“Tell me where she hides.”
“Let me go!” He pushed her away in desperation, trying to find his way back to the circle. “Get away from me!”
“Worthless human.” Belial shoved him into a wall. His skull cracked against the stone.
“The circle…” he mumbled, his mind too far gone for the demon’s purposes.
He succumbed to sleep as his head began to bleed where he fell in the snow, and as the shadows disappeared from the place of the fairies.
When he opened his eyes the hallowed circle shone around him. Not far away the demon waited, looking at him, and surrounding him. Headred saw the wolves hunting his dream-girl.
“Get away from me, demon,” he shouted. The wind slammed into him, throwing him out of the circle.
“Fool,” She threw her head back, looking at the sky, and let out a blood-curdling scream. Out of the woods the wolves bounded, in a half-moon around her.
“Kill him,” she ordered.
In a moment Headred jumped to his feet; and in another moment he shot an arrow, striking down a wolf. They snarled around him as they fought, drooling at the scent of blood.
“If I cannot have you, she will not have you either.”
A second and a third wolf fell dead arrows in them. But the wolves drew ever closer.
Too many wolves gathered for him to fight alone. He always knew this battle would come, the battle he could not win. And yet, he thought, hope remained.
Anger bubbled inside him, and he gripped a dagger he strapped to his ankle. He slew another of the cursed werewolves, and slinging the bow around his shoulder raised his hand and let the dagger fly.
Belial screamed as the dagger struck her abdomen and shattered. The wolves stopped menacing him and ran to her. Headred needed no more distraction. He set off running, wounded and bleeding, into the winter woods.
“After him,” she ordered, touching the cold black blood pouring from her wound. “Hunt him, kill him, but follow him first, for he may lead you to the one whose blood calls to him. If he escapes, you will all die.”
The wolves needed no more coercion, and with howls of fury, they disappeared into the wood, as the storms began to rage above.
The anger of the demon boiled in the skies. Snow fell in thick sheets. He ran for what seemed like hours, changing direction every so often, going for a while and doubling back. The sounds of the wolves died down and disappeared as he ran through the drifts of snow. Headred stopped and panted for breath before looking back into the empty wood behind him. Headred sighed in relief, finding himself alone.
He began to run again, not for fear, but for warmth. He knew the futility of his situation and how barren the haven could be. But he hoped perhaps he might find shelter by a kind stranger’s fire.
The cold lashed his body, cutting through the white wool clothing, chilling him to the bone. He stopped once, to lean against the tree and tend to the wound.
It hurt his pride more than his body when he realized one of the cursed dogs touched him. Even as his blood poured crimson onto velvet snow, his thoughts remained on his pride, his ego. Headred believed himself to be infallible; now he found himself mortal also.
I could be, he thought, powered by the fury stoking the fires of his mind.
The blizzard around him raged, spun, and toppled, as he came to rest in a snowdrift. And even as he fought, his mind succumbed to the darkness.
*****
Headred struggled to open his eyes.
He pushed himself up in the snowbank as best he could, praying to find the strength to survive. The poison of the wolves did its work, seeping through his body.
The loss of blood did not help him either.
Headred stood, shaking from exhaustion and cold, in the now-calm world, several inches of snow falling from him. He did not know how long he laid there. Not a cloud hung in the sky.
He could not hear wolves and was thankful.
The prophet scanned the world, the deepest part of Sul’s forests. He did not know where he ran to, or where dreams took him where he collapsed.
The stars shone into his blurred eyes. And the trees swayed in the gentle, cold breeze.
In the distance, Headred, squinting, saw a glow, like a fire. Perhaps he would find travelers who would share their fire.
The woman stared at Headred as he tore through the forest and stopped before her. Their eyes met in confusion, but recognition overcame both gazes. Headred keeled into the snow. As he fell the woman from his dreams ran toward him.
