by A. S. Etaski
I made a face at them. That sounded like Gavin.
“High praise, indeed,” I grumbled, fumbling for the empty sheath at my side, unsure how we would get the wild dagger back in. “So… we look for bountiful ground. How do we call you, mercenary?”
He paused as if to think, to choose something. “Quell’dalik.”
I blinked. “That’s not a name, half-blood.”
“Isn’t it?” Gavin asked, plainly curious.
“No,” I said irritably. “It means ‘house son.’ An abandoned or orphaned bua. Unbelievable that this one would be overlooked by his mother, and I will not call him ‘unclaimed boy.’”
Gavin tilted his head. “Ah. The rough equivalent in Trade would be ‘bastard’.”
The merc chuckled with a subtle cynicism to it, laying me down on my side and gently scooting my one guardian off his forearm. She went willingly.
“Hm. I shall think on a better name. For now, may I have the sheath?” He pointed an ivory-white talon at my belt.
“No!” I barked, instantly regretting that as my head swam. “Uhh… G-Gavin may.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know you, while he…” I glanced at him. “Gavin has made an oath to walk again. It is so strong, the dagger will not challenge it. I have witnessed it.”
If Gavin was irritated at my sharing something private about him in exchange for the “relevancy” of my pregnancy, he didn’t show it but simply set Kurn’s sword aside and got to his feet.
“Hm, very well, Deathwalker. Let me show you what to do.”
After helping Gavin detach the relic’s sheath from my belt, I lay on my back, my spiders settled on my chest protecting me and the ruby. I could only turn my head to watch, disgusted with myself as neither drive nor strength tempted me to try again to sit.
The two males approached Soul Drinker with as much caution as one might a sleeping bear in the woods. The big mercenary could have blocked my view by standing with his back turned, but he moved to the far side, facing me, and allowing me to see what they were doing.
Gavin held the red rune sheath in one hand, positioning himself so he was aligned with the point of the dagger; he held the flint shard he’d created inside the shed at Brom’s Inn in his other hand. Having something tangible that he had consecrated himself in the name of his Lady would protect his will, I did not doubt.
Idly, I wondered whether Jacob’s claim that Gavin was “ordained” made any sense. It would make him like a Priestess, wouldn’t it? Except he rejected it.
“This is no mark of a cleric, fool,” he said.
Meanwhile, the half-blood withdrew a small, matte black rod from his harness and gave the uncomely man a nod, confirming they were each ready before releasing his spell with care. I flinched at the swell of the relic’s aura as the circle of silver and salt was broken, and the blade jerked to point toward me.
Neither spoke as the bigger male used that rod to press the dagger to the ground, stopping its willful spinning. Gavin wasted no time fitting the tip into the scabbard and, together, they pushed the two pieces together. I imagined Soul Drinker screaming in defiance the whole time and wondered if they heard anything at all. If so, it wasn’t apparent.
The mercenary retrieved from beneath his cloak a thick leather wrap with extra threads for binding. Soon enough, the relic was rolled and cinched up tight, and Gavin took possession of it, not the merc.
It was out of my sight. Still and quiet.
…I’m so hungry.
Mortified, I could not stop tears from flooding my eyes and dripping down my temples into my hair. My throat ached from holding in sound. How had it become so destructive, so fast?
*The Ridhian you kept shall add to our power.*
As opposed to the blue stone that I’d tossed away in an impulsive bargain. That was when my will had eroded. When I couldn’t think and it began getting bad, like Jilrina had hold of me again.
The vivid memory seized me, the image of an aggravating, stubborn wizard running out of the Headmaster’s Tower to give me something. He’d showed no fear of the massive Drider constructs which kept most other buas from leaving the place. Shyntre…
Regret and renewed fear followed on its heels, for I still could not trade the gems, red for blue. I did not know why he wanted it, how he might use it…
Large, bare feet came beside me. I was granted a remarkably close look at the dirt-tipped talons and real texture of his skin. Scales, like a lizard or a snake. It explained his tongue.
