Authors: Jane Fletcher
“It had teeth. Load and loads of little peg teeth. And it had cloven hooves. Its nose came out like this”—Deryn cupped both hands in front of her mouth—“It had orange eyes, like slits. And when it spoke, it went, baaaaa.”
The children had been enraptured, hanging on every word. Their faces had held identical expressions of delighted fear, but at Deryn’s bleat, the reaction diversified. Some giggled, some looked disgusted, some were clearly confused.
“It made a sound like a sheep?”
“More than that. It had disguised itself as a sheep.”
“Don’t be silly. Demons don’t disguise themselves as sheep.”
“Now that’s the clever bit. Nobody expects a demon to look like a sheep. That was how it got the jump on me.” Deryn nodded seriously. “Next time I see a demon disguised as a sheep, I’m going to be ready for it.”
The children stood, mulling it over, until one at the rear cheered and rushed off. “When I find a demon, I want one disguised as a pig.”
The others followed. “No. A cow.”
“A huge rabbit, with furry ears. No one expects that.”
“Yeah.”
Alana laughed, watching them go. The interruption had been what she needed to take charge of her head, and with any luck, Deryn would have forgotten what they had been talking about before. For the moment she was okay, but common sense said she should not push her luck any further. The crowd was too volatile. Any unexpected disturbance could smash aside her feeble attempts at control.
Then Deryn turned, smiled at her, and all common sense vanished. “What’s the big deal about Voodoo Mountain?”
“You don’t know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”
Without stopping to consider the wisdom, Alana tightened her hold on Deryn’s hand and towed her across the square. “Let’s see if we can find someone to tell you the story. This is the night for it.”
Regan was sitting on a bench in the warmth of the bonfire, accompanied by two other elderly inhabitants and a small beer barrel. According to Eldora, the town mayor was the best storyteller in Neupor.
Alana hailed her. “Excuse me, Regan.”
“Yes?”
“Deryn wants to hear about the Witch-Lord and Voodoo Mountain.”
The mayor smiled. “Ah now, she should have gotten the story before she went running up there.”
“Could you tell it to her now?”
“I’m sure people don’t want me yammering on, telling silly stories.”
The disavowal was not in earnest. Others had heard the request and already an audience was gathering. In seconds, word spread across the square. Groups broke off what they were doing and drifted in Regan’s direction. Children squirmed between the taller adults, and then sat cross-legged on the ground in front of her.
Regan laughed, accepting the role as storyteller. She cast her eyes over the listeners and nodded. “The Witch-Lord. Yes, now there’s a good tale for the Night of the Lost.” Her voice dropped and she hunched forward, adopting a singsong lilt. “Long, long ago, in the Age of Chaos, there lived a weak, cowardly, petty-minded man. Some say his name was Grigor, although nobody much cared what it was then, and it matters even less now. He fell in love with a beautiful woman from Oakan, called Caylee, but she’d have nothing to do with him. Her heart was given to a brave, handsome hunter called Delmar. When Grigor realized this, he was consumed with anger. But what could he do?” Regan paused, dramatically. “I’ll tell you what he did. He prayed to the demons that were ravaging the earth.”
A soft gasp came from those gathered, even though they all must have heard the story many times before. The ripple of anticipation jolted Alana, forcing her to concentrate on holding herself steady.
Regan continued. “He offered himself to them, and asked them to possess him. Because that was the only way the weak man could avenge himself on those he thought had wronged him. One of the demons heard his plea. The demon entered him, and ate his soul. The man became one of the possessed, and the name Grigor was lost forever. He became, and will always be known as, the Witch-Lord. He excavated a mighty citadel for himself in the roots of Voodoo Mountain, and he set about inflicting as much pain, misery, and evil upon the world as he could.”
Was Grigor one of my ancestors?
