Of Kelpie Lullabies, Page 2

  ***

  The trudge to Keiranna’s cave hideaway was steep and treacherous to the inexperienced. While she had no difficulty making her way back toward her mountain home, Keiranna’s captive and the two horses found steady footing sparse along the craggy landscape. Several times she reached out to steady Edwin as he grappled with the lame steed and each time he stiffened at her touch. Outwardly she appeared aloof to his reactions, but inwardly she began to wish he would not shy away from her so violently. The regret confused her. Was this what feeling was like? If so, she decided that perhaps it was better to be numb.

  “How much farther?” Edwin asked.

  The messenger’s panted question turned her broods back to their environment.

  “Just beyond that ridge up there,” Keiranna replied before continuing her relentless reconnoiter of the area.

  The sickeningly fresh-wind scent of a full banshee crossed her nose. Keiranna checked their flank again and signaled for Edwin to halt. Banshees flew along the upper reaches of these mountains and only descended when they needed to feed. They were of little threat unless one looked directly in the scavengers’ eyes, but the fact that a banshee was so close meant that something else far worse was likely hunting them as well. Keiranna sniffed and waited.

  As the banshee gave its first moaning wail, the sheerie’s nose prickled with the new scent of dried blood on fur. The lame horse’s blood smelled sweet compared to this rancid stench. Now that they had stopped, Keiranna could feel the steady rhythm of magic different from the sapphire’s hum in the rock beneath her.

  She drew her bow taught and whispered for her captive to draw a weapon of his own.

  “What monster besides a banshee stalks us?”

  She swallowed. “A Gwyllgi grim.”

  “Grim?” Edwin’s eyes went wide and he drew a stiletto concealed in his riding boot.

  “When the time comes, aim for its heart,” she said.

  “Before the fae hound finds mine, that is,” he replied.

  She nodded and motioned him forward. Together they scaled the steep precipice, ever mindful of their limited maneuvering space. Keiranna’s nose caught occasional whiffs of the grim’s stench—first behind them, then beside them—as it circled its prey. Her unease intensified as each new scent confirmed that the grim would outflank them and win the advantage of higher ground. She strained her ears to listen and heard nothing but the occasional wail of the banshee and the beat of her party-members’ hearts. It was amazing and terrifying that a wolf-creature the size of a small pony could move so silently.

  The fae beast’s attack came moments after they crested the ridge. With a wrathful roar, the scarlet-eyed fiend descended upon them with fangs flashing. Edwin escaped the black brute’s strike by the barest of margins and rolled to safety. The lame horse; however, was not so fortunate.

  The grim’s claws raked flesh from the screaming mare’s spine before returning his attention to Edwin. Before either man or beast could move, however, Keiranna’s bowstring sang with the liberation of an arrow aimed at the monster’s broad black chest.

  The enormous fae hound howled in agony and staggered toward Keiranna even as Edwin’s slender knife pierced its left eye. A second scream from the grim was answered with distant howls of rage.

  Keiranna cursed and loosed a second shot into the creature’s chest. It crumpled just in front of her feet. She snarled at the beast and yanked her arrows from its now silent heart.

  “Leave the horse and run!” she screeched. She grabbed Edwin by the sleeve of his chainmail shirt and sprinted toward the sanctuary of her den.

  Another ghostly howl pierced the gloom and was answered by a chorus of seven or eight others. Keiranna hissed as she felt tingling vibrations of magic split the air. The hum of Edwin’s magic gem had drawn the attention of the fallen grim’s pack and now they were closing ranks around it. The first grim had been a mere scout. The pack’s more dominant males would each likely be the size of a large horse and not so easy to kill.

  “Edwin, if you have any ability to wield that stone, I suggest you work your sorcery now!”

  “How many are coming?”

  “I have heard the threat howls of eight, but there are likely more who run silently. We cannot hope to make it to shelter in time.”

  Edwin cursed. “So be it. I’ll do what I must to protect us if you will do the same.”

  She snarled at him. “I may be a monster in the estimation of some, but I keep my promises.”

