Chapter Thirty-Two

True’s breath scorched his lungs, every gasp like fire. The slash across his chest, though not deep, nevertheless seeped blood steadily, draining his strength. How long had he followed the pony with its precious burden? He could not tell; he had little orientation amidst the blowing snow and darkness. He followed by sheer instinct, nearly blind.

The brilliant cord that bound him to Barta stretched far but held tight. He found if he narrowed his gaze against the darkness and pain he could glimpse it. That made it easier to follow even than the faint scent of pony and the reek of the westerner.

He cursed as he ran—lamented the limitations of this body in which he found himself. Four paws, as he knew, were swifter than two feet. A hound’s deep lungs could gather more air. And a hound’s endurance surpassed that of a man. His body might be as fit as that of any person, but he could already feel it flagging. Some while back he’d begun substituting will for strength and knew his condition would only worsen.

A pony carrying double, especially through the dark and storm, should be easy for a hound to catch. As it was, he kept up but doubted he could close the distance between them.

Not but he was willing to die trying. He had died for Barta before and would again. Did she know he followed? He believed so and hoped it gave her heart.

Where might the man with the yellow hair take her? Surely not all the way to the Gaels’ far western settlement? If not—if he kept hold of her only until he believed himself safe away and then slit her throat…

True gulped more air, his heart near bursting. He could not bear it; he did not want to live in the world without her. He saw suddenly what a gift it had been for him to die first, the last time. But no, for his heartbreak at their separation, his longing for her, hadn’t ended with death. Wasn’t that what had put him here now?

He dug deeper for strength, commanded his failing limbs to serve him, and ran on.

Barta, Mistress, wife, can you feel me? Do you know I follow after you?

No response but he fancied the cord between them once more flared bright.

Please, Lady, he prayed to the goddess, only let the pony falter before I do.

****

“We need to let the pony rest.”

Barta’s captor spoke her language in an ugly burr, its music lost, but yes, she could understand him.

He drew up the pony, which blew and huffed, and wrestled Barta from its back, never once loosening his grip on her.

She strained to look back the way they had come but of course could see nothing.

“Does he get closer, this mate of yours?” The blond Gael was all too aware, too astute. His eyes gleamed at Barta, and he bared his teeth in a vicious smile. “I suppose I cannot kill you yet.”

“Is that what you mean to do—kill me?” Barta despised herself for asking, but her heart thumped in her chest, and she thought of True. She would not want him to risk himself just to stumble over her corpse.

Her captor shrugged, answer enough. She wondered if his grasp of her language allowed for more. His kind had plenty of Caledonii slaves, which they called blue men. They would, however, expect those slaves to learn their tongue.

She shuddered. Surely death would be preferable to servitude. At least then her spirit would fly over the land, over the water and enter bliss.

Or—tethered to True’s spirit—would it?

“Let me go,” she said, “and he who follows may spare your life.”

Her captor laughed in scorn. “A great warrior, is he?”

“The greatest. And he possesses magic—enough to defeat you.”

“Magic.” He spat the word.

“Do you not believe?” Could he be so foolish?

“I believe in magic.” He bared his teeth again. “But what makes you suppose I don’t possess it also? I am the man bold and blessed enough to have conquered so much territory east of Dal Riada. I shall be the one to defeat your people and claim all this land as my own.”

“Defeat? That outpost back there just fell to my men.”

“Your men? Commanded by a woman?” His gaze raked her from her hair downward. “Is it that to which the blue savages must resort in the face of our swords and chariots?”

“Your chariots lie burned.”

“We can build more. And we will return.”

Barta jerked up her chin. “If you do, you will find a grand fortress. We will not surrender our ancestors’ lands twice.”

“You have put up a good resistance, I grant you that—better than any we met farther west. But you will fall just like all the others.”

He eyed her again, this time with speculation. “There is more than one way to conquer. I’ve had blue men’s women before, of course, but they were all slaves. I’ve never enjoyed one who thought herself a warrior.” He glanced about. “Amid a storm.”

The breath stuck in Barta’s throat. Would such a vile act delay them long enough for True to catch up? Did she want him to catch up? If he did, would he then fall to this man’s blade?

She could almost feel True’s heart beating as he followed after her. Wounded—exhausted—would he be in any condition for the fight of his life?

****

True’s heart foundered in his chest. How far had he run? Impossible to tell. He could still feel Barta somewhere ahead of him in the night, the cord that bound them glowing like a guiding light. How far ahead? Also impossible to tell.

Now a mist hung before his eyes, obscuring his vision, and pain held him in a deadly grip. His lungs could no longer reach for air; his legs trembled beneath him.

