The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)

Those were Lia’s thoughts as she fell asleep, shivering, in the Bearden Muir, wrapped in a wet cloak, dress damp, on hard, poky ground amidst a thousand brittle oak leaves. The torches and lanterns of Almaguer’s men had remained on the far side of the river and had not moved for several hours. In fact, a bright campfire shone in the distance, luring her with a false promise of warmth. Colvin had promised to wake her at midnight so that she might have a turn watching the sheriff’s camp.

Exhausted, she fell asleep, but it was a fitful sleep. She knew she was uncomfortable, her back and legs aching, yet her mind was somewhere else – back at the kitchen with Pasqua, hurrying to prepare the evening meal for the Aldermaston. Memories flitted by, a jumble of past conversations, both spoken and unspoken ones. Then she was back, gazing down at herself on the hillside, her face pale, spattered, and gritty. Colvin was asleep leaning against the tree trunk, hands folded in his lap peacefully. She envied him that. A whisper sounded in the dark, and the crunch of leaves and twigs. Almaguer, robed in black, advanced up the hill, a gleaming sword in his hand. She knew it was him for his eyes glowed silver, illuminating small circles that only just touched his cheeks. Moonlight revealed the medallion around his neck, and blackness emanated from it, stealing through the mistless night and engulfing the hillock like a shroud.

Lia felt like a leaf, hovering on the wind. She screamed but no sound came out. She had to warn herself, to wake herself. The more she tugged at the immaterial bonds, the more the night breezes puffed her this way and that. She saw Colvin stir, but he slept – he did not waken. In her mind, she screamed out to him as Almaguer advanced up the hill, straight towards them. Colvin slept soundly – peacefully. Wake up! Wake up! she screamed in her mind. She pulled at the invisible threads separating her from her shivering body. Still Almaguer approached, the magic from the medallion wreathing in the air like smoke. Only the smoke had shapes – of men, of beasts – like wolves stalking in the dark, each with gleaming eyes of silver.

She was helpless, unable to reach her body again. If the dream ended, it would tug her back inside. She willed herself to awaken. She struggled against the chains of sleep. Wake up! Wake up! Almaguer reached the crest, staring down at her body. The smoke-shapes circled around them, eyes greedy. Almaguer took his hand off the amulet. Somehow, she could see beneath his shirt – at the black whorl of tattoos that crisscrossed his chest and even now were inching up his throat, across his shoulders, growing with every use of the medallion.

The smoke-shapes sniffed at her and Colvin, fingers and muzzles and paws rooting against their clothes, the touch lighter than a gasp of breath. A sick feeling bloomed inside as she watching them, disgusted, polluted, sniffing at her. She tried to pull herself awake in vain.

Then Almaguer knelt by her. His hand reached out and he touched her hair, running his fingers through its curly tangles. Almost she could feel it, those fingers coiling into her hair, and a worm of sickness spread through her whole soul. She shuddered, she revolted, she cringed from the tender gesture that was not meant with any degree of tenderness. His fingers stiffened around a thick clump of hair. Moonlight blinded her off the edge of his sword as the tip suddenly plunged into her heart.

“It is your turn.”

Her eyes opened to the blackness of night. The moon was pale, only half of its brightness. Her arms and legs were sore and cramped with cold.

“It is your turn,” Colvin repeated, shaking her shoulder even harder. “Come on. Are you awake?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her heart shriveling in her chest with the vividness of the dream.

He crouched next to her and then straightened. “It is past midnight. I let you sleep as long as I could. If I do not rest, I will be useless tomorrow.” He groaned. “I have never been this tired in my life. Sit against the tree, but not for long. It helps to stay warm and awake if you keep moving.”

Lia raised herself on her elbow. Her heart shivered. The feeling, the blackness, was still there. “Almaguer is coming,” she whispered, believing the dream was a warning.

“I think not,” he answered. “I have watched their camp all night. The fire has burned low, but you can still see it. They make no effort to hide themselves. They have horses and lanterns. Not even they are fool enough to cross the river in the dark.”

He was not listening to her. She stood, grateful to be awake, but fear roiled in her heart. “He is coming tonight. I felt him.” She glanced around the hillock, looking for his glowing eyes. Nothing. She was terrified. Her heart beat wildly in her chest.

He snorted with disbelief. “If you see him, let me know. I will keep my sword ready. Now I am going to sleep. Wake me if the lanterns light up again, or you hear something large – I mean larger than a squirrel. There have been deer in the meadow in the night. And I heard a wolf howl once. Have you ever slept out of doors before?”

“No,” she said, choking back a sob that he did not hear.