The Hallowed Isle Book Two Read Free Page A

happening?” Instinctively he dropped his voice to a whisper.
    She turned, and this time she saw him, though her pupils were still dilated so that her eyes seemed to open on darkness.
    â€œWait.” A tremor ran through her body. “Soon, he comes.” With trembling fingers she unwound the cloth from about the head of the spear. The smoky stone glimmered in the shadows as if it shone with its own light.
    Faint with distance, he heard a long horn-call. The raven feathers tied to the shaft fluttered in a sudden wind. Then came the hoofbeats. Men were riding on the wooden causeway that led through the marshes, he thought, but the sound grew rapidly louder. No horse could gallop safely on the rain-slick logs, nor could they cross other than in single file. What he heard now was the sound of many horses—or was it thunder? Was that the shrieking of the wind or the bitter answer of many horns?
    He could not tell, but the sound sent a chill deep into his body. He crouched at Hæthwæge’s feet, wishing he could burrow into the earth for protection. The animal heads spiked upon the offering stakes swayed frantically, and the horsehide heaved above the ruffled waters, straining toward the attenuated images of the gods.
    In the next moment the tumult he had heard approaching was upon them. The last of the light had gone; he could make out only a confusion of shadows. Was it his imagination that shaped them into skeletal horses and wild riders who brandished spears or swords, or worse still, into wælcyriges, war-hags riding slavering wolves with serpents for reins. He bit back a cry as a gust of wind sent the horsehide flapping into the air to join them.
    He cowered beneath their keening until Hæthwæge’s hand on his shoulder made him look up again. The horrors had passed. The shapes that swept above him now, limned in their own light, were of a nobler kind.
    â€œBehold, son of Octha, your fathers of old—Wihtgils, Witta, Wehta, and their sires before them. . . .”
    Shaking, Oesc got to his feet and raised his arm in salute. The names rolled on, but he could not hear them. All his being was focused on those luminous shadows, grim or kindly, that looked on him with a considering gaze as if deciding whether he was worthy to continue their line.
    And then, though all around them the trees still bowed to the storm, the air above the pool grew heavy with a sense of presence. Oesc remained standing, but he shut his eyes tightly. Whatever was coming now was something he was not yet ready to see. But he could not keep from hearing, though he never knew, then or thereafter, if the words had come to his mind or his ears.
    â€œ So this is the boy —” a deep voice seemed to say.
    â€œSince his birth I have warded him,” Hæthwæge answered. “When will the future I foretold for him come to be?”
    â€œ That is Verdandi’s business. But when that time comes, he will have to choose . . .”
    â€œWhat are his choices?”
    â€œ To stay here and live long in a dying land, or to risk all across the water . . . .”
    â€œBut the runes spoke of victory—” the wicce began. That other voice interrupted her.
    â€œ To endure the turning of the seasons is as much a victory as death in battle. The one is the path of Ingvi, but the other is mine. If he chooses Me his name shall be remembered in a new land, and he shall sire kings .”
    â€œIs that your will, lord?” Now it was Hæthwæge’s voice that trembled.
    â€œ I will what shall be, but it is not for me to choose how it shall come to pass—that lies with the boy, and with you .”
    Oesc had the abrupt sense of being the focus of attention, like a mouse trapped between a wolf’s paws. He scrunched his eyes shut even more tightly. For a moment more he was held, then the pressure was released with a hint of laughter.
    â€œ I do not force you ,” came