The terrain underfoot sloped upward—because of the snow he could not see how far, but the gradient further taxed muscles already spent.

He stumbled.

Do not let me fall.

To whom did he pray? To the goddess, to the night, to Barta herself. To the ties between them, holy and magical.

If he fell, he doubted he could get up again. And he would not allow himself to fail her; he refused to fail their love.

The wound across his chest still bled. Pain there mingled with that in his heart, which suddenly contracted and nearly brought him to his knees, forcing him to slow for the first time.

A pony, as he knew, could be run to death, as could a hound. A man?

Gasping for breath, he shook his head. As a hound, with greater endurance, he would have a much better chance.

Struggling mightily, he forced his body on. The slope of the hill increased, and when he reached the top his legs gave out beneath him. He went down.

It felt as if the hard ground came up to meet him, all frost and stones. He lay as fallen, cheek pressed against the rubble, desperate for breath that would not come. The shining cord tugged at him, demanded that he rise. But as if his spirit no longer commanded this body, he could not obey.

The snow swirled around him, the wind came and blew over. A bleak and lonely place to die. But he would not allow himself to die and fail Barta.

Using the last of his will, he picked up his head and howled at the sky—he hollered his pain the way he had the night he’d given his life for Barta’s, when the goddess answered him.

Would she answer now?

Nothing and no one answered—just the wind in his ears and the cold creeping in. He could no longer see, and could barely move. Paralysis seemed to creep from his head downward; his chest burned.

“Poor hound.” A gentle touch on his head that almost felt like Barta’s.

He stiffened in every limb, yearning, wishing he could see, but his vision had failed him.

Someone knelt at his side, her touch a balm. She didn’t smell like Barta, whose scent he would know anywhere.

The goddess, then? Yes, for he could sense her light, like that of the moon, embracing and warming him.

Please, he thought.

“Here, hound,” she replied calmly, “our venture has gone badly. You made a fine man, but your heart remained that of a hound.”

“My heart is my heart and will never change.”

“That is your greatest strength as well as your greatest weakness. Look what has come of my boon. You are dying after all.”

“Please. Save me again.”

“Why should I? For her sake?”

“Everything is for her sake.”

“But she is wayward and headstrong. Selfish to a fault.”

“She has changed.” Lying there on the stony ground, he wept. “Though she had no need to. In my eyes she was always perfect. I live for her.”

“And die for her once more. Foolish hound.”

“The tie between us is still strong; it draws me on. But I lack the strength to rise.”

For a long moment there was silence. True felt the snowflakes melt against his cheek one by one. When the heat of his body faded, they would gather and cover him.

What would happen then to Barta?

“Hound, I have been more than merciful to you. It takes temerity to ask for more.”

“Yes, Goddess.”

“I tell you, however—in my mercy I will grant another boon. If you can get to your feet, I will grant you the strength to go on. But I do not think you will catch them. They are already far ahead.”

True began to pant. Get to his feet unassisted? An impossibility. He could not see. The will that carried him so far had at last flagged; he tingled with weakness.

“Arise, True. Let us see of what you are made.”

“Yes.” If will would not serve, perhaps love would. He gritted his teeth and thought of Barta: the laughter that filled her face when they played together, the comfort of her presence. The sense of belonging he found in her arms when they lay together, when he gave her his seed.

The cord that connected them trembled. It pulled at him with a mighty force. His heart flailed in his chest.

He could not.

He must.

Arms trembling, palms fused to the cold ground, he pushed himself up. Somehow his legs moved beneath him; he knelt. Love and the desire for Barta’s presence flooded him. From nowhere strength came.

Shaking in every limb he hauled himself to his feet. Vision clearing, he gazed into the goddess’s silver eyes.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“I did not accomplish that. You did. Loyal hound! Very well, I will grant you the strength to run on. I can but return the strength you had; I cannot grant more. I tell you with regret and in honor of your courage, I do not think you will be quick enough.”

“I would be swifter as a hound.”

“So you would, and gifted with far greater endurance.”

“Then for her sake, I ask to be once more a hound.”

“Do you realize what you say? What you request?”

“Yes.”

“If I grant what you ask, if I change you back into what you once were, there can be no recourse from it. This will be the last favor you receive from me.”

True trembled where he stood.

“Loyal hound, I can hear what is in your heart. Are you willing to live the rest of your life—short a time as that may be—as a beast, for her sake?”

“Anything for her sake.”

“Bend your head.”

He did, eyes closed, and felt the touch of her hand. There came a flash of light that reached through his eyelids, blinding, before he stood but shoulder high to the goddess and on four paws.

Without so much as waiting to thank her, he bounded off into the night.