Auburn hair fell in a braid down her back; she wore a simple cotton and wool gown underneath warm wrappings of fur, and her form the pale beauty of a goddess living in a world not her own. Her face mirrored his shock and recognition. Her soft, red mouth formed words he could not hear.
I love you, he thought, as pain from his wound intruded once again. He stumbled, falling into her arms as the world spun around him and turned black once again.
The man fell on Caer, knocking her into the snow. However shocked she felt by the appearance of her dream-man, Caer found herself more shocked by his sheer weight as she struggled underneath him.
There didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat beneath his thin wool robe. As she stood, breathless from the heavy task, red, sticky liquid covered her hand. Blood, she realized. Yet she did not know where the deep cut came from.
She needed a way to take him home. She glanced at the far-away smoke rising from the earthen hovel's chimney. His weight would be a problem. And so would the recognition she felt for this man.
“Huma!” she shouted. “Huma!”
The sound of the hoof beats resonated in the forest. The shadows of the forest moved as the goat-man bounded to her.
“You screamed, me lady?” He stumbled sideways, careful not to spill his ale. His foot kicked Headred’s limp form. “Got a visitor, do we?” he asked, a glimmer in his eye. “Didn’t know suitors came for ye nowadays.”
“Quiet yourself, mule,” she shot back.
“Well I never,” he said, and stumbled again in his stupor. “I am not an ass.”
“A goat,” she retorted feeling the urgency rise. The man’s wounds still bled. “We must hurry.”
“With what, me lady?” he asked. “I am of the noble race of centaurs. We do not bear humans on our splendid backs.”
“Carry him!” she shouted, attempting in vain to heave Headred onto the goat-man’s back.
“Allow me, me lady.” He lifted Headred onto his back with one stroke. “To the White City,” he pointed.
“To my home,” she ordered, and pointed the opposite direction.
“Yes, yes, me lady,” he mumbled.
Caer sighed as they began to descend the hill, wondering how much more injured the poor man would be when they arrived.
*****
The sun rose the next morning. Caer watched all night as Beoreth tended to Headred. The old wise woman seemed worried when he first arrived. The worry subsided as the night wore on, though their patient lay in feverish dreams.
Huma came to the door, and when he deposited the man inside the hut, the goat man left in a drunken stupor. When last Caer checked, Huma collapsed into dreams of his own, often muttering phrases such as "me mum" or "relations with a goat." She covered him with a blanket and left him in the empty stables where he often slept.
Beoreth began to act strange. Often she would whisper words to Headred, simple phrases in reference to his father, to his mother, or about the White City. This man lived there all this time, Caer realized; he been so close to her, and yet so far away.
“Child,” Beoreth said, disturbing her thoughts, reading, perhaps, a look of recognition on the girl’s face as well. She dangled the empty herb bag before Caer. “I need oak bark for his wounds.”
Caer looked at the wizened face of her grandmother. “I know him from my dreams. I have seen him before; I feel it.”
Beoreth paled. “Of course you have.” Beoreth regained her composure. ?
??You met Headred a long while ago when he rode through the woods with his father.”
“But I see him in my dreams,” she whispered, and fell silent.
Beoreth looked at her and sighed. “Course you do.” Beoreth laid a comforting hand on the back of the girl she helped to birth. No, she decided; nothing happened for Caer to know the truth. “You liked him, and as you grew into womanhood you thought of the man he would become.”
“Yes, of course,” Caer shook her head.
“Of course, child!” Beoreth threw up her hands. “Now get on with you and gather the bark for his wound.”
“I will return soon.” Caer took the bag and wrapped herself in the fur cloak. “I wish to speak with him again when he awakens.”
Beoreth smiled, but her heart fell, not for the fate of the man who lay near death nearby, but for the fate of a woman she raised, who one day would face the same dark as he. She followed Caer out to check on the goat man before he froze.
Beoreth wondered whether Caer would survive her fate.
*****
The cold haven of Fensalir stretched before Caer, the wind cutting like a knife, the snow whirling. Every morning of her life began this way, biting cold nipping at her heals as Miðgarðir waited for the winter to end.
