Sianna kept running.
Her breath came in hot, dry gasps and her aching legs threatened to crumble beneath her. The jarring contrast of the cold spring air against her prickling, perspiring flesh made her shiver.
The rough road across the moors bent mercilessly upward. Still she ran, throwing herself against the cruel slope and refusing to halt. She knew the border was close, and the chance of rescue with it.
There was no time to ponder the irony, the sheer absurdity of a young Cymry woman fleeing towards the Saxons for salvation. Running towards her people’s longtime rivals was the only hope for her or her family.
Her legs burned, but the strength she had built in her nineteen summers of working the unforgiving land carried her through. The border drew near. Her heart drummed louder as she approached the standing stone atop a summit.
All at once a brilliant indigo flash cut across her eyes and a silent yet thunderous boom rattled her bones and churned her belly. Arcane runes flickered about the light, and Sianna found herself back down the road, sprawled across the ground. She groaned and sat up, shaking her head in bafflement. How had she moved backwards? Was this elfin devilry?
A cold horripilation slithering up her spine and down every limb answered her question.
Runes flickered, air rippled, and the elf emerged from the menhir.
Though manlike in body, the menacing eldritch presence it emanated declared that this was no mere mortal. Nearly seven foot tall it stood, dressed in flowing sapphire robes and crowned by dagger-like ears and flowing silver hair. A sharp-featured face gazed down at her, its dark blue, pupilless eyes filled with utter disdain.
“Did you truly think you could flee?” the elf asked in a flat, androgynous voice. He moved down the slope towards her, appearing to glide more than he walked.
“How could a crude beast as yourself hope to escape Aiwyd, master of magic, equerry of the Fae Queen and Herald of the Horned King?”
Aiwyd held his six-fingered hands at his sides, as if to accept whatever reply she might give. Sianna tried to speak, but words caught in her throat. She willed herself to crawl away, but her body remained frozen as winter ice upon the River Hafren.
“This land is the demesne of the Tylwth Teg, and none may leave without our King's word.”
Aiwyd lifted a hand, and Sianna rose from the ground and slowly floated toward him. With abject futility, she flailed about in the air. The elf made a circular motion and her arms wrenched straight out behind her. Stinging waves shot up her arms and shoulders, her joints strained to their limits. She screamed, prompting a long, thin smile from Aiwyd.
The elf then twirled a long and upraised forefinger. Sianna spun like a top, and from the humming, crackling air appeared silvery ropes like spider- silk, tightly binding her wrists and ankles. Bile rose in her throat from the vertigo but she swallowed it away.
“What is it that the Hanged God’s scriptures claim?” Aiwyd asked, grabbing her chin. He tilted his head and glanced upward. “That He will ‘make all things new?’ Perhaps your meddlesome guest has told you about it.”
Sianna winced as she remembered Brother Nathaniel, the wandering brown-robed priest her family had hosted. He was a kind and diligent man. The God he freely spoke of was starkly different from her folk’s mysterious druidic spirits, or the capricious, rapacious deities revered by the Danes who lived to the east. The idea of an all-knowing, all-present, all-loving God had left her captivated and strangely hopeful.
Now, however, all hope was gone.
“My liege Auberon is god of this realm,” the elf said, his hitherto flat voice assuming an angry edge and its hand pinching her chin harder. “The cleverer ones among your folk have already learned as much.”
It ran a hand through Sianna’s fair hair, then grasped it and yanked back her head. All she wanted was to shut her eyes against that horrible face and its hateful glare. Against all her desire, they stayed open and her terror grew all the more.
“You and your family’s blood will seal his sovereignty and our people's return,” Aiwyd said, inching closer. “We will remake the whole of this isle and rule it unquestioned. Cymry, Saxon,
Dane…none can withstand us. And none will.”
Sianna could only quiver in response, fearful tears rolling down her cheeks. The elf gave a lilting laugh, simultaneously the most disturbing and human thing he had done so far. Aiwyd brushed away her tears with a thumb.
“Now, that reminds me of another silly passage,” he said. “Something about ‘wiping all tears from their eyes—?’”
“‘…For the former things have passed away,’” came a full-throated shout.
The elf spun towards the voice, grasping Sianna and shielding himself with her. Atop the hill, just beyond the menhir marking the border, stood a man in full chainmail and a conical helm, holding a banded wooden shield. Above his armor he wore a white surcoat embroidered with a red cross. At his left hip hung an arming sword of Saxon make, and at his right was a silver rosary on a short chain, much like the device Brother Nathaniel carried.
“You and your misbegotten kind are the former things, elf,” the Saxon declared, pointing at the elf. “And your reign here is over.”
He strode past the menhir and down the hill, steadily closing the distance between them.
Aiwyd tightened his grip on Sianna’s arms and slowly walked backwards, giving no verbal reply. Her captor’s stance stiffened. He looked over her shoulder, past the Saxon.
The elf was…worried? A desperate hope welled within her, pushing against her fear.
“If you want to travel the secret spaces, you’ll need to get by me,” the Saxon said, nodding at the menhir. “Now unhand her, and face your doom.”
Aiwyd shoved Sianna to the ground and she clenched her teeth against the impact.
“It is of no concern,” the elf said. “She cannot leave. And now that you have passed the menhir, you cannot either.”
Aiwyd raised a hand, and a long, keen sword of crystal shimmered into his grasp.
“You are in the desmense of the Tylwth Teg, Saxon. Your king does not reign here. Mine does.”
The Saxon drew his sword and raised his shield.