The question popped into Alana’s head. In the minds of the people gathered, there was no doubt about the guilt of the evil villain. But had any of her demon-possessed ancestors really been willing collaborators? Or had they been mindless puppets, the demons’ most cruelly abused victims? Yet regardless of the truth, and whatever her ancestors had done, it was unfair to hold her, or any of the demon-spawn, responsible. She scanned the faces around her. How many people in the village square would see things that way? Alana suddenly felt very isolated.
Regan’s story had moved on. The beautiful, but unfortunate, Caylee had been captured by her rejected suitor and held prisoner in the mountain stronghold.
“Delmar swore to rescue his love. He took up his shield, sword, and bow. He put on his helmet, and he bravely set out for Voodoo Mountain. Yet no mortal man could compete with the demon’s magic. The Witch-Lord made his own four weapons: A sword so sharp it could cut through steel. A shield that bestowed invulnerability, so that nothing could harm the bearer. His helmet cast a spell that made everyone fall to their knees in terror when they saw it. His bow shot magic arrows, powerful enough to go through stone.”
How much of the story was true? If Delmar went up against someone armed with weapons like that, he was not only brave, he was also a complete fool. Alana hung on to the cynical thought. The story was binding the audience together. The single beat of shared emotions was overpowering her mind. She had to remove herself, physically as well as mentally.
Alana loosened her hand from Deryn’s grip. At the querying expression she pointed to the side of the square, where Gavin the trader was selling rough cider. Drinking alcohol was not a wise move, but food should also be around somewhere. It gave her something safe to focus on, and a valid reason to leave the storytelling. Deryn nodded and let her go.
The few yards across the square barely took the edge off the massed emotional onslaught. Alana knew she should put a mile or more between herself and the festival, but she could not go. Her hand still tingled with the memory of Deryn’s touch. She needed that touch, and not just on her hand. If she could withstand the emotions for a little while longer, surely it would be very easy to talk Deryn into leaving with her. She could do it, and at least now that she could not hear Regan’s words, it was possible to resist the sway and assert her own consciousness.
Alana waited until she judged the story was nearly complete before returning.
“When Caylee saw how she’d been betrayed, she threw herself from the crag where she’d bid good-bye to Delmar, and her body was broken on the rocks below. The lovers were thus united in death, but the Witch-Lord was still bound by his oath. His body and his four great weapons lie in state beneath the mountain but he can have no release from this world. The demons have gone, but the evil they wrought remains. The shade of the Witch-Lord haunts Voodoo Mountain, a spirit of cruelty and malice, forever seeking Caylee, until the day he will rise again from the dead and fulfill his oath.”
The story finished and the crowd drifted away. Beer and cider had been flowing freely, and the mood across the square was getting ever more riotous. The blacksmith and his friends embarked on another vulgar song. The activity described in it was physically impossible, or so Alana suspected, but it would be fun putting it to the test. All she needed was a willing helper, and she was not the only one to feel that way. Certain spikes in the emotions around her were getting harder to ignore. Alana could not withstand the bombardment of sexual tension for much longer—not when it so closely coincided with her own desires. She had to leave but she would not go alone.
Alana slipped her arm through Deryn’s “Let’s walk a bit.”
“Do you have anywhere in mind?”
“How about somewhere where there aren’t so many people watching?”
“That’s an interesting idea.”
Together, they strolled toward the river along the path between two buildings. With each step, Alana could feel the impact of the people in the square fading. Everything was going to be okay. She had survived the festival, and now it was just her and Deryn. Alana was sure she could cope with that. Deryn walked with only the faintest limp. Her knee was clearly much better. Alana was pleased, and not just in her role as healer. She did not want any impediments to physical activity.
“Didn’t you like the story?” Deryn asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“You missed part of it.”
“I’ve heard it before, and I was hungry. It’s a good tale, and it explains why everyone keeps away from the mountain.”
“Not everyone. I saw footprints up there.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Of course, it could have been the Witch-Lord’s ghost, but I don’t think ghosts leave footprints.” Deryn was obviously not overly superstitious.
