Storm Warned (The Grim Series) (2 page)

As the clap of thunder died away, instinct made her cast a glance over her shoulder, and what she saw
did
make her stumble and fall: great coal-black hounds of monstrous size were bounding in her direction, their red and glowing eyes revealing their identity: grims!

Panicked, she scrambled to her feet. The dark fae dogs, called
barghest
or
gwyllgi
by some, were said to foretell one’s death, but they weren’t the most frightening thing she saw. Following the hounds were forty or fifty riders—
and their horses’ hooves didn’t touch the earth!

She was completely surrounded by the otherworldly company before she could scream.

Caris choked down her fear and forced herself to stand still, her hands in front of her gripping each other so hard that they hurt. She needed the pain to help keep her wits together. All these years she’d thought the Wild Hunt was just a story to frighten children into being good, and that the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Ones, were nothing but make-believe. She knew, however, that many of her neighbors believed them to be real—real enough that they set offerings of bread and milk on their porches at night to avert fae pranks and beg their favor. Even the preacher must have thought them real, as he occasionally spoke out against the evils of consorting with demons and faeries. Perhaps he thought them to be one and the same. Whatever they were, no one wanted to actually meet them.

But here she was.

The storm boiled overhead, and chains of lightning shot through the inky clouds. Several of the massive hounds paced in front of her, all of them at least as high as her waist, growling low in their great shaggy throats and occasionally showing their long white teeth. Yet Caris instinctively knew that the dogs were unlikely to attack unless commanded. It was the Fair Ones themselves she had to be wary of, as they towered over her on their gleaming mounts—though it was difficult to remain on her guard. Tall and slender, the Tylwyth Teg were so beautiful that it actually hurt to look at them. Their ethereal faces were exquisitely sculpted and seemingly lit from within. Their iridescent eyes, never a single hue for more than a moment, glittered with countless secrets, and their long white hair fell free in wild, wind-stirred waves. As in the old stories, the fae wore brilliant colors, reds and blues and greens more vivid than anything found in nature. Their leader wore riding leathers the deep, rich hue of communion wine, trimmed with finely wrought silver.

Caris felt a strange longing well up as she studied her captors, a desire to look upon the Fair Ones always despite the ache it caused within her human heart. Perhaps they were accustomed to being admired, for the fae returned her gaze without expression. Even their horses were like nothing Caris had ever seen. Long-limbed and glossy-coated, they danced in place on polished hooves. Their great eyes showed more than a little interest in Caris, but the natural curiosity of a mortal horse was lacking—and so was the friendliness. Instead, there was an icy anticipation, as if the fae horses were keen for the signal to chase her down. It was then that she noticed that several of the creatures had tusks or fangs, and a few even boasted horns!

Acting quickly to hide her fear, Caris turned her attention to the rest of the hunting party—then immediately wished she had not.

Behind the bright allure of the Tylwyth Teg, the accompanying riders were all human, or had been once. Their faces were haunted and drawn, their clothing tattered and dirty but still distinguishable. Here, a businessman slumped over his horse’s neck, his fine white shirt and waistcoat mere rags, with his watch chain swinging free. There, a woman in a muddy gown sat sideways on her thin steed, her hands tangled in its mane, her bonnet fallen away and her long hair hanging in ropes.
There are so many . . .
A miner, his face smeared with coal dust, and a shattered lamp still strapped to his hat, sat astride a white-eyed pit pony. A carthorse, still wearing his traces, bore a butcher with his bloody apron. A red-coated soldier with a broken musket listed in his saddle. Not one of the mortals looked at Caris, or even seemed aware of their surroundings at all. All their lathered mounts were thin, wild-eyed, and frothing at their bits.

That’s when Caris saw the knight with the broken sword, his ancient armor rusted, his stallion bony and unkempt. As a child, she’d heard exciting tales of brave knights, but she knew full well that wars were no longer fought in such a manner—two of her own uncles had served in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers against Napoleon.
Enchanted
, she thought suddenly, and swallowed hard as she realized the hapless people who followed the Hunt were not only from different walks of life but from different times as well!
They’re enchanted, every one of them!

