C l scheel, p.2
C L Scheel, page 2
There was no use trying to write. She turned off the lights and went to bed. And ... slept, undisturbed by the wind or dreams of snow and a bloody moon.
In the morning, all that remained of the storm were high, gray clouds and the pungent smell of wet earth and pine needles. Suzanne dressed and ate a simple breakfast, then went outside to sweep up the pieces of her broken bird feeders and the wind-scattered seeds. Legolas followed her out, disdainfully avoiding any puddled water or muddy soil.
Disgusting.
"For your information, tigers happen to love water."
A whisker twitched. Tsk. I daresay they love barkers, too.
Suzanne avoided any further discussions with the cat. Legolas wandered off, apparently to look for some unlucky mouse or perhaps an errant bird.
After cleaning up the feeders, she returned inside to decide what she would do for the remainder of the day. Still unsettled, the mere idea of writing was out of the question; Lorraine would just have to wait, regardless of the deadline. Instead, Suzanne found herself studying the strange stone medallion and thinking about what Dane said to her last night.
...disappeared through that wide fissure in Splitrock.
Disappeared? Where?
He said, ‘Give this to the Wordsayer before the beginning of the tenth day'...
Tenth day? From what?
I don't know what a ‘wordsayer’ is, but you're the writer...
Curiosity was a trait peculiar to Legolas and most of his kind. It was also true of writers, but curiosity could be dangerous. It meant she would have to leave the safety of her wooded sanctuary.
From a safe distance, she stared at the medallion still resting on the kitchen counter. It did not glow, but beckoned to her like an enchanted talisman—its presence compelling her to action. She fought the long-ingrained reluctance to leave her home. Beyond the secluded, green borders of her private forest, lay the uncertainties, the tiresome vagaries of dealing with people and the world in general.
I'm not really agoraphobic or afraid, she counseled herself. Just reclusive. Private. What's wrong with that?
The strange stone beckoned again. This time she picked it up, weighing its importance and cool power over her. She closed her eyes and shuddered, catching fleeting wisps of her dreams: bloodbloodblood and the hard brilliance of an icy moon. A man, with milky-blue skin, like winter dusk, howling in rage ... or pain.
Caution and logic be damned. Suzanne pocketed the marble stone, grabbed her purse and car keys. It was still early. There shouldn't be anyone hanging around Curly's bar before noon. She would find out for herself where the mysterious visitor had disappeared, then return home in time to work on her book. On her way out the door, she stopped. Legolas.
Foreboding knifed through her again. Without quite knowing why, Suzanne retraced her steps and hastily checked the cat's automatic feeder and waterer—used primarily when she went on the occasional book tour. They were full; the cat would be fine for at least a week. Besides, Legolas was an exceptional hunter.
Was she being prudent or unconsciously anticipating being gone longer than a few hours? Method and order were her strong points. So was caution. However, the sudden need to know what happened at Splitrock over-rode the last of her misgivings. Once in the car, she forgot about Legolas and Lorraine.
The road to Splitrock Bar was at one time a logging road, now a narrow, rarely-traveled highway that wound eastward, through the dense forest and over a low mountain pass. Die-hard hikers and rock-climbers knew of the route as did touring motorcyclists. Travelers with trailers and motor homes avoided the road since it was too narrow, full of twists and turns all the way to the next mountain town forty miles away. Curly's bar was only five miles out of Black Elk, but it seemed like she had driven for hours, deep into the forest, far from civilization.
Except for a battered van with illegible license plates, there were no other cars or motorcycles parked in front of Splitrock Bar. The van appeared as if it had been parked there for weeks—probably abandoned and Curly was too lazy to have it towed off his property.
Suzanne stopped her car and got out slowly, half expecting to see someone come out of the bar and yell at her for trespassing. But she saw no one, no one at all.
Behind the building, the land sloped upward toward the landmark for which the bar was named: Splitrock Pass. It wasn't a pass actually, but a towering granite rock, a monolith that had been split down the middle, making an enormous fissure wide enough to walk through.
