Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

As I walked away I heard a man offer a wager: ten coppers that I wouldn’t make it to the fortress. Nobody seemed inclined to take him on.

There was no sign of Magnus. I headed up the pathway under the trees. The mist had cleared. The sun was out, but the air was chill. I passed the point where I and my two companions had taken the downward branch last night and went on up. My legs began to ache, for the path was steep as it wound around the hill.

The way narrowed. Other paths went off to left and to right. At the side of one I saw a pile of white stones. Next to another the foliage of a strap-leafed plant was knotted together, as if in some secret sign. I did not take either of those ways, but held to what I thought was the main track, though there was a similarity about them that seemed designed to confuse. Peering uphill between the trees, I tried to convince myself I could glimpse the fortress wall. It could not be much further.

Something brushed against my right cheek. I slapped at it, not keen to reach my destination covered in insect bites. Another, on the left side; I swatted, hurting myself, but caught nothing. A moment later there was a hissing in my ear and I started in fright, whirling around.There was nothing there, only the stillness of the woodland, such a profound hush that not even birds raised their voices. Whatever that had been, it was more than a troublesome midge. The sound came again, a wordless whisper. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in unease. I picked up my pace, striding forward.Whatever it was stayed with me, a rustling, a shivering, the sensation of something cold and fluid clinging around my shoulders. “You’re imagining things,” I muttered to myself.

And then there was no mistaking it, for there were words, soft against my ear, intimate, wheedling: This way . . . Take this little twisty path ...

Nothing to be seen, only the voice. Something compelled me to look to the right, where a smaller path soft with ferns made a tempting way into a deeper part of the woods. On either side the trunks of beeches glowed green with moss under the filtered sunlight. Shuddering, I turned away, heading in the opposite direction.

No, this way! It came in a different voice, lower, more hushed, a gentle, persuasive tone. Over here . . . Follow me ...

This way, thisss way . . . Now it was a chorus, a clamour all around me; the forest was full of voices.

“Stop it!” I cried, feeling both alarmed and a little foolish. “Leave me alone!”

Something tugged at my right arm, almost dislodging my writing box. Bony fingers dug into my flesh, putting me sharply in mind of last night’s hideous dream. I wrenched myself free.

Something clutched my left arm, then put its hand on my waist, fingers creeping. I ran, my bag bouncing on my back, my feet slipping on a carpet of forest litter, my skin crawling with disgust. I skidded through puddles and blundered against rocks, I whipped past briars and bruised myself on branches. My head had room for nothing but the need for flight. My body seemed full of my pounding heart.

I came up hard against the trunk of a birch and stood there, my chest heaving.The voices had fallen silent. On every side was a dense blanket of bushes, ferns and creepers, and the trees like a waiting army.The path was nowhere to be seen.

It should be a simple choice, even so. Go steadily downhill and reach the village, where a humble admission that I had made an error would gain me admittance. Or keep on uphill and try to reach the fortress. I looked around me again. Curiously, there no longer seemed to be an obvious up or down about the hillside. Each time I blinked or turned my head, objects seemed to shift. A gap between the trees disappeared as quickly as it had come into view.A rocky outcrop by which I could fix a path turned before my eyes into an impenetrable mass of thornbushes. I might walk and walk in this place and never reach any destination at all.

You didn’t listen, whispered a little voice. You didn’t take heed.You do not belong here.

“ Lost, are you?”

I started violently, whirling around at the rough, booming voice. Between two massive oaks stood an extraordinary man. I hardly had time to take in his squat build, his ruddy cheeks like ripe apples and his mossy, green-gray beard. I glanced only briefly at his odd garb: a rough tunic and breeches of skins, a garland of leaves and twigs on his wild thatch of hair, festoons of greenery wreathed around his neck. As he took a step towards me, I saw what was coming up behind him. If the man was unusual, the dog was monstrous.The moment I set eyes on it I believed the whole story, rams, wisps of wool and all. It was a powerfully built animal of brindled hue, short-haired, its muzzle of the shape that men favor in a fighting dog, with the kind of jaws that grip fast and cannot be prized apart against the creature’s will. Its ears were small, its eyes mean, its posture one of imminent attack. It was four times as big as any dog I’d ever clapped eyes on.

“He won’t bite,” the man said, offhand. “Which way are you headed?”

I swallowed. It was not much of a choice: put my fate into the hands of this pair, or stay here and let the eldritch voices lead me on a long walk to nowhere.“I’m trying to get up to the fortress,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. If the dog knew I was afraid, it would be more likely to attack.

“You’re far off the path. Here.” The strange man extended a knobbly hand, grasped mine and helped me over a fallen tree trunk.“It’s not a long walk if you know how to do it.Track’s neglected. Folk don’t come this way. Follow me.”

I walked behind him, and the dog walked behind me, growling deep in its throat. Without quite looking, I knew its little eyes were fixed intently on me.

“Hush, Fianchu!” the man commanded, and the growling died down, but it was still there, a subterranean threat. “He’s not good with strangers,” my companion said. “If you’re a kindly soul, he’ll warm to you in time. Talk to him, why don’t you?” He paused, and I halted, not prepared to turn around in case the hound launched its considerable bulk straight at me. “Go on, try it,” the man added, not unkindly.

Under the circumstances I could hardly refuse. “Fianchu, is that his name?” I asked.

“He’s Fianchu, and I’m Olcan.”

“My name is Caitrin,” I said. “I’ve come to see your chieftain about a scribing job.” I turned very slowly towards the dog. He was two strides away and had gone into a sitting posture. “Nice dog, Fianchu,” I muttered insincerely.

“That’s it.” There was a smile in Olcan’s voice. “Keep it up. See, he likes it.”

Fianchu’s stumpy tail was beating a little rhythm against the forest floor. His mouth was stretched in a grin, revealing a set of efficient-looking teeth. Encouraged, I continued.“Such a good boy, sitting so politely. Good Fianchu.” I reached out cautiously.

“Careful!” said Olcan. “He has been known to snap.”

Hoping very much that I was not about to lose a hand, I held my fingers where Fianchu could smell them. I watched him without looking him directly in the eye. “Good boy. Nice gentle boy.” The hound sniffed at my hand, then put out his massive tongue to lick it.

“Looks like he’s taken to you,” said Olcan, grinning widely. Fianchu had gone down into a lying position, his massive head right beside my foot. I scratched him behind one ear and he drooled.

“To tell the truth,” my companion went on,“I wasn’t sure if he’d make friends or take a bite out of you. Looks as if you’ve got the touch.”

“Good,” I said a little shakily. “Do you live at the fortress, Olcan? Do you work for the chieftain?”