another bowl or two.
‘But your approach was somewhat more original.’ He grinned that infuriating grin, completely indifferent to her glowering expression. ‘Never let it be said that Liath Luachra fails to make a dramatic entrance.’ He coughed into his hand and took on the sombre tones of a professional storyteller.
‘There I was, settled down with a fire, a warm meal and the congenial company
of my kinsmen. He gestured towards the two men across the fire then widened his eyes for dramatic effect. ‘Suddenly, who should come thundering out of the undergrowth but Liath Luachra, the Grey One of Luachair.’
He raised his eyebrows, shaking his head with an exaggerated expression of incomprehension.
‘Not that we recognised you at first, of course. Your eyes bulging like a constipated toad, your mouth frothing, gibbering like a crazy woman. Without care or concern, you stampeded through our camp, trampled our little fire, and stomped on the girdle cake we’d been saving for ...’
Fiacail’s melodrama tailed off quietly.
‘Tóla and Ultán were particularly upset at the loss of that girdle cake. They’d been looking forward to the sweet taste for days. To be honest, I was none too pleased myself. That cake was a present from a close friend in Seiscenn Uarbhaoil.’
‘Fiacail,’ said Liath Luachra, her head drooping with fatigue. She closed her eyes as a pounding headache flowered up behind her temple. She had never felt so weak in her life. ‘Please just tell me what happened.’
The young man considered her in silence. After a moment he nodded to himself as though he’d made some private, internal decision.
‘Very well. Quite simply, you ran through our camp, tripped over the stones about out fire and hit the ground hard. The fall must have knocked the air out of your chest for you were wheezing and drooling, unable to even breathe. Despite this, you attempted to rise again, growling and snarling at us when we tried to restrain you. You truly had the strength of the mad, Liath Luachra. In the end, it took all three of us to restrain you, to tie you down so you could not harm yourself. Or us, for that matter. Despite your restraints, you kicked and you bucked for some time before you finally passed out.’
He looked her directly in the eyes but this time none of his earlier humour remained.
‘You were possessed by a demon, Liath Luachra. If we had not stopped you, you would have run yourself to death.’