In her childhood stories, the Wild Hunt meted out a rough justice of sorts. Liars, thieves, traitors, and murderers, caught out of doors when the Hunt was passing, were often ridden down and compelled to follow in their wake forever. The greedy and the unfaithful were likewise punished. Had her small sins attracted their attention? Had the Hunt come for
her
? Caris strained to be calm, to tamp down her terror. Even if she were not their intended quarry, she knew she was far from safe. The fae were said to be capricious in nature, and they could take offense where none was intended. She must be very, very careful.

“Girl.” The leader of the Hunt addressed her, his voice a cadence of deep, resonant bells. “Who are you, and what are you doing here in the forest alone?”

“Caris Ellen Dillwyn, and I’m not a girl; I’m twenty and eight,” she said at once, and very nearly put her hand over her own mouth.
Where did that come from?
Had they spelled her to tell too much of the truth? Every child in Beddgelert knew it was unwise to give your name to the Fair Ones—it gave them power over you.

He made a dismissive gesture. “I am Maelgwn, prince of the House of Ash. And we are a thousand
thousand
times as old as you,
girl
. You have not answered us as to your purpose here.”

“My life is not as long as yours, good prince, but I have lived here for all of it,” she said, smothering the dangerous impulse to retort that she had far more right to this spot than the creature that questioned her. Perhaps she should demand what
his
purpose was. Instead, she quietly added, “My father’s farm lies below, past the trees and over the dry stone wall.”

A fearful splintering sounded from elsewhere in the forest, like a tree being clawed asunder, and Caris turned in time to see one of the hounds emerge from the brush. To her horror, the beast had her fiddle case in his great drooling teeth. “That’s mine!” she burst out. Heedless of the danger, she took several steps toward the monstrous dog with an upraised hand, as if to smack an errant cow that had broken into the garden. “Drop that
this minute
!”

The fae leader raised a fine eyebrow and signaled the hound, which released the battered wooden case at Caris’s feet. She knelt at once to retrieve it, brushing the slivers and spittle from the container as carefully as if it were a live thing. Withdrawing the fiddle, she cradled it in her arms, feeling gently along its neck and strings for damage. Her whole body sagged with relief as she found none.

“Play for us, girl,” said Maelgwn.

Play?
Caris rose slowly, her fiddle and bow clutched to her with uncertain hands. Dear heavens, what could a mortal play for the fae? “My lord, surely your own musicians far surpass my simple skills.”

“Play for us.” It wasn’t a request, and for a moment she bristled. She was not their servant to order about. Yet perhaps if she amused them, they’d let her go. At first Caris was certain her fingers would shake too much to play a note, but as she tucked the fiddle under her chin, she felt a small measure of comfort from the familiar instrument. And thanks to the repertoire she’d gained from the Romani, she knew exactly which song to begin with . . .

How many mortals
, she wondered,
have performed
“The King of the Faeries” for the Tylwyth Teg themselves?

She drew the notes with her bow, slowly, quietly at first. Her body rocked and swayed as she built upon the old Celtic tune, as she added the flourishes that begged to be included. By the time she slid smoothly into “
Saith Nos Olau
,” she’d all but forgotten she had an audience, and a dangerous one at that. Her feet launched her upward and she landed on her toes. The music seemed to flow through her as if from the earth itself, her steps were light and sure, and there was power in her rendition of “
Nydd y Gwcw
.” Darkness broke apart with flashes of light, and the storm released a pelting shower. Yet the rain seemed only to add to the music, bouncing like silver notes from the shining surface of the fiddle as Caris’s unbound hair flew about almost as rapidly as the fraying strands of the bow cord. Here was a tune she had never known, a dizzying reel with depth and strength, blossoming from so deep within her that Caris was no longer aware of anything . . .

