The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“Is that where we are going?”

He glanced beyond her, at the rising bulk of the island. “Aye. Godenere said it was a place no one came to.”

“Why is that?” She was whispering; somehow it seemed wrong not to whisper in this place. “Why does no one come here?”

“He said the ghosts of their ancient ones live here. The dead. It is their Valhalla. When Miles’s men find us, they will help us to victory.”

Rose held her breath as the boat came into the shore, brushing through the reeds in the shallows, bumping onto dry land. For a moment no one moved. There was no sound. Nothing.

The silence was inexpressibly eerie.

Gunnar climbed out and helped Rose to follow. As she stood, her cloak wrapped close about her, he pulled their boat high up onto the shore. The other men were also moving about, not speaking, quickly securing their boats and then moving off into the darkness.

Gunnar and Rose followed.

There was little that lived on Burrow Mump. A few small animals, perhaps. It felt deserted. The men lit a fire with the peat they had brought with them. It smoldered but soon grew hot. Rose sat within its comforting glow, leaning against Gunnar’s side, her eyes half closed.

Out there on the Mere it was very dark; even the stars did not seem to shine very bright. The reeds rustled in the occasional cool breeze, but other than that the strange stillness remained. A breathless feeling, a waiting feeling.

About her, the men spoke in soft voices, and sometimes Gunnar nodded and sometimes he said something in return. Their voices lulled her, took the edge off her fears, and after a time she slept.

Rose was all alone in the night. Above her the moon shone down, but it was small and insignificant and so far away. She turned around, trying to get her bearings, searching for some landmark. That was when she saw the steep shoulder of the knoll against the stars, and realized, with a quick thud of her heart, that she was standing on Burrow Mump.

Her blood turned to ice. She tried to run, but as was the way in dreams, her legs were slow and stiff and would not work. And then the ground was opening up around her, and she could see a chamber, a deep passageway, spearing into the heart of the hillside.

Far, far down Rose heard the rumble of something stirring.

She was running in earnest now. Somehow she had gotten beyond Burrow Mump, and was out on the Mere. Her feet slipped on the muddy path, a biting pain in her side. Behind h

er a great whooshing of air came howling across the Levels, and with it a sound like a hundred voices roaring all at once.

The warriors had arisen from their underground world.

Rose lost a shoe. Gasping, her breath sobbing, she abandoned it and ran on. Suddenly before her was the solid bulk of Somerford Keep. A single light flickered in the solar window, beckoning her to safety. Nearly there, nearly there…She knew she should not, but she could not help it.

Rose glanced over her shoulder.

They were close. Oh, so close.

Ghostly horses with flowing tails and manes were galloping above the water. Warriors, their arms and chests gleaming, their long hair tangled by the gust of the fierce wind that had followed them from their underground home. They were bearing down on her.

Rose turned her face to Somerford Keep and struggled forward, even knowing it was useless. They were coming too quickly; she would never make it.

Rose sat up with a jerk. Gunnar was above her, a frown in his eyes. “Lady? You were dreaming.”

Was she? Rose blinked up at him. It had seemed very real. The ghostly riders, the flight across the Mere. This time her warrior had not been there, just the ravening pack. Why was that? What did it mean?

She shivered and tried to sit up. She was, she realized, resting across his lap, and he was leaning back against the hull of one of the boats. Sleeping sitting up, if he was sleeping at all.

“What is it?” he asked her, not trying to stop her, watching her with that stillness that made her even more edgy. “What frightens you?”

Rose pushed her hair out of her eyes and blinked against the smoke of the fire. Peat did not roar and crackle like wood, it was a low fire, hot and sullen, and it lasted a long time.

“’Tis this place,” she said at last, her voice wavering despite her efforts to calm herself. Her skin was tingling with fright, the dream still very real. “Don’t you feel it?”

Gunnar glanced about him, then drew his knee up and wrapped his arms about it. He smiled. “The ancient ones, do you mean? Are you afraid they will steal you away—”

“Don’t!” she said sharply, and looked over her shoulder, as if afraid she would see the deep underground cavern, the waiting warriors.