  He nodded. “Can you bear the sun’s light?”

  She hissed. “It is very painful for me to endure, but I can survive it.”

  “Good.”

  Edwin opened the sack carrying the Stone of Creation and pulled the humming gem into his right hand. The skin of a normal mortal would have scorched at first contact with the stone’s power, but not Edwin’s. The sorcerer held the stone aloft with calm purpose as Keiranna, his steed, and he charged around the last rocky ridge and out onto the flat ash plains just below Keiranna’s clan’s mountain hall.

  The grim stopped howling abruptly as their quarry charged toward them. Even as the pack descended on the trio, Keiranna’s bow sang with arrow after arrow unleashed toward the glowing red chests of her enemies. She had killed three and wounded a fourth by the time the pack members closed around them.

  “Edwin!” she yelled as the nearest grim lunged toward her.

  “Hold onto me!” he yelled.

  She reached for his left hand and as she did so, she was swept away from the grim’s jowls and swung onto the back of Edwin’s steed. She clung to the sorcerer as his horse hurdled the line of enemies. A grim yelped as the steed’s hooves met his spine and pushed off his back toward freedom. Keiranna stared behind her in disbelief as the horse galloped his way across the plains. They had jumped over a grim! No normal horse could leap like that, not with two people on its back!

  For a moment, the pack members seemed just as surprised as she. Then they recovered and charged after their prey. The horse was incredibly fast, but the grim were faster. Four were dead, but nine still pursued them. From her position behind Edwin, Keiranna could not shoot her bow and so she watched with gathering horror as their hunters closed the distance between them.

  “Edwin, they’re almost on our heels!” she shouted.

  “I see the entrance, Keiranna. We’re almost there! When I tell you, close your eyes!” he answered as they hurtled toward her late family’s stone fortress. “Now!”

  Keiranna shut her eyes as light flared through the gloom. Piteous shrieks and whimpers met her ears. The thud of magic ceased as the grim hearts nearest to her burst and then stilled. She heard the horse’s hooves clip against hard stone and then echo inside a rock chamber.

  “Keiranna! Help me move this!” Edwin screamed as he dismounted and pulled her from the steed.

  She opened her eyes to see the inside of her family’s meeting hall swim before her bleary vision. They had made it to safety.

  “Keiranna!”

  She stared in confusion at the man who was pushing against a boulder beside the cavern’s entrance. The anger in a grim’s roar snapped her to her senses and she helped Edwin roll the boulder along its track across the cave mouth just before the pack’s last remnant reached them. Sounds of sinister snarls and scraping claws met their efforts, but none of the pack could get past the boulder.

  Keiranna sank to the floor in relief and rested her head against the cool stone.

  “Are you hurt?” Edwin asked her between heaving breaths.

  She opened her stinging eyes and squinted at him as he knelt beside her. Like him, she was panting. She never panted. Keiranna frowned and stared down at her pale hands. They were less luminous now than they should be and they were trembling. Trembling? She felt fear coursing like glacier runoff through her throbbing heart.

  “Keiranna?” Edwin reached to steady her shaking hands in his. His warm touch made her flinch. She felt heat flow through her fingers and a curious
sensation flow through her mind. She pulled away and scrambled to her feet. Although her eyesight had finally cleared, it was now blurred with tears.

  “Stay back!” she hissed at him in rising panic—panic that she was never supposed to feel. What had he done to her?

  In the guttering light of the cave torches, Edwin’s horse walked over to stand beside the sorcerer and nudged him with his nose. The man turned to rub the stallion’s head and spoke softly to it. The poor mount now stood wet and quivering with cold. Edwin cursed and, as the sheerie watched, he walked the gray stallion over to the room’s center fire pit and removed his bridle and saddle gear. The man searched the saddlebags until he found an earthen jar of blue ointment to rub on the beast’s mouth and sores. As he did so, Edwin whispered again in the magical Shee Tongue.

