War Against the Realm

by Sherri Beth Mitchell

  “I was so close! I’ve been hunting the little bastard for years and finally had him cornered!” he cried out, struggling against the prince. “Let me go!”

  “Get the queen out of here!” Dalton yelled to Hans.

  As Hans pulled the Lystian’s leader from the tent, Lord Cambry and General George rushed inside. Standing up shakily, Silvia looked at Hans with teary eyes that would have melted ice.

  “What happened, Hans? What’s happened to him?”

  “I-I don’t know milady,” he stuttered. He tore off his shirt and pressed it to her side. “Keep pressure on this, Queen Silvia.” He took her hand to help him press upon the wound, which was leaking a good bit of blood.

  A shrill bark rent the night air and Dalton cried out. A red blur ran out of the tent flap, hesitated a moment, and then ran straight at Silvia. At the last moment it jumped.

  As she fell backwards trying to get away, the red fox stopped in midair, struggling and snarling inches from her face. The prince came crashing out of the tent with a bloodied hand, followed closely by Cambry and George, and something odd began to happen.

  Keelan’s fox form rose into the air, and as it did he began to cease struggling; his eyes became less wild and haunted. His body continued to rise and it looked as if he was falling asleep. Tiny sparkles appeared on his red coat, glinting in the starlight which painted the night sky. As everyone gazed on, more and more sparkles began to appear. The sparkles began to take on the shape of hands, and then arms, followed by a glittering body mass. Keelan’s eyes closed slowly, and he went limp in the arms of the one who now held him.

  Silvia’s eyes filled with gratitude as she realized what had happened. “Thank you, Lord Firayis.”

  The surrounding part of the encampment instantly took to their knees in reverence of the God of Dreams. Duke Byarne came walking up to the scene, saw everyone genuflecting, and followed suite, wondering what had occurred.

  The god finished forming and became solid; his expression was a somber one.

  Lord Cambry glanced over at Silvia and saw her wound turning Hans’ shirt red. He hurried over to her to see how bad it was. He lifted the cloth and grimaced at what he saw. “It’s deep, and bleeding badly. We need to get it cleaned and stitched up, milady.”

  “You are a Healer,” Firayis said in a wispy voice.

  “No, unfortunately I cannot claim that title,” Cambry said. “I only know a few things that may help when people are injured, but that is the extent of what I can do.”

  The god nodded and shifted Keelan’s fox form as though he were holding a sleeping baby. “Whether or not you want to admit it, you have healing powers within you. With your help she will live, kind mortal. I will keep the king resting for now.”

  He ambled off slowly and took a seat on the very rock Keelan had been balanced upon just a few hours before.

  Cambry shook his head and looked at Silvia. “You truly are a bringer of the gods, my Queen.”

  Dalton was at her side in a rapid flash of motion, picking her up in his arms and rushing her off to his tent with Cambry hot on his heels. Inside, the prince laid her down on blankets of goose feathers and removed his knife from its sheath. Cambry watched him intently as Dalton cut open her dress and pulled it apart to better see the injury.

  Hans burst into the tent, still jolted by the series of events. His pitiful gaze went to his master, and then a light came into his eyes.

  “Lord Cambry, you healed her husband when his injuries were much more severe. Can you do the same with her?”

  Cambry sighed and reached into a pouch that was tied to his weapons belt. “If the leaves are not too dry, they may work. But understand that I’ve been carrying them for weeks now. Their potency will not be as high.” He glanced up at Dalton. “Do you have any stout drinks with you, by chance?”

  Dalton grinned wolfishly. “If only you knew.” He darted off and uncovered a small box of bottles. “What’s your poison?”

  “She’ll need the strongest you have, and I need some sort of bowl.”

  Dalton sifted the bottles around, picking up several to look at their labels. “Ah, this is the one.” He hurried back over to Cambry and handed him the bottle. “A visiting king had a whole keg that he sold to my parents for a small fortune. This is all that’s left—and that’s only because I stole it.” He fished around until he found a small bowl and handed it over as well.

  Cambry popped the cork piece out of the neck of the bottle. “Silvia, I’m going to need you to drink a good helping of this…you’ll need it.”

  She nodded her head in agreement and reached for the bottle. Holding it to her lips, she took several long gulps. The liquor was like fire going down her throat and she began coughing, crying out when the motion aggravated her wound.

  Cambry took out his remaining leaves, and said a short prayer to the Goddess of Healing. “Please let this work.”

  He soaked the leaves in the alcohol as he muttered strong magic words—the only magic he knew was through the tiny bouts of healing he’d performed over the years; it was a trait his great uncle had started to pass down before he had unexpectedly went to the Underworld. Once the leaves were completely saturated with the drink, he scooped them up and stuck them inside the sword wound. Silvia screamed at the top of her lungs as pain shot through her entire body. Cambry held her down by keeping pressure on top of the leaves on her wound, making sure what little magic he had was going straight into her body. She writhed beneath him, crying out again. Dalton took her hands in his and squeezed them, soothing her with low words that Cambry couldn’t hear. Perspiration covered the queen’s face, and a few moments later she lay still.