An angry god had done this, she mused. Enraged after discovering his beautiful mortal wife had been unfaithful, the god had taken his axe and broken the rock in two.
Good stuff. She ought to be taking notes for her next book.
Drawn by its sheer enormity, Suzanne inched toward the rock, uncertain what she should do when she reach the fissure. According to Dane, the strange visitor had walked through it and simply disappeared.
Nah. It had been dark and windy. Dane had allowed his imagination to get the better of him. But at the opening, she stopped. The wind picked up again, tossing her hair across her face. She clawed the dark brown strands from her mouth and eyes, wishing she had brought along a barrette. It had also grown colder, much colder. Her teeth chattered loudly as she clutched her arms to her chest. She had foolishly left her jacket at home, thinking she wouldn't need it.
Suzanne thrust her hand into her jeans pocket, making sure the stone was still there. Her body heat had warmed it, but threads of cold flickered through her fingers. Satisfied, she braced her hands against each side of the fissure and looked through to the other side. She saw only trees and more forest stretching up the mountainside.
Where had that man gone?
She closed her eyes and took a step into the fissure. Then another. The wind lessened, and stopped. Her hands slid forward, touching the hard stone.
Another step. She dared not open her eyes, suddenly afraid she would see what had haunted her in her dreams—a snow-covered wasteland and that cold, white moon, covered in blood.
One more step. Her fingers found the sharp edges of the rock and she knew she had reached the other side of the fissure. Time to see where that angry god lived and find the man who was looking for a wordsayer.
Suzanne forced her eyes open and stepped into bitter cold and an empty, terrifying blackness.
Chapter Two
The Tenth Day
THE COLD STABBED like a thousand knives piercing her skin. Dazed, Suzanne huddled against a gray granite boulder and pressed the heel of her hand to her throbbing left cheek. A sharp wind whipped her hair across her eyes, cut through the thin fabric of her shirt. She grasped at the rough rock near her right elbow and pulled herself to her feet.
She was still in the mountains, but high above the tree line. A winding trail stretched out before her, leading downward through more raw-edged rocks and finally into the forest. Beyond, she saw a snow-covered valley, stretching far into the distance to the base of another range of mountains.
Another sharp gust tore through her clothes, making her shiver and her cheek ache. With tentative fingers, she touched the tender spot. She must have fallen when she stepped through the fissure.
A scrabbling noise, like falling rocks made her whirl around. Behind her she saw two sharp granite pinnacles thrusting high into the sky. They stood like sentries guarding a pathway cut between them—a pass leading deeper into the mist. Panic caused her heart to thud in large, painful beats, her mouth turned to cotton wool.
It did not look like Splitrock Pass.
Turning back toward the pathway, Suzanne knew she had to decide quickly which direction to take. With no outer garment, food or shelter within sight, she wouldn't survive. The way through the stone pinnacles looked oddly familiar, but not the same, as if Splitrock Pass had somehow changed its shape.
Panic began to override her reason. Almost instinctively, she slipped her fingers into the pocket where she had put the medallion, reassuring herself it was not lost. Suzanne sensed the possibility that it might have value or meaning. Dane's strange encounter with the man who wielded a sword and demanded he find ‘the wordsayer’ could only mean that the medallion was of great importance.
Directly across the path she caught the dull gleam of something metallic embedded in the ground. Upon closer examination, she discovered the source was a plaque, bolted into a flat rock—a marker. She struggled to make out the message, written in words close to English, but rougher, cruder. The craftsman who made it had spent all his creative skills on the plaque itself, but knew nothing of spelling or lettering.
Thys plas marx wear the Messnjer vanish'd.
In honor, we r'membr hym, for he gave
The Book to the Bless'd Saint Kyrk.
She touched the rudely-spelled words, wondering how anyone could have made so many mistakes, almost as if a young child had written it. Messnjer. Messenger. Was it the Messenger who had given Dane the stone?