  The sorcerer’s whisper grew to a murmur and then into a song. In spite of herself, Keiranna’s eyes half-closed with relish at the peaceful tune. As he sang, he continued to dab and wipe ointment across the stallion’s body. With each stroke, the horse’s filthy gray coat became a spotless white. As Edwin’s voice grew strong, it was joined by the horse’s own voice. Together they sang a haunting melody that conjured memories of moonlit forests and still, clear waters.

  Keiranna gasped and shrank closer to the wall. “A kelpie!”

  Edwin nodded slowly—almost apologetically—and then patted the breathtaking beast affectionately. “This is Dewain and he has been my faithful steed for many years now.”

  She stared at the fae beast. If kelpies were faithful in anything, it was betraying their riders to their deaths and yet this one had brought his two charges to safety. She had never known a kelpie to do anything other than entice their prey to ride them into the boiling waters of the Split Spine hot springs. The rider was cooked alive and the carnivorous kelpie then consumed the victim at its leisure.

  No one could possibly ride one unless he had powerful magic of his own to help tame such a beast. She knew of only one sorcerer strong enough to ever have kelpies at his beck and call: Ember.

  “Ember, you thief!” she snarled. She glared at the sorcerer who had taken the Stone of Creation from her clan and then used it to create the curse that had shaped the Split Spine Mountains and twisted her family into monsters. She recognized his face, but not his age. This man looked barely 30, far younger than the cretin she remembered in her nightmares. How had his body regained such youth?

  “I am his son, Keiranna,” Edwin said calmly as if reading her very thoughts.

  “How could I be so foolish?” she screeched. Suddenly she longed to be on the other side of the stone with the grim pack. “The use of Shee Tongue to open the pouch…outside my own clan, only the one who cursed us would know that language.”

  “And his descendants. Very astute, Keiranna. For my sake though, I am quite thrilled that you did not make note of that earlier or I would probably have been fed to the grim.” He chuckled.

  “What do you want with me?” she growled, very aware of the solid stone at her back. There was no way that she could move it in time to avoid his attack.

  Edwin took a cautious step forward. “You do not believe my intentions to be pure, biased as you are toward my family. I do not blame you for that, but please believe that I only want to free and restore you to your former purity. The sídhe-kin Clan of Blacmann has always been a proud race of warriors. Your ancestors became the guardians of the sorcerers’ Stone of Creation because they were the kindest and most honorable of all the fairy clans—the only ones who could balance and check the mortal enchanters’ power for the good of all…”

  “Get to the point, Edwin—if that is indeed your real name.”

  The sorcerer looked honestly hurt by that.

  “I have come to undo Ember’s dark deeds, Keiranna. But I need the willing aid of a Blacmann member to accomplish such a task for the plague of his magic runs deep within this place. I know you are the last of your kin. I know your struggle to survive in this wasteland has been abjectly lonely. I have seen your tears many a time through my father’s scrying glass—”

  “Your father?”

  The sorcerer sighed before speaking again. “As I said before, Keiranna, I am Ember’s son. He raped my mother, hoping for a successor and instead...” Edwin’s visage hardened. “Instead he sired his own executioner.”

  He walked purposely toward her now.

  “Stay where you are!” she shrieked and readied her bow.

  With an almost negligent wave of Edwin’s hand, the bow splintered in two. “Do you truly believe that bolt would halt me, Keiranna, knowing now just who and what I am?”

  She lowered her useless weapon helplessly, but continued to glare. “I am to trust a murderer?”

  “With as many riders as you have left horseless and lifeless in these badlands, are you really any better than me?”

  She bowed her head slowly. “I did what I must to survive…to care for my family.”

  “You have no family left, Keiranna, nor do I. It is not right for either of us to live so alone.”

  She looked at him uncertainly and then at the kelpie, which had continued its haunting song throughout their confrontation. Her eyes widened as Edwin’s strong tenor added words to the melody. “Boldly call upon the height, Battle cries throughout the night. Victory will come some way, If you can but hold ‘til day...”

