As Tritus pulled the notched arrow back, he was relieved that Talorgan wasn’t there to rachet up the tension he now faced. As he maintained his focus on the deer’s chest, he could feel sweat beading on his forehead and dripping down his back, under his tunic. His arm trembled with the exertion of maintaining the strain on his taut bowstring.
The deer was just within range. There was no room for error.
He squinted, eyes on the animal’s furry chest, right between its forelegs. His heart was pounding a fast staccato, and his fingers trembled from the pressure. It was time.
He readied his fingers for the moment of release. Three, two, one...
The arrow flew from his bow. He watched it fly straight and true, anticipating the moment it would hit the deer.
But the target never made it.
A giant crone stood there, still and silent, the arrow held aloft in one gnarled fist as she stared silently back at them.
From the corner of his eye, Tritus saw Drust come forward into the clearing. His movements were jerky, urgent. Tritus watched as he dropped his bow and quiver to the ground, before sinking to his knees and bowing his head.
Tritus hesitated, glancing between the crone and Drust. From his friend’s actions, it was clear this...woman...was someone important, someone worthy of respect. Deciding to trust Drust, he withdrew from the cover of the bush and began to walk toward his friend, keeping one eye on the crone who silently stood there, tracking his every move.
As he drew nearer, Tritus realized that although she was hunched over, the crone was at least a foot taller than he was. A huge wolf-skin embraced her shoulders, the head and tail of the pelt resting on either side of her caved-in chest. A plaid, dull and faded to a drab gray, was wrapped around her body.
Tritus raised his eyes, lifting them to the crone’s face. And froze.
It was the ugliest face he had ever seen, but that wasn’t what made him pause. Her long white-blond hair was snarled and rampant with leaves. It ran down her back, well past her waist to trail dirty and forlorn over the detritus of the forest floor below.
He willed himself not to stumble, not to stare, but he couldn’t help fixating on her gray skin, noting how it bulged with wrinkles, especially her double chin. Nor could he stop his gaze wandering over the large teeth that were like miniature tusks protruding from her blackened lips. Tritus heard the gasp he let slip as he noticed her eyes. The black pupils were encased in irises the color of liquid silver that was a swirling cascade of gleaming light—a light so bright that they rivaled the stars on a cold, clear night. Tritus could feel the power of that all-seeing stare, ferocious, and deadly powerful.
He stumbled, coming to a sudden halt beside Drust.
“On your knees!” Drust hissed under his breath.
Tritus heard him as if from a distance, but he couldn’t break his gaze away from that all-seeing stare. He felt entranced, his will to say or do anything lost on the whisper of the frigid breeze that permeated the air.
Tritus didn’t know how long he stared, but there came a persistent buzz that soon built to a crescendo. Pain, sharp and hot, hammered at his temples. He groaned at the agony piercing his skull. His legs buckled, and he fell to the moist earth below. Even then, he could not look away, could not bring himself to break the crone’s gaze. The pressure built even more against his temples, and he felt a slow, sluggish trail run out of one of his nostrils.
Her gaze shifted, tracking the movement of the trickling blood, and in that split second of separation, a huge weight lifted. Tritus felt he could breathe again, control his actions. He immediately dropped his gaze to the earth below, understanding why Drust had not, and did not, look upon the woman directly. No, that wasn’t right—she wasn’t a woman. No woman, let alone an old crone of her ilk, could hold such power.
Which prompted a single question to hammer against his temples. Who was this crone?
She spoke, and the forest quivered, blasted by lashings of a biting, frosty breeze. “Who dares hunt on my land?”
Her voice was heavy and guttural, a harsh mix of snorts and gnashing, as if she were missing too many teeth to formulate the words properly. He winced, for the melody was grating, an agonizing intrusion in his mind. Tritus caught Drust lifting his head and glanced at his friend, worried that he would catch her gaze, but Drust appeared to know the danger, for even though he had raised his head, his eyes remained downcast. “I do, Cailleach Bheur. I, who am Drust.”
Tritus felt his blood roar at Drust’s confirmation. This crone was the Goddess of Winter? A lacing of fear traveled down his spine.
“Drust.” She tasted his name on her tongue, drawing out the syllable in a slow, awkward slur. “And a Druidic warrior at that.” She cocked her head to the side, watchful, deadly. “Why do you hunt my land? Your people have taken their quota for winter already. Why come back and take what is mine when your larders are full?”
Tritus flinched at the menacing undertone to her voice.
Drust’s voice came slow and hesitant as if he was aware of the knife’s edge upon which he hung. “It is not I who come to hunt, my lady.” He waved a hand toward Tritus. “This trip is a gift for my friend.”
A guttural snarl erupted into the still air, and Tritus felt the hair at the back of his neck tingle in recognition that he was now the hunted.
“I have not approved this gift!” she roared. “What insolence brings you to my domain so close to my reckoning?”
Drust flinched, then cleared his throat in the weighted silence. “Grant me but a few moments to explain, my lady, and I will guarantee your approval.”
Tritus was aware they stood on a precipice and couldn’t help lifting his head to observe her reaction. He was careful to look slightly off-center, focusing on her nose rather than her eyes. But it was an empty win, for he could still feel the white-hot heat of her power and was cognizant of the danger he faced. Cailleach held a wealth of power that he had never encountered before. It simmered on the current of air between them, emanating off her bent, grotesque form.
He understood why he could not hold her gaze. To be trapped like that again was to court insanity; her visage too powerful for the puny minds of mere men. Now Tritus watched as Drust skirted her gaze, noting how he concentrated on the movements of her lips.
“Speak!” she barked. “And choose your words wisely!”
Drust didn’t delay. “Our people made thirteen sacrifices in your honor. The blades were special this year as this man crafted them.” He gestured at Tritus. “Do you recall them, my lady?”
Tritus saw the way her face twisted queerly, the lips stretching around her sharp, elongated teeth. He realized with a start that she was smiling.
“Ah, the thirteen sacrifices,” she lisped around her tusks. “Yes, I am well pleased with this year’s offerings.”
Tritus felt Drust reach out and seize his arm in a biting grip. “In exchange for the blades, this man wished to learn to hunt as we do. I promised him that privilege as payment for the blades, and it is well known that there are no better hunting grounds than your home, my lady. Don’t you agree?”