Grey flashed before her.
Caer shrugged it off and continued walking. She did not notice the eyes peering from the shadows of the trees, glowing red in the sunlight, or the occasional crunch of snow or low growl
The wolves smelled the scent of the one they sought, and they found before them a tasty morsel to snack on before the feast.
A long, deep, low growl sounded. Caer stopped as a howl echoed through the forest.
Wolves.
She turned to run but her feet slipped on the snow. Her ankle twisted. But fear powered her away from the hovel where her love lay, where her friend and her grandmother waited. The wolves might reach her, but they would not reach her loved ones.
They followed fast and hard. The crunching snow behind her drew ever closer, until it seemed hope fled.
She felt their evil, the power of the demon working within them.
Wolfsbane. She prayed to remember where the root grew. Without stopping she turned and cut a new path through the forest, hoping the root would be powerful enough to stop those who chased her.
Caer stumbled into the patch of wolfsbane, the wolves not far behind.
They leapt, and she closed her eyes, ripping some dead roots from the ground and throwing them in the charging wolf’s face.
The animal staggered and fell. It turned into a man, quaking before her. She noticed the arrow in its side, and heard its last whimper before it embraced the darkness.
Caer glanced behind her. Headred stood there, his leg-wound mended with a strip of linen and a poultice. He held a dagger in each hand, his bow once again slung over his shoulder, fighting the wolves as they charged him. Six remained, each large and powerful.
“Behind you!” he called, and she whirled.
A single wolf clawed through the patch toward the wolfsbane, the largest of the lot. As the girl looked at him, Fenrir smiled.
“Eat this, filthy dog,” she shouted, and threw the wolfsbane at him. Fenrir snarled and continued.
Headred shouted, and Caer heard a commotion behind her, but she did not move. If she ran the wolf would overtake her fast enough. As long as she stayed on the patch of tree roots, a chance remained the wolfsbane would still have the desired effect when Fenrir came to her.
She noticed the battle behind her ended. But she saw the anger and fear in the wolf’s red eyes. It saw something behind her and snarled. With little more than another glance at her, it turned tail and ran away into the woods.
Caer spun to see Headred staggering toward her.
“You felt them coming,” she whispered as he drew near. “You knew they intended to kill me.”
“Aye,” he said, his voice weak with exhaustion. “Perhaps we should go back while I can still walk. I don’t fancy riding on a damned donkey again.”
“Of course,” she agreed, snatching some wolfsbane. “For your wound,” she explained and hefted some of his weight onto her shoulders.
Headred smiled but said nothing as she helped him back to the hovel, wondering what strength lay in a man who could ignore their own pain and fight their way out of unconsciousness to help another in need.
She also wondered whom such a man might love.
*****
The cauldron simmered with stew made from roots Caer gathered and dried, and from leaves Hroth grew. She ladled it into a simple wooden bowl and ignored its foul smell. It would not taste good, but it would heal Headred.
When she sat down beside the bed, she stared at his familiar face for a moment before picking up the bowl.
“It tastes bad,” she warned, letting the glop fall from the spoon into the bowl, “but it will heal you. Either you feed yourself, or I will spoon it down your throat.”
“I will feed myself, milady.” To prove it he took a large spoonful and grimaced at the horrible taste. “My apologies, madam.” He took another spoonful.
“I need no apology.” She shook her head and fell silent as he ate.
“Why did the wolves attack me?” she asked.
His eyes flashed in uncertainty. “I am sure they craved mortal flesh.” He spooned distasteful brew into his mouth.
“Yet the wolves do not venture into this part of the world,” she said. “The Dark Lord and her servants avoid the fairy sidhes, for fear of the fairies wrath.”
“Aye. They hunted me by her order.”
Caer sat back and stared at him for a while, as he pretended not to notice. Moments later the latch clicked, and Beoreth entered.