What have the Priestesses fucked this time?
The half-blood kneeled, his tail instinctively providing balance, and slowly gathered me up to lift me and my guardians off the ground. He noticed my damp cheeks and hairline.
“Does anything hurt as I lift you?” he asked.
Yeah. Lots.
I shook my head. “I am…just need food.”
“Ah.”
“Let us return to the road,” Gavin agreed.
He turned around on a long stride easily matched by the hybrid. The pace was not leisurely as we retraced our path through the forest. The Deathwalker did not grow winded while the large bua carrying me possessed obvious and impressive endurance.
If I hadn’t felt small and useless enough until then, the embarrassment and resentment grew as we passed the scuffed circle and piles and piles of ash where we’d faced hundreds of cannibals.
“Can someone pull up my hood?” I griped.
The merc’s hands were full, so Gavin turned around and tugged it up for me. It was as great a relief as Soul Drinker not baiting in my ear.
I’d drifted off within in the shade of my cloak, cradled against a warm body and listening to deep, regular breath and the naked pads of bestial feet trekking on solid ground. When the breath changed and the footsteps halted, I snapped awake in shock at having fallen asleep so soon after “fainting.”
Not good.
“Where?” I whispered with habitual underground caution.
“Where you left the horses,” he answered.
I sniffed and peeked out from under the hem of my hood. It was far too quiet for there to be any animals left besides Gavin’s worn and rotting mare, but there she stood, alone and untethered, the spade and saddlebags strapped to her rump. Her death mage approached to circle her, inspecting.
“Any food in the bags?” the mercenary prompted, not entering the small clearing yet, though I didn’t know why.
Gavin glanced our way and left off his study of the risen mount to check inside one of them. I was certain it was empty, watching him feel around with one long-fingered hand, then he moved to the other side to search the second.
“Rithal left half.” Gavin pulled out several small wrappings from inside.
I exhaled. Better than nothing.
The mercenary cautiously left the brush and set me down to lean against the nearest tree to the mare. As he began investigating the area, I spotted innumerable hoofprints and several tethers which had been either sawed or chewed through. I wondered if Amelda and Mathias obtained their mounts to escape after running on foot, or if the horses had gone mad and left before they returned.
Either way, wouldn’t Rithal have overtaken them on Gavin’s mare and reached his pony first?
I didn’t see the remains of one tether, implying the Dwarf had untied it and taken it with him. If he deliberately left half the food, then the skin hunter and Ma’ab mage could have seen Gavin’s mount after Rithal left. I didn’t know if either would touch her, or mess with anything in the bags. They hadn’t taken the shovel.
My head pounded thinking this through.
“Can you… check the food?” I asked, light-headed and unable to hide it. “The Ma’ab may have… been here after Rithal left.”
His tail swished along the ground. He was somewhere near Gavin.
“I can detect and recognize many poisons and toxins, Baenar. I offer to check all your food as you regain s
trength if you like.”
“Wise to accept,” my Human ally weighed in. “One naturally spoiled meal might be all it takes to miscarry.”
I made a face within my hood. “Thank you, Gavin.”
Their feet were pointed toward me. They were waiting for an answer.
I sighed, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass. “Yes, help me check the food before I eat it.”
I peeked up again, squinting in the painful morning. I remained dizzy and unsure I could stay upright even with the tree propping me up, but at least I saw the mercenary unwrapping the rations taken from Troshin Bend and…
Licking them?
No, his forked tongue didn’t touch it that I could tell. As with my saphgar when I’d thrown it to him in payment, he flicked his tongue in the air around the food. Was that all it took for him to tell if something was safe to eat?
He wrapped up all but one and returned them to the saddlebag. “They are unfouled.”
So easy.
He brought one and crouched in front of me, breaking off a small piece and handing it out. I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Eat that slowly, first,” he said. “If you keep it down, we shall repeat.”
