The Legend of Lady Ilena by Patricia Malone

us.
    I manage to climb to my feet unaided but grab forher hand when my knees start to buckle. “I’m … I cannot …” I stammer in confusion and exhaustion.
    She looks at the dead wolf in the enclosure. “You spent your strength well.” Gray hair has escaped from the plait at her back and bristles around her face. Soot from the torch streaks the sweat on her forehead. She wears a bronze pendant over her brown dress, and a gray cloak fastened at the shoulder falls behind her. A waterskin and a cloth pouch hang from her belt.
    “How do you know me? Who are you?”
    “Time enough later for talk. Lean your head here.” She tugs until she holds a few hairs.
    I flinch from the pain and start to protest.
    “Here, where your tunic is torn.” She hooks two fingers into the rip at my shoulder and tears out a piece of the cloth.
    She hurries around to the hole at the back corner of the cage and hangs the hairs and cloth on sharp pieces of wicker. “Now. Your belt.”
    I see her plan and pull it off. My scabbard, sling, and bag of stones slide onto the ground. I touch the gold medallion that covers the belt’s fastener. Moren gave it to me years ago.
    “Hurry. You can get another.” She takes it from me and twists the leather into the torn wicker. The medallion glows warmly in reflected torchlight. She reaches inside the pen and fishes out my vest.
    I pick up the sling and slide an end through the loopon the bag of stones, then knot the ends around my waist. I pull on my vest and am grateful for its warmth.
    She waves the torch toward a path that leads into the woods. “Come on. Can you hurry?”
    I nod and follow her out of the clearing onto a narrow trail through the trees. There is little strength in my body, and each step is an effort. After what seems a great distance, she stops at a stream.
    “Drink. You must be thirsty.”
    I am grateful, both for the water and for a chance to lie flat on the grassy bank for a few minutes. While I drink, she fills her waterskin and returns it to her belt.
    Then she whispers, “Stay close to me. Don’t talk.”
    We continue through dark trees on a rough path that comes out onto a meadow. The fortress ramparts loom dark on the hill above us. The woman holds the torch low at her side to hide the light. I wonder why she doesn’t douse it in the damp grass, since dawn is upon us.
    We pass near a farm enclosure, and a dog barks sharply, startling me. It quiets at a voice from inside the house. We keep up a steady pace down a path that dwindles until I can’t tell it from the grassy stretch around it.
    When she stops at last, it is at a cromlech that marks a burial mound of the old ones. Three tall stones stand with a flat capstone resting on top of them. Other stones back against the face of an earthen mound. There are no dwellings for as far as I can see.She leads me in under the capstone and through a narrow doorway between two of the standing stones. Rough-cut steps descend into darkness beneath the mound of earth.
    The musty smell of dirt and decay turns my stomach queasy. A narrow stone-floored passage leads down and back into a large room. The flickering torchlight shows skulls on ledges around the walls. Bones are piled in stacks on the rough floor. There is a wide ledge at seat height against one wall.
    She holds the torch high to survey the room. “Not very cheerful, this.”
    I try to answer but have to gulp and get a deep breath before I can force words out. “No. I’ve never been in a barrow before, but it’s better than that cage.”
    “Aye. Belert and Cara stopped the sacrifices in the Oak Grove years ago. With Cara…” She stops and stares at me with a strange, sorrowful expression. She takes a deep breath and begins again. “With Cara gone and Belert’s authority weakened, Ogern has begun them again.”
    “I’ve heard stories about the groves,” I say, “and I didn’t want to find out if they were true.”
    “You hold the new faith, don’t you? Moren