“Ah, yeh’ve returned,” she said and frowned at the man who ate sitting up. “I did not think you would awaken so soon.” She rubbed her hands together, feeling his face and his neck, examining the wound. “Your wound reopened!” she shrieked.
“Headred saved me from some wolves attacking me. Tell me, grandmother, why does the demon venture to the safe haven and order her dogs to attack a stranger?”
Beoreth frowned. Headred looked at Caer as if a hungry dragon awoke beside him. After all, he remembered her mother’s anger, when provoked, could be as a dragon’s fire. The woman beside him would be furious to know the truth, and the lie she lived.
Beoreth sighed and sat down to reseal the wound as she talked. “There are things yeh don’t know about your past.” Beoreth looked at Caer’s eyes, radiant with anger. “Things I never told you, things your mother asked me not to tell you until the time came.”
“Like what?” she asked as fury bubbled within.
“You’re a witch,” Beoreth informed her. “Your mum too. I think we need to tell this tale from the beginning so you can understand, love.”
“Maybe we should,” Caer replied.
The ancient wise woman wove a tale of the past, taking them back twenty years, to a time and a place not so different, as the veil of destiny tore open, and the gods sent their savior into the world.
Idalir, the Castle of the Sun, rose on the face of Mount Kern, facing the city sprawled around it. Snow fell in blankets. In the heavens, the god of war and the goddess of light mated in a union of power, and blessed the coming child with magic. Inside, Beren screamed as her child came forth, a child promised to turn back Belial’s evil, an answer to her prayers.
“Breathe, my Queen.” Beoreth, an experienced midwife with children and grandchildren of her own, whispered.
“It comes,” a lady-in-waiting said from beside her and smiled.
In the castle, the scream of Beren’s daughter filled a house long bereft of joy, hope, and light. She meant to them what no other of her line meant before, a chance to turn back the dark. Beren’s daughter rekindled hope in the hearts of mortals.
“There, there.” Beoreth wiped the baby with cloths.
“Let me hold her,” Beren said,
thinking about the childbed death she once watched overcome her mother; a cold, dark death would not come to her. Little blood spilled this night.
Beoreth handed the child to her mother and watched as the baby suckled Beren's breast.
“She shall be called Caer,” Beren whispered, stroking the bright red tufts of her daughter’s hair. Beren thought of all they lost.
The standing stones where she cried out, kneeling in the snow wrought by her sister Belial's evil ways. The gods came to her at the sacred place, knelt beside her and promised her a child. They told her the price she would pay, and it seemed a small price to save their world.
Cerdic, god of war, shone red upon Miðgarðir, and Cwen glowed white in the sky, a night when the white star and the red star met in the heavens and danced together in power, when she conceived this miracle.
The night of the dance the call came. The eastern woodlands burned in the fires of Belial and her armies. Beren’s husband, King Gareth, Warhammer as the people called him, left to lead the armies and fight the war her sister began.
Beren remembered the night she saw Gareth last and wept because only his corpse returned.
Time passed. His child grew inside her, and she gave birth when the gods converged in the heavens.
She thought of the night a few weeks before, as she gazed in the heavens, and the words of the Fairy Queen came to her.
The demon will strike at the light remaining, Mab said. She will destroy the child you carry, as your mother did not destroy her when the chance came.
So Beren returned to kneel in the place of the gods. Again they walked with her. And soon they would have their price, so her daughter might be spared. But still hope endured.
Hope, it seemed, staved off Belial.
*****
Inside the temple, darkness consumed him.
For all of Enyd’s reign over Sul, and while her daughter Beren ruled, Waermund, son of Waerlith, served the people as a priest in the temple of the gods. He kept the old ways and the ancient knowledge in the White City. And he alone saw clearly the way set before them.
No one could stand against the demon and her power.
He remembered, the many years before, when the shadow of Moloch came upon the city of light. He saw the black cloud settling upon them, upon the chambers of the Queen. And he saw the life conceived by Moloch’s rape of Enyd. Moloch died, and Enyd gave birth to his heir.