Another sharp gust made her gasp. Suzanne wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered violently. She would die out here and a voice inside warned that she may not die of starvation or of the cold, but of something far more ... sinister. She had no survival skills, at least not in practice. Doing research on survival was not the same as actually facing starvation or freezing to death.
It was then she heard them—horses, shuffling and snorting. Suzanne spun around and felt the blood leave her face, drain from her limbs. At least a dozen men sat astride massive horses, each animal saddled and harnessed in black. Gold and silver embellished their bridles. Heavy tassels hung from the bit rings, fluttering in the cold breeze.
Barbarians. They looked like warriors of some barbarian tribe, each wearing tunics of dark leather, embossed with metal plates and over their shoulders, heavy furs protected them from the sharp cold. Crested helmets of fantastic design enclosed their faces. All of them carried two swords slung across their backs. The hilts thrusting up behind their right shoulders served as a warning to anyone considering a confrontation.
But it was their leader who caught and held her attention. Like the others, he rode a tall, nearly-black horse. Intricately engraved gold and silver plates adorned the bridle and breast collar. Heavy blue tassels dangled from the bit rings and from both sides of the horse's head.
The man stared at her, never moving. His coarse black hair, touched with threads of white, fell in heavy waves past his shoulders. The late afternoon shadows sharpened the lines of his pale skin, accentuating the beard edging his jaw and trim moustache. He was all cold colors and dark hues—cruel black and midnight blue, winter white and brittle silver.
He nudged the horse closer and to her surprise, bowed his head briefly. “You are the Wordsayer?” he asked in deep, resonant tones.
Suzanne looked around frantically, panic-stricken. Her heart began to thud in frightened beats. The Wordsayer. The one the man in Curly's bar had been looking for. “I'm ... not sure I understand."
He frowned slightly. A hint of bewilderment touched those piercing eyes. “You are the Wordsayer, are you not? The prophecy stated that the Sayer of the Words would be here, in this place, ten days before the Eclipse."
A huge man, with a patch over one eye, leaned across the space between their horses and spoke to the dark-haired leader in low tones so she would not hear him. The chieftain, or whoever he was, nodded in agreement.
"Perhaps the gods are testing us and our resolve."
"The gods?” She glanced at the misspelled plaque. “Did the gods bring your Saint Kyrk to this place, or the Messenger?"
Alarm flared in the leader's eyes and in the eyes of those men close enough to have heard her. She'd clearly touched a nerve.
"You can read the plaque?” he demanded.
"Yes. Of course.” Suzanne took a step back. “Although it is badly misspelled,” she added, trying to sound brave.
He glanced at his one-eyed officer. The silent exchange between them only served to raise Suzanne's fears. They did not appear pleased. She shivered violently and finally found the courage to speak.
"I am not sure what you and your men want, but I would ask if you have a spare blanket. I am freezing to dea—"
The barbarian leader shot her a frightening look and Suzanne took another step backward. She had breached some code or protocol and he was not pleased with her response.
He swung down from the horse and spoke to the group of warriors behind him. She saw movement, hands working, horses nudged back and forth until finally, the barbarian chief turned to her holding something in his gauntleted hands.
"This should keep you warm, my lady."
He held up a gray cloak, much too long for her, but more than adequate to ward off the cold wind. Hesitantly, she reached out and took the cloak from him. The warm texture of the thick wool felt reassuring, real, as she wrapped it around her shoulders, tugging the smooth edges together.
She glanced at her benefactor, who had been observing her actions with keen interest.
He nodded. “Warmer now?"
Suzanne returned his nod. “Yes. Much better. Thank you."
"Good. Then we must return."
He held out his hand and gestured for her to come closer to him. Suzanne stared at his hand encased in the black gauntlet, palm up, with the long fingers curving gracefully. What did he mean? Return where?
She found the ability to speak, a quavering, frightened imitation of her real voice. “No, thanks, whoever you are. I appreciate all you've done for me, but I should be going home. I'm not sure what this place is ... Thank you for the cloak. Perhaps you and your people should go on with whatever it is you need to do—"
Suzanne took another wary step back, now determined to head for the stone pinnacles. Something was terribly wrong. None of this could be—should be—happening.
