The Ivory Star

Chapter 24

Mist.

All-surrounding, all-encompassing gray mist. A solid thing, a living entity that clutched him, restrained him, kept him from walking, from living. He fought and thrashed, trying to find his way back to life.

* * *

But what if there, for him, was no way out? Could this be death? After all, hadn't a spear been driven into him?

Yes.

Angus MacTavish was dead. He was certain of it. But if we were dead, it seemed strange that he was still very much awake and aware. Was this the afterlife? He had never thought much about the existence of anything after death, always too caught up in the here and now. But if this was the afterlife, then there must be other souls here. There must be. Forced to spend eternity alone, he would go mad. He resolved to find someone, anyone. But how? This damned mist denied all sight. He began to thrash about once again. Then he stopped fighting for a moment to listen, cocking an ear.

Muffled screams, voices in the distance. But what voices! Cries of pain, moans of unbearable torment, screams of anguish. What manner of place was this, where all people screamed and wailed in torment? A single word crossed his mind in answer to his question—Hell.

"No!" he screamed. "I won't stay here! I won't!"

Then something touched him. Something cool and moist rested on his forehead. More voices, like whispers in a fog, close by but unintelligible. Something soft and warm brushed his stubbled cheek, like slim fingers, stroking, caressing.

He strained to see. Look! Was the mist dissipating? He thought he could snatch glimpses of something, shadows perhaps, or colors. What was that wonderful smell? Roses? But the rich, sweet smell of roses masked something else, something terrible, the stench of blood and gangrenous flesh, filth and death.

But still he fought against the mist. Could he begin to see? "Yes!"

But what did he see? Gold. Spun golden thread, in long flowing waves. He tried to touch it, but his arms would not obey him. No, it was not gold, but hair, long, silky golden locks that cascaded about a lovely face.

Bare, wooden rafters. A moist rag on his forehead. Furs covering his prostrate body.

Screams. Moans. He had not left them behind. They were here! But where was here?

The woman! The woman. Who was she? She was familiar, he was certain of it. He had seen her before, when he had been alive.

He parted his lips to speak, but only a dry rattle emanated from his throat. The woman squeezed cool water from a cloth into his mouth. He gulped at it greedily. Finally he managed to croak, "Where am I, Heaven or Hell?"

She smiled, full lips parting to reveal the pearlescent white teeth. Lovely. "Neither, friend. You live."

He tried to look about, but his sore, stiff neck pained him. "Where then?" he asked.

"In my lord's stable, among the wounded," she answered. A sudden scream of pain from somewhere emphasized her statement. She glanced over her shoulder for a moment, then returned her attention to him.

"How long have I lain here so?" he asked. His muscles felt knotted and weak.

"Nearly seven days."

"Seven!" he started, causing spasms of pain to shoot through him. "How goes the siege?"

She smiled a pretty smile. "Worry not about it now. We are safe. You must rest and recover. Your wound was most grievous, and must heal. We wonder that you still live at all."