He liked being in control, for certain. And if he claimed no name from his mother’s culture…
What is a Baenar?
I took the pressed travel bar of nuts, fruit, and fat and bit off a small piece, grinding it between my teeth, taken at once by twin impulses to ravenously shove the rest into my mouth and spit it out immediately. It took intense concentration to swallow it and try another bite. Gavin handed me a waterskin from his mount, guessing my mouth was too dry to chew, and I was annoyed how heavy it seemed when I lifted it to drink.
I hate this…
The two males said nothing as I gradually fed and watered myself, for which I was glad. I kept it slow to prove I wouldn’t lose what I had, sipping water constantly, as my appetite gradually awoke over the illness. It took time, but after circling the area, the half-blood seemed convinced there was no urgent reason to leave.
“So,” I said when he’d come closer. “A name?”
He turned to me. “What is yours?”
“I am certain you’ve heard Gavin say it.”
He smirked. “We haven’t been formally introduced.”
“You care about formality?”
“When conducting business, always.”
I rubbed my face, which had greater feeling than earlier. The talisman to guide the mare lay beneath my glove within my sweaty palm. I sipped again, looking up from beneath my hood to hold focus on his face as I answered.
“I am Sirana of Vloszia Dalnanin. Formerly of Thalluen Qu’ellar. And you?”
He tilted his head curiously at “former.” He wanted to ask but didn’t evade the simplest question this time. “I am Morixxyleth.”
I blinked at the precision of his tone and the air moving around his non-Elf tongue. This was not a Davrin name. Was it demonic? No, no. True demonic names could be used to bind and control demonbloods, I knew this much.
Then again, hadn’t Soul Drinker been shouting something like that?
Do not bargain with him. His words are binding. …I know his kind.
“What origin of name is this?” Gavin asked. “Or what language?”
His curiosity had outpaced mine, unanchored by wariness. I needed only to wait as the mercenary acknowledged the question.
“It is To’vah.”
“I do not know this word,” Gavin said simply.
Granting a nod, the hybrid glanced at me. “Do you know ‘Dragon’?”
My Deathwalker and I stilled with surprise.
“Tagni’zurenor?” I clarified, flatly disbelieving.
Not the Black Dragon?
The hybrid for once showed me his fangs in a dark-faced smile. “Melthra’vlos.”
That strange accent again, but it was Davrin. He was not claiming the Dragon’s title nor being full grown. He was a young Dragon’s blood.
Fucking Goddess…
This time, Gavin simply waited on my response. It took time to grapple for one.
“A spider cleric below mated with the under Dragon?”
His body language conveyed he didn’t like that assumption. “She wasn’t a cleric at all.”
“She was someone in Sivaraus?” I asked blatantly, tumbling into my native tongue. “Or the Fringe? The Deep Traders?”
He enjoyed his next answer in Trade. “None of those.”
I was taken by a bout of dizziness, reminding me to sip water, but I had no food to nibble. The half-blood noticed and broke off another piece of rations, stepping forward to hand it out to me.
I took it. “Then where are you from, Mori…ahm…?”
“Morixxyleth,” he repeated.
With as many subtleties that crossed my ears, I knew I would butcher it each time.
“From Vuthra’turn.”
Uh-oh.
Gavin watched me carefully while I froze, and the mercenary’s soft exhale somehow conveyed amusement.
“I’ve not heard of Vuthra’turn,” I said.
“I know. That is deliberate.”
“Deliberate for whom?”
The hybrid straightened up. “Your Valsharess, I am sure. Also, the Priestesses of Braqth who run the city.”
Gavin showed his annoyance when the mercenary slipped into Davrin again. I could feel only cold shock in my center.
Another… another Davrin Elf city in the Deepearth?
Well, why not? I hadn’t known about V’Gedra and the Desert until I fell into Cris-ri-phon’s dreams, unprepared, and straight into a trap.