They reached the river and wandered a short way along the bank, eventually stopping in the shelter of a clump of trees. Sounds from the village square were a distant hubbub, punctuated by the occasional whoop. The full moon reflected in the water. Its beams picked out the surrounding envelope of mountains, dotted with the lights of distant farmsteads. A breeze pulled strands of Alana’s hair across her forehead. The day had been warm for the time of year, but the temperature was dropping fast—not that Alana needed an excuse to snuggle into the circle of Deryn’s arms.
She stood in the embrace, getting used to the feel of Deryn’s body pressed against hers. Her head fitted into the curve of Deryn’s neck. The warm scent of leather, horses, and smoke was so right for the mercenary warrior. Alana ran her hands over Deryn’s back. The muscles were hard and defined.
The implied strength was intriguing. All Alana’s previous lovers had been aristocrats, for whom an hour-long stroll was unusual exercise. The nearest any had gotten to being athletic was one devoted horsewoman, and even she had preferred petting her horse to riding it. Reyna had been soft and round, even after a year in the mountains. Deryn’s body was so very different.
“I want to kiss you.” Deryn breathed the words in Alana’s ear.
Alana pulled back her head and stared up into Deryn’s eyes. The blue of them was lost in the moonlight, but the rakish glint was still there.
“That sounds like another interesting idea.”
Their lips met. Deryn’s hand cupped the back of her hand, gently guiding Alana’s movements as the kiss became more ardent. Alana opened her mouth, inviting Deryn’s tongue inside, a prelude to what would follow. Alana had no doubts about how that evening would finish. She felt herself grow wet at the thought and moaned into Deryn’s mouth.
A sliver of fear crawled into Alana’s mind, at first no more than an easily dismissed discord against the desire that was consuming her, but then the fear grew, no longer ignorable. Alana had recognized the emotion and was trying to control it, even as it abruptly surged forward, a blinding white panic, pushing out all rational thought. She broke from Deryn’s grip and staggered away.
“What’s up? Are you all right?”
The fear was so strong Alana could barely form words. “Fire. Get me away from it.”
“Fire? The bonfire?”
“Get me away. I’m tied. Can’t run. Want to run. Smoke. I smell smoke.”
“You can smell the bonfire? What about it?”
“Smoke. Stable. Fire. Let me out.”
“The stable?”
“Smoke. Fire. Let me out. Let me—”
Alana was vaguely aware of Deryn trying to hold her shoulders, but there was no room in her head for anything other than fear and smoke. Tears of terror ran down her face, Deryn’s hands became ropes, and then nothing existed except the fear. She could not see, could not think. She knew nothing except that she had to run as far as she could. Twigs whipped her hands and face. A tree leapt out of the dark before her and she barely fended it off. Still she ran, until a bush snared her foot and brought her crashing to the ground, where she lay, dead to everything except terror.
Time passed in a haze of fear, and then slowly the world cleared and the panic slid from her head, allowing thoughts to return. Alana was alone, lying curled in a ball beside the river. She grasped the talisman at her throat with both hands and, by an effort of will, pushed the last tendrils of panic from her mind. She was herself again. Alana staggered to her feet and looked around.
How long had the panic blanketed her mind? Minutes certainly, maybe longer. Yet her crazed flight had taken her only a few dozen yards from the clump of trees where she had been standing with Deryn. She might even have been running in circles. Deryn was nowhere in sight. Had she fled from the madwoman?
Alana took a deep breath, steadying herself, but the blinding panic had gone. She no longer needed to resist it. The fear had not been hers. It had not been human. Alana recalled the wordless desperation. Now she could identify it.
“Horses. The stable.”
What had upset the animals? Had it been no more than the wind carrying smoke from the bonfire, or had they been in real danger? Whatever had given rise to the terror was now over, one way or another. Had the horses been rescued, or died? Or was it merely that the wind had shifted? Alana had to find out. She jogged back along the riverbank, toward the village.