The black-winged brows drew together in a stern frown. “But you are the reason we are here. You are the Wordsayer and you must return with us to Ironhold. We must hurry, my lady. Soon, it will grow dark."
"Ironhold? What is that?"
"It is the hold of Prince Akken'ar, Lord of san'Sorafel” the burly, one-eyed officer answered, gesturing toward the somber lord standing before her.
"He is a prince?” The wind buffeted her again, making the cloak billow around her knees. Suzanne clutched the thick cloth more tightly, now genuinely frightened. There were no princes she knew of, either alive or dead, who looked like him. This man belonged in folklore or myth—unreal and lost to legend.
The officer responded with a succinct nod. “We have traveled most the day to find you. Prince Akken'ar is right: we must hurry, my lady. We must return to the encampment before nightfall."
The pale lord stepped closer to her, head slightly cocked to the side. Curiosity and concern crossed his strong features. “We cannot stay in these mountains. There are too many dangers."
Suzanne drew back, uncertain what he was going to do, until she realized his attention was focused on her bruised cheek.
"You have been struck. Who did this?” Again, the wing-like brows drew together defining his sharp annoyance.
Her hand flew to her cheek. “Oh, uh ... it's nothing. I must have fallen. It was just an accident."
He remained unconvinced but gestured sharply toward the gathered horses. “We must go now. We have a horse for you. Can you ride?"
Cool rationale suppressed her fear for a moment. She wasn't going anywhere with this ... sinister-looking man, but as the sun dipped behind them turning the pathway gray and bleak, the shadows deepening to indigo, it suddenly occurred to her that there were probably wolves in these mountains.
"Well?” His gesture became more insistent, his expression harder, almost irritated. Obviously, he was not used to people questioning his authority.
Suzanne hesitated. Glancing over her shoulder she spotted the poorly written plaque and the mountain pass. She began to back away slowly. Her only escape was behind her, through the towering pinnacles. There had to be way to get home. Whoever Sheriff McKenna had seen go through Splitrock Pass, was probably not among these men. Coming here had been a mistake. She turned, gathering up the heavy folds of the cloak and ran for the twin rocks.
"Stop her!” she heard Prince Akken'ar order.
Terror raced up her spine, prickling at the base of her neck. The cadenced beat of hooves rattled on the hard-packed path. Suzanne didn't dare look back. The barbarian rider swung the big animal in front of her and halted, using the body of the horse to block her way.
Before Suzanne could turn around, she heard footsteps behind her, then felt a hard hand on her upper arm digging into her flesh, jerking her about so sharply she was almost lifted off the ground. She caught a glimpse of black brows sweeping over angry blue eyes. The scent of leather, fur, and the sharp tang of steel filled her senses.
"You will not cross the Pass! It is too dangerous. There are—"
Suzanne shook in his grasp like a mouse caught in a falcon's talon. His grip eased, fractionally, his tone softened.
"There is no place in these mountains where you can hide. You will die, my lady. The cold and—” His hand relaxed to a gentle hold, then let go. He backed a step away from her and bowed slightly. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect, but you must not run from us.” He paused then gestured to the waiting horsemen. “Please, allow us to escort you to Ironhold."
She saw the determined intent in his gaze—no malice, no cruel lust. Prince Akken'ar had no intention of harming her and she really had no other choice. Suzanne nodded to her intimidating host and approached the group of horses. Her mount turned out not to be a patient old horse trained to tolerate inexperienced women, but a war animal, black like the others and heavily muscled. Suzanne felt the strong presence of the prince behind her. His fingers lightly touched her elbow and she caught herself in time before snatching her arm away.
"Can you ride?” he asked again.
"When I was a child, but on very old horses,” she lied in a shaking voice.
She felt his breath flutter at the back of her neck. “He is quite steady. Do not be afraid."