“There… is a second city of Dark Elves underground?” I repeated for Gavin’s benefit, and his shoulders lowered.
The larger male grunted. “Assuming it has not disintegrated since I left.”
“How long since you left?”
He paused, his golden eyes narrowing in thought. “Four hundred-forty years.”
Gavin and I didn’t speak. I imagined the Deathwalker, despite what he’d witnessed while dead, could not imagine this time passing or count so precisely.
Neither could I, in truth. Anyone back home would have waved at the question with their hand and a vague “mid-four hundreds” or “not yet five centuries” answer. No wonder he was so practiced with his weapons and spells. A valuable mercenary, indeed.
He’s older than Jaunda.
Maybe closer to my Elders, depending on his age when he left the underground. Like Kerse but without his Priestess chains. Either was unsettling, but I had so few older male Elves to which to liken this.
Why was he following me? Or had it been Kurn, and I was in his way?
I’d finished the next bit of food without realizing it, and Morixxyleth handed me the last of that first ration before I’d thought to look at it.
“Good sign,” he said. “Keep eating and sipping water. If you need reverie before riding, we can afford to wait.”
I did feel drowsy, but I did not want to miss any information shared between Gavin and the merc while I slept. I didn’t know what else the death mage might count as “relevant.”
“N-no,” I managed. “I would like some help onto the horse, but please leave now for greater bounty.”
“Mm. Very well.”
My spiders had repositioned at my nape, the ruby hanging from my neck as I lay forward atop Gavin’s mare. We headed North over a vague path that once might have been a road. I couldn’t sit up for long, and there was enough length to the animal for me to settle down instead. My hood was up but I resisted donning the sun blind despite the discomfort as the Sun strengthened in the sky.
Gavin had taken the lead, walking in front of his mount and me so I didn’t have to concentrate on the talisman. The half-Dragon walked on the left side, his large hand reaching out to steady me whenever the ground tilted enough that I could slide off if I weren’t
paying attention.
Which happened too often for my liking.
A dry hum from the merc, possibly a chuckle.
“What?” I asked. Are you laughing at me?
“This is the first and only walking horse who will tolerate me so close,” he said.
My irritation eased. “You have never ridden one?”
“No. They catch one whiff of me and often panic. Remaining aware of the wind shifts is critical to following any mark on horseback.”
It was a perfect opening. I drew breath to speak.
“She has no mind to tolerate you,” my scholar pointed out.
“Yes, why it is funny,” the bestial male replied.
I buried my eyes in the dark, ratty mane. Damnit, Gavin!
“I have often said I can only get close to a horse that is dead. This is still true, but I’ve not walked beside one before now.”
“Often said to whom?”
I cracked an eye open. That was a good question.
The merc noticed and easily turned it aside with a shrug.
Fine.
“Who was your ‘mark’?” I asked bluntly.
“Why do you ask?”
My fast-emptying stomach tightened. “Because you interfered in my challenges with Kurn at least twice yet pulled your strike and did not kill him yourself. In doing so, you left me vulnerable to men wanting to enslave me, which I did not understand until it was almost too late. Now, you position yourself to ‘tend’ me when I am too weak to refuse. Was that your purpose all along, motherless one?”
The large male glanced at me. “You are from Sivaraus for certain.”
Helpless fury swept through me. “Do not belittle me, bua! Soul Drinker is in my possession because of that very chain of events! You and Gavin both suggest the dagger wanted to starve me to expel my baby, and I mourn that you are right, and now I am responsible for what it does next because I stole it from the Sorcerer-General in the first place!”
“Wait,” he said, lifting a clawed finger. “Sorcerer-General?”
“The Deathless,” Gavin replied, calmly leading the horse to keep us moving. “Also the innkeeper and governor of Troshin Bend up until a few nights ago.” A shrug. “Or perhaps he remains so. My understanding is Sirana did not kill his body but left it bleeding after stabbing him with his own relic.”