  “She’s fainted,” Cambry said. “It is probably for the best.”

  Chapter Fourteen: Body Pacts

  The first thing she noticed was the intense heat. It enveloped her like a cocoon in the well-lit room.

  She looked around, finding herself in the middle of a subterranean cavern whose ceilings were well beyond her sight. Despite the heat, there was a roaring fire with logs in it burning along one side of the room. Astonishingly, it did not seem to be the bearer of the ungodly heat in the room; if she hadn’t known any better she would have said that the fire was for decoration. A thick mantelpiece rested above the fire, adorned with all manner of strange masks. Many were even hung on the stone wall that stretched up to the ceiling, dangling from thick iron pins. As her eyes lowered, the flames seemed to take on shapes, dancing before her atop the logs. One even seemed to reach a thin arm out to her, tendrils flames flaring up at the fingertips.

  She turned away from the fireplace to discover the rest of the room. Jutting out of the wall a ways over to the left of the fire was a huge mass of stone that was waist-high to her, with two ornately carved stone slabs on each side. The top of the massive rock had been hollowed out about half a foot and was filled in with the plushest bedspreads and pillows she’d ever laid eyes upon. Albeit incredibly inviting, she denied the urge to see how soft the blankets were on the stone bed.

  Her gaze kept going to the left, where she saw a long maroon-colored couch along the wall; in front of it sat a low table with claws at the end of the legs and chairs and stools that matched the couch. A lofty archway opened up next leading into darkness so black that nothing was discernible. After the doorway was a smaller archway that led into an antechamber; this was lit with a faint light. Past this was a towering bookcase which expanded over the rest of the wall; the top was lost in the obscure ceilings and every inch of the shelves were taken up with leather-bound books.

  Rude chills swept through her body and as she glanced down at the goose bumps on her arms she saw that she was unclothed, save for a weightless skirt that hung on her hips and had slits on the sides going all the way up. Her feet now stood on a thick bear rug, which she was sure hadn’t been there a few moments ago. The rug was gigantic, and she wondered how massive the beast was before it had been killed. Her hair was no longer in braids, and hung in long
curls to her midsection.

  “Such exquisite curves your body holds.”

  Saris spun to see the God of the Dead directly behind her, bare to the waist. His observatory gaze stroked her from head to her toes, and her skin tingled in response. She made no move to cover her breasts and smiled sensually as Eerich’s eyes rested upon them.

  Her eyes trailed his form also. His body was well-constructed: broad shoulders with muscular arms, and a chest that boasted of strength beneath its quantity of tight red curls.

  “Do you like what you see?” he asked.

  “I think we both know the answer to that,” she said.

  “Are you ready for what lies ahead?”

  Some of her confidence faltered, but she hid it. “I am as ready as I can be.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “One thing you must not do is lie to me, Saris.”

  Saris let out a gust of air nervously. “This isn’t easy for me. I am betraying my blood kin.”

  “She who has betrayed you time and again with the Lystian king,” Eerich growled. “What do you think will happen when she births the baby? She will go crawling to him, and she will give up whatever she has to for him to accept her and the bastard child. Whatever knowledge she holds of you, Clea, and Rohedon’s Realm will be known to all. Is that what you wish?”

  Sulkily, she wobbled her head from side to side.

  “Then you must take action,” he said, walking forward. “Be the tough sister, Saris, and do what is right for you. You’re leading your destiny now. I think it’s time you show it.”

  “My Lord Eerich, I do not know where to begin,” she admitted.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said softly. He ripped off her skirt, shimmied out of his breeches, and pulled her down onto the bear rug so that they were facing each other on their knees. “What your husband realized but never thought through was that every great power that is given to a mortal comes with a great cost that must be paid. The price you will pay will be your sister’s life. There must also, however, be a sacrifice of your blood. Are you willing to shed yours and give your sister’s life so that you may have that which you seek?”

  “Yes.”

  “The life of your sister must be extinguished by your hand only. Do you agree to the bindings of this pact?”

  When she didn’t answer, his fingers touched her face, and dropped down to her cleavage. Here, he dallied as he traced each nipple with his finger.

  Saris let her head loll back in pleasure, and uttered a throaty, “Yes…I agree.”

  Eerich held up his hand and a knife floated down from atop the mantle. He took the knife, looked at her hard, and said, “You first.”

  She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting when he said blood was needed. She knew it was not, however, being laid down and having the knife cut a shallow, but bloody line all the way from her sternum to the tip of her womanhood. Her jaw fell in shock as he also sliced open the palm of each of her hands.