  Edwin’s warm hands cupped hers as he finished singing the song of hope from her dreams. A warmth spread through her body and tickled the edges of her memory. Her mind recalled the last hug that her father had given her before the curse descended. She remembered now, not just the warmth of his body and the scent of his clothes, but also the love in his embrace. It was the same love Edwin’s simple touch now offered her. Inside her a dam of apathy finally broke and beautiful emotions chased through her soul in a confused and wonderful tumult.

  “You had no reason to trust my father. This I know. But trust me as I trust you, Keiranna,” Edwin said as he placed the Stone of Creation into Keiranna’s hands. “Help me remake the world.”

  She gazed at the blue stone and then back at the sorcerer. She believed every word he told her. The gem’s pure light always revealed truth and so now it reminded her of dreams long forgotten. Keiranna recalled night after night of crying herself to sleep and yet always in her dreams she had heard someone whispering reassurance. The memories brought forth joyful tears.

  “It wasn’t just the kelpies’ songs I heard. It was you,” she whispered.

  Edwin slowly nodded again but kept silent. She watched his features soften and then looked once more into the gem’s depths, knowing that both honor and love had finally returned to her.

  “To remake the world…” she said as she embraced him.

  For the first time in years, Keiranna truly smiled.

  Meet the Author

  Alycia Christine, also known as Alycia C. Cooke, grew up near the dusty cotton fields of Lubbock, Texas. She fell in love with fantasy and science fiction stories when her father first read Gordon R. Dickson’s The Dragon and The George and Robert A. Heinlein’s Have Spacesuit—Will Travel to her at age ten. Her love-affair with fiction deepened when Alycia took a creative writing course while attending Texas A&M University. After that class, she was hooked as a writer for life. Her subsequent B.S. degree in agricultural journalism not only helped to hone Alycia’s skills with a pen, but also with a camera. Today she uses her skills as a photographer to capture the beauty of the world around her and add additional perspective to her fiction and nonfiction writing. Find her at AlyciaChristine.com.

  Also by Alycia Christine

  Fiction Anthologies

  Musings

  Short Fiction

  “A Song for Naia”

  “Chosen Sacrifice”

  “Of Kelpie Lullabies”

  “Raven’s Fall”

  Find out more at AlyciaChristine.com.

  If you enjoyed

  Of Kelpie Lullabies,

  look f
or

  Musings

  by Alycia Christine

  “My train of thought derailed somewhere in the wilderness of my daydreams and Musings is the result. With short stories gathered from every corner of my imagination, I hope this fantasy and science fiction collection proves uniquely entertaining and thought-provoking.” –Alycia Christine

  An excerpt from

  “The Soul Wrangler”,

  a short story exclusive to the Musings collection

  Dust stared over the flat, cracked desert toward his destination. Even from this distance, the small town of River, Texas, looked more dead than alive—a collection of rotting wood buildings sprawled along the orange horizon like the half-buried bones of some great beast.

  He nudged his cyber-brute from a walk into an easy trot along the cracked asphalt of the old highway, curving around gnarled mesquite trees as he drew closer. Once he moved into the edge of town, Dust could see that at least some of the rumors were true. There was a powerful spiritual pestilence infecting this place and its symptoms were played out in the buildings’ weathered wood and its inhabitants’ worn expressions.

  Most of the buildings looked at least a hundred years old with the newest construction having been done during the last oil boom some fifty years ago. Much of the original brick buildings were crumbling. Repairs had been done with weathered boards and cheap stucco. Dust took in the scene with wary eyes. He wasn’t exactly eager to get down to the unpleasant business at hand, but it would be better to get it over with than to stall and risk the deaths of even more people.

  Dust could tell by the boarded up buildings on Main Street that the town, like the land at large, had seen more prosperous days. He had seen the dried up creek bed meandering past the city’s rotting walls on his ride in, its water long lost to the blistered sky and overzealous farmers and ranchers. What sustained the town now must be the bottom residue of Ogallala Aquifer groundwater and the last squirts of black gold dredged up by a few of the ancient oil pumpjacks still dotting the West Texas desert.