That is, until the last fiber of the cord snapped, and she suddenly held a useless bow in her ice-cold hands. Shocked, she remembered where she was and lowered the fiddle to her side as water ran down her face and dripped from her clothing. Her breath was ragged and her heart pounded loudly in her ears. The entire Hunt stood silent as a graveyard, as still and motionless as marble statues, completely untouched by the driving rain. Untouched by the music too, it seemed, as their beguiling faces were yet devoid of expression. Caris sighed inwardly.
No matter if they didn’t like it
, she told herself.
No matter, I have given it my all. I have played with everything I had, and I can do no more.
She stood quietly, awaiting her dismissal.

Maelgwn, however, smiled. It lent a saintlike radiance to his perfect features, but like the winter sun reflecting off mountain snows, there was no true warmth in his countenance. “It is apparent that you do not belong in this place,” he announced. “You will come with us.”

Her heart lurched in her chest.
“I would but slow you down, my lord,” she said with care. “My pony is gone, and in truth, I must make my way home to care for my father.”

A female in a riding habit the color of spring leaves laughed aloud, reminding Caris of the tiny strings of bells on Romani wagons. “Wouldn’t you rather play for us at Court, dear child? The queen’s palace is a splendid place. Think of the wonderful dances we might invent together! And what songs you might learn from us as well.”

If the old stories were true—and with the Fair Ones standing before her very eyes, she had to believe they were—Caris knew what would surely happen next. Those foolish enough to enter the vast faery lands beneath the mountains were seldom seen again. She steeled herself as she regarded Maelgwn. She must be firm, yet not offend.

“The Tylwyth Teg are said to be generous hosts, and your offer is truly kind, good sir. Yet I would be a faithless daughter if I left my father to run the farm alone. Come for me in twenty years, which is naught but a moment to you,” she offered. Her heart hurt as she realized for the first time that at the rate her dear da was drinking, he’d be unlikely to last so long. “I will practice my music every day, in preparation to go with thee willingly at that time.”

Maelgwn’s smile disappeared as if it had never been. “Think you to bargain with us, girl? Your loyalty to your father is admirable, but in your absence, he will simply drink more and care nothing that you are gone.”

“That’s not true!” declared Caris. “He misses my mother, and it would be cruel for Da to lose me as well. He’ll have no one to run the farm, he’ll—”

“Enough.” The leader of the Hunt dismounted. Holding a silver stirrup in one hand and extending his other to her, he obviously intended her to ride with him.

Caris had sins in abundance, but abandoning her father would never be one of them. If the Fair Ones were intent on having her music,
then there must be none for them to have
! Quickly, she took the old fiddle in hands made strong by years of hard work . . .

And broke the beloved instrument over her knee.

The shattering of the varnished wood affected the Tylwyth Teg far more than her music had. There was anger on some faces, disbelief on others. As for herself, Caris might as well have torn her own heart in two. Tears streamed unchecked, but still she stood straight. “I cannot play for thee, my lord,” she said simply. “I am a faithful daughter.”

“Faithful, are you?” he mocked. The prince’s handsome face was twisted with fury, as he seized a coiled silver whip from his elegant saddle. “
Then you should have a faithful form!
”

The heavy whip glowed with a strange light of its own—dear heaven, was he going to beat her? She pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to plead for mercy, and simply waited for judgment to fall.

“Maelgwn, please! Surely you don’t need this child?” It was the faery in green who protested.

He rounded on her at once. “Do you think me foolish, Rhedyn? A ruler gathers
every
weapon against future battles,” he snapped. “I would not leave a sword upon the ground, and neither will I leave this one behind.”

What weapon?
Caris frowned.
What sword?

Rhedyn bravely tried again. “But the girl does not deserve such—”

A blinding flash of light, hot and bright as a dozen suns, split the air with a deafening crack of thunder. Caris could no longer see or hear, and the air she dragged into her lungs was thick with the smell of sparks. Agony overtook her until it seemed her body would break apart as surely as the precious fiddle had. She had never fainted in her life, but she was grateful when blackness swallowed her.

When next she was aware, Caris found herself stooped and racing along the ground, neck in neck with the great hounds that followed the Hunt.