  “Give me your blood out of your own free will, Saris,” Eerich said. He was nearly panting out of lust for her, yet there was an order in which things had to be done.

  Uncertain, she held out her hands to him, palms facing upwards. He clutched them and brought them to his face so that he could lick the blood dripping out of her. Then he lunged forward and let his tongue follow the knife’s path on her chest, and as his tongue touched her she discovered that the cuts were starting to heal from it. He went lower and lower until he had reached the bottom. Once there, he dove into her most private of places. Despite her pain, she dug into his long hair with her bloodied hands to draw him further into her.

  He lifted his head minutes later, bearing a look that nearly made her back away. He seized the knife once more and made deep slices in his chest and on the palms of his hands. As his blood dripped down his body, his eyes shifted colors—settling on an eerie red with yellow tints on the outside rims. Saying nothing he held out his hands to her.

  Saris sat up and grasped his hands, bringing them to her face. Her stomach tried to revolt against the action she was about to take, but she quelled the feeling and drank the blood from his palms. He moaned as she did so, and for a second she almost believed she felt a surge of prickling sensations as her pain left her body. She moved closer and ran her tongue over the lacerations on his chest; this time, she knew that the tingling sensations were not her imagination.

  Grabbing a fistful of her hair, Eerich jerked her head back. “Enough,” he breathed heavily. “We must complete the pact…now.” His body trembled with uncontrollable desire.

  He would wait no longer.

  Saris leaned back, pulling him down on top of her. Her body was crazed with yearning and the sole thought in her mind was that if she did not have him inside her in that instant that she would burst and die.

  The God of the Underworld drove himself into her hard, and she screamed with pain and pleasure. His movements were sure and measured, and meticulously planned so as to make her quickly reach the highest points of ecstasy. As he prepared to finish, he thrust harder. He bellowed as he spent himself, and the entire room shook so violently that Saris was sure the roof of it would collapse upon them.

  “The pact…is sealed,” he gasped.

  She didn’t want to open her eyes. Let it all be a dream, she thought. Let me be at home in the palace taking a midday nap.

  Her eyes flickered and cracked open. She was in a tent that was not her own. She wanted to move, but her instincts told her to take it slowly. As she rolled over onto her back, she whimpered in discomfort.

  “Queen Silvia, you need your rest.”

  Prince Dalton was sitting atop a small folding stool, observing her every move.

  “Where are we, Dalton?”

  “We’re in my tent, Your Highness.”

  Her hands went to her side, where she saw with confusion that a large section of her dress had been cut away, revealing a fair amount of her pale flesh. The skin here was tender and had a peculiar scar upon it. She touched the flesh gingerly, knowing this to be the source of her discomfort.

  “Does it hurt, milady?” asked the prince softly. “I can fetch Cambry or Zander and have them make you a concoction to help you sleep…”

  “No, I am fine, my Lord. It doesn’t hurt, really. It just feels quite odd.”

  “The magic is still working on the inside then, I would assume.”

  They let silence resume in the small area as the sounds of nighttime drifted through the cloth: crickets and frogs singing to the night sky.

  After a while, Silvia inquired, “Did it really happen, Dalton?”

  He moved himself onto the blankets beside her. “You know that it did.”

  She captivated him with sorrowful eyes.

  “You’re going to ask me why he did what he did, and that I am not going to be able to answer,” Dalton said. His long black hair had been taken out of its leather thong, and spilled over his shoulders. He brushed it out of the way absentmindedly. “What I will say is that it will not happen again.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Lord Firayis has him. As far as I know, the king is still sleeping.”

  Silvia slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. “How did we end up like this?” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “I just don’t get any of it. I wish I could understand how Natosha’s powder—Lord Cambry called it drepsam—is affecting Keelan’s perception. This behavior is so unlike him, Dalton.”

  “I can see that.” Dalton handed her the cup he was holding. “Here. It’s more than likely not something you’ll like, but I think you need something to drown out these thoughts.”

  The drink had no smell, so Silvia swigged half of what remained inside it. Directly afterwards her taste buds were running amuck from the aftertaste of the liquor. She coughed and glowered at Dalton, who laughed.

  “I informed you it wouldn’t be to your liking. Give it a few moments for the deridam in it to take effect.”

  Silvia
groaned. “This has deridam in it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Dalton looked surprised. “You didn’t ask. I was just offering you what I had to give.”

  “Damn the Dark Moon…I am so irritable. Forgive me, dear prince.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You have every right to feel as you do, Your Grace.”

  As she handed the cup back to him, Silvia noticed she was wearing jewelry that she didn’t recall putting on: her right hand now donned a beautiful ruby encircled by intricately woven silver on the middle finger. She touched the beautiful stone in wonder.

  “Do you like it?” Dalton asked.