“If you mean His Majesty Alfred, you are correct. But if you mean my ultimate Sovereign…”
The Saxon pointed his blade.
“…then you are sore mistaken, bastard spawn of demons.”
Like lightning, the elf was upon him, sapphire robes whirling and crystal sword a blur. Sianna trembled at the sight. Could the Saxon have any chance against a foe of such stature and speed?
The ice-like elfin-blade flashed with every blow, and to Sianna’s shock, the Saxon’s shield blocked them all. He rolled with his enemy’s strikes, keeping his stance tight and his movements simple.
Aiwyd struck with a sideways cut at the Saxon’s neck. The Saxon ducked and lunged back up, his sword punching through the elf’s belly and out the back. Aiwyd collapsed and the Saxon tore his blade free in a shimmering arc of blood and steel. Thick silver hair billowed in the breeze and the body landed an arm’s reach from its erstwhile captive. The dead, sharp-featured face gaped at Sianna with mute denial, and the arcane bindings on her limbs fizzled into nothingness.
The sun cut through the clouds as the Saxon slung his shield and walked towards her. Sianna gazed up at his armored silhouette, the light reflecting from his mail and his sword distilling blood. His face was a handsome one, covered with a short, dark beard and topped by large brown eyes. How strange that those same eyes, blazing a moment ago in such martial ferocity, now shone with patient compassion.
Her heart leapt anew, fear supplanted by elation and a warm tingling in her hands.
* * *
With the immediate threat dispatched, the holy pendant beneath Ser Hengist’s surcoat ceased its quiet thrum. Assured that no further elves were near, the Saxon knight extended his hand to the liberated prisoner. She shook disheveled pale blonde hair from her face, and looked up at him with eyes bluer than a Mediterranean sky.
She took his hand and he gently pulled her to her feet. Her touch and her striking azure gaze sent a feeling through him oddly similar to the thrill of battle. She was hale and comely, and her modest homespun dress couldn't hide a figure resembling the statues Hengist had seen in Rome. Freckles dotted her forehead and cheeks, and her full lips, still parted in surprise, were pink as heather blossoms.
Hengist caught his wandering eyes and he cleared his throat, chiding himself within. He glanced away to avoid further impropriety.
“You’re not injured, are you?” he asked.
The girl didn’t seem to notice his roving eyes, and shook her head in reply. She opened her mouth to speak, but only collapsed against him, wrapping her arms about his neck and shaking.
Hengist tensed in surprise at her embrace, and he held his still-bloody sword away from her with his right arm and hugged her with his left.
“There, now. It’s all right,” he said. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”
The girl held him tighter, and he felt her fighting against trembling and tears. He let her stand a few moments more, then drew back and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“I understand if you’re still frightened,” he said, “but I need you to answer some questions for me.”
The girl nodded and steadied her breath.
“First, may I ask whom I have to thank?” she said.
“Ser Hengist of Wessex, Deacon of the Order of Solomon, at your service,” he said with a smile. “I have been quested by the church to investigate rumors of elf activity in the region.”
“I wondered what might bring a Saxon knight over the border,” she said. “I’m Sianna of Fairstone, a village less than a mile hence.”
Sianna nodded back down the moor road and crossed her arms tightly.
“If you seek the Tylwth Teg, Ser Hengist, then you’ve come to the right place.”
Hengist frowned and walked over to the elf corpse. He cleaned his sword on the robes and sheathed it.
“‘The Fair Folk.’ Truly, I never understood that name,” he said. “Physical beauty counts for naught when their hearts are darker than hell and only desire mankind’s corruption.”
He prodded at the body with a boot and looked back at Sianna.
“He mentioned his liege. Do you know who he speaks of?”
“Yes, a terrible monstrosity called Auberon,” Sianna said. “He was accompanied by a flame-haired witch, and they styled themselves as a king and queen.” She paused, then gave a hopeful smile. “You killed their herald.”
Her smile faded and she shuddered.
“They all appeared at my family's farm this morning, declaring we would be ‘punished for aiding the Hanged God's servants.’”
Sianna swallowed back tears and clenched her fist over her mouth.
“They seized everyone, bound them with those magical cords. I fled. They didn't pursue me at first, but then…”
She gestured at the menhir, her pretty face twisted in confusion.
“Many standing stones across Britannia are more than mere border markers or memorials,” Hengist explained. “They are instruments to commune with black powers, or gateways through which those powers travel.”
“That explains their sudden arrival, then,” said Sianna. “They seemed to appear out of nowhere.”
Sianna was still speaking when the air rippled and glowed around the menhir once more. Runes flickered and small bolts of red lightning arced over the granite surface. A twisting line of fire, writhing like a serpent, slid out the arcane portal and transformed into a tall humanoid shape. The flames died away, shifting into a living obsidian feminine sculpture with a lithe figure and a face both beautiful and fearsome.
Black stone crumbled to dust, unveiling a she-elf in a filmy scarlet gown cinched with a golden girdle. Goat horns curled from her head, poking through red-gold hair waving like a bonfire. Amber eyes flared like torches as she stared down Hengist, conjuring a flaming sphere between her six-fingered hands.
“You have something that belongs to me, Saxon,” she said, leering at Sianna. “I shall enjoy taking it back.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Check out Chapter 2 here.
First, the herald and now the Fae Queen.
Auberon =Oberon, the Fae King and leader of the wild hunt, the horned god.
Nicely done...
Thanks so much @Philip “Big Philly” Smith!