  “Mister, come see my girls,” a woman called to him from the doorway of the nearest building. The place sported newer paint than its neighbors and its large sign displayed the phrase: “The Doll House – Adult Pleasures for All” in garish red-and-gold lettering. Her coy smile revealed twin rows of brown teeth. “Every one of them is clean and good-spirited. First time is half-price. What’s your pleasure?”

  Dust shook his head at her. He rode past the brothel and on along the quiet dirt road toward the peeling white steeple of the church. His sweaty mount would need to drink soon or risk injury in this oppressive heat. Hopefully the church still had free water; he knew better than to seek charity from the madam.

  The newcomer rounded a corner and spied another person coming down the road from the opposite end. Astride a well-conditioned brute and dressed in commercial-spun clothing, the other seemed out of place in these shabby surroundings. Dust pulled the wide brim of his faded brown hat lower on his head as the stranger approached—semi-silhouetted against the setting sun.

  “You’re one o’ those Soul Wranglers, ain’t ya?” the dandy called.

  Dust shifted in his saddle, but gave no reply.

  “You on the hunt?”

  Dust nodded slowly as he took in the other’s long trench coat and wiry frame—a perfect combination for hiding guns or even a bomb vest.

  “Not to worry, neighbor. I mean ya no harm,” the man said, as if reading Dust’s thoughts. “Soul Wranglers are scarce ‘round these parts, but I figured one’d come soon as word leaked out about our preacher eatin’ a bullet from the wrong end of his gun.”

  Dust frowned. “Suicide?”

  “That’s what the medical examiner said. Anyway, I’ve been taking care of the congregation on Sunday mornings until a new preacher arrives. Name’s Bill, by the way. Bill Chambers.” The stranger held out his grimy hand—an action that revealed a holstered pistol and a badge.

  Dust slowly smiled and reached across the space between the two steeds to shake the sheriff’s outstretched hand with his own. “Dustin Hitchens. Everybody just calls me Dust. You got a trough somewhere for my mount here?” He patted the sweaty neck of his riding beast. The dun colored cyber-brute whinnied and stamped the street with an impatient hoof, sending curls of fine orange dust into the air.

  “Come on over to my place. We’ll get yer horse and you watered well.”

  “Much obliged, Sheriff Chambers.” Dust touched the brim of his hat with a calloused brown finger before following the other rider down River’s Main Street.

  “How long ya been traveling?” Bill asked as he steered his mare toward the left and down a side street.

  “About a month,” Dust answered, absently rubbing the graying scruff of his chin. He badly needed a bath and a shave. “Made my way down from Old Santa Fe; had to cut a bit east and then swing back west when my quarry flew the coop.”

  “Performed hex exorcisms along that way, did ya?” Bill asked, glancing at him. Dust’s eyes narrowed, but Bill seemed not to notice. “I’ve heard tell about some strange voodoo magic practiced by the locals up near Amarillo. I figure they get themselves in trouble with demons weekly and with God daily.”

  Dust pursed his cracked lips and then winced at the pain. He’d have to buy some more petrol jelly from the local dry goods store, if they had any. He watched the back of Bill’s head and squinted speculatively. His reception in various settlements was always mixed depending on the education levels of those he met. Most of the common folk took it for granted that he was some strange mix of priest, marshal, and mercenary. More learned persons knew better and gave him a wide berth accordingly. Consequently, Bill’s curious friendliness puzzled and unnerved him. Was the sheriff a threat?

  Musings coming June 20, 2014! Find out more at AlyciaChristine.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  “Of Kelpie Lullabies” Copyright © 2014 by Alycia C. Cooke

  Excerpt from Musings copyright © 2014 by Alycia Christine

  Cover illustration and design by Alycia Christine

  Cover copyright © 2014 by Purple Thorn Press

  Purple Thorn Press books may be purchased for educational, business, or for sales and promotional use. Please contact Purple Thorn Press for more information.

  Purple Thorn Press logo designed by Alycia Christine.

  Alycia Christine

  https://www.AlyciaChristine.com

  Purple Thorn Press

  https://www.PurpleThornPress.com

  ISBN 978-1-941588-16-1