Once again, Illtud’s laughter rang out. It doesn’t matter. Abizou will destroy all of you.
As soon as Orin heard this, shards of ice appeared above his daughter’s head, and the fireball, which was now the size of a full-grown mammoth, spread over the shrinking blue shield. Outside the clearing, a tree blackened and fell into the woods, cracking and snapping on its way down.
A shard of ice shot at Orin. He sidestepped it, but its impact with the earth threw him into the air, knocking him onto his backside. “Samara, please stop. Baby girl, you don’t want to do this.”
Another shard shot at him. This time, he rolled forward out of its path. “I’m trying,” she shouted. Coming out of his roll, Orin leaped and reached out for her again.
Once more, he was stopped just short of grabbing her, only this time he floated in the air next to her, just out of grasp. He reached out with his sword and tried to cut the choker from the back of her neck, but some force curved his blade away and caused him to orbit her instead. He glided around her until their eyes met.
He heard Illtud chuckle in his mind, then his daughter mouthed through her sobs, “I’m sorry.” Pain shot through him as his head started pulling away from his neck.
He screamed, his eyes shut tight as he fought against the invisible force ripping him apart. “Please, Samara. I love you,” he shouted over the pain.
“Daddy, I’m sorry,” she screamed. Then everything stopped. Orin felt a liquid splash across his face just before he fell to the earth and landed on his knees. Opening his eyes, he saw the braided hair choker, severed near the clasp, lying in front of him on the ground. She was free! Smiling, he lifted his head to look at her; then, a sickening horror dragged his stomach into a deep pit of despair. His mouth dropped into a silent scream.
Before him lay his daughter, holding herself off the ground with one hand, the other clasping an elven arrow that stuck out of her throat. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and her mouth hung open. Panting, unable to take a full breath, tears running down his face, Orin reached out for his little girl.
He pulled her into his arms. “Samara,” he hiccupped through his sobs. “Baby, no. Please no.”
Samara tried to say something, but blood gushed out of her mouth instead. The priestess, he thought, and turned to look, but she lay unmoving on the ground with Zayra sitting next to her, breathing heavily and staring at him through her own tears.
“Wake her!” he pleaded. “She can save my baby again.”
Zayra glanced at Priestess Samara and shook her head. “I’m sorry. She used all her energy defending herself. She’s near death.”
“What about you?” he sobbed. “Please, do something.”
“I’m not a healer,” Zayra said. “I don’t know how.”
He dropped his gaze to his daughter again and saw that she was smiling up at him. Then he heard a mental scream of anguish from the disembodied voice.
Not far from where he sat, Orin spotted the knife he had made for his daughter. The gem was glowing a sickly yellow. Then the light lifted away from the gem and dissipated into the night sky, accompanied by a shouted “Stop!” that faded with the light.
Samara reached for the blade, and Orin brought it to her hands. She clasped it tightly to her chest, the pommel under her chin.
The Havallan child and the woman who had been trapped in a golden net came forward. “Badr,” the child cried, looking toward the dark man holding the elf tightly captive. “You can heal her.”
Badr glanced toward Orin and his daughter uncertainly, then back at Armein. Watching the standoff, Orin knew that Armein would act as soon as Badr released his companion. “Let him come here, or I’ll kill you!” he shouted.
Feeling a gentle pat on his forearm, he looked down on his girl. She still smiled, but she was crying and shaking her head. No more fighting, Daddy, he heard her voice say in his head.
The Havallan child let out a horrible sob and fell to his knees next to Orin. The woman came and put her arms around him. She was crying as well.
Samara reached out to the child and took his hand, then a faint violet light seeped into the gem on the knife. Samara looked up at Orin and stopped breathing, the light fading from her midnight eyes. Orin shouted into the night, “No, Samara. No!”
Nikolai walked forward, carrying his elven bow, tears glistening on his face. “Orin, I’m . . .” He gulped back a sob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see any other way.”
The realization of what Nikolai meant hit Orin with horror. He couldn’t believe what his nephew was saying. Nikolai had let loose the arrow. “No.” Orin shook his head. “No. Not my baby.”
Then the anger came, but it wasn’t the explosive anger that had plagued him over the past months. This was cold and full of hatred. He wanted to get up and tear his nephew apart, but his daughter’s last words remained in his head. “Leave me!” he said, instead.
“Orin, please,” the young man stammered.
“LEAVE!” he shouted. The people around him started, but they stayed close.
Eyes cast to the ground, Nikolai walked over to Zayra, who reached out for him and pulled herself up with his support. She sang to Armein in their language.
Armein turned away from her, disgust clearly written on his face. To the man the child had called Badr, he said in Havallan, “Illtud is gone. Abizou is also gone. We’re done fighting and we’re leaving. Keep this filth here with you; she’s not welcome among elves,” nodding toward Zayra.
“Armein?” Zayra said, shocked by his remarks. Without another word, Armein turned and left. Zayra stared after him, slack-jawed. “Armein!” she shouted again, and in response, Nikolai squeezed her shoulders.
Very carefully, the dark man removed his sword from his captive’s throat. Then, untangling his fingers from the elf’s hair, he stepped back, sword at the ready. The elf glared at him with disgust, but she and her companion followed Armein.
“Zeborn . . . Fraeara?” Zayra called after them. Just before disappearing into the woods, Zeborn turned back to her, pity reflected on his face, and shook his head. Then he, too, turned to leave. Zayra wailed and buried her face into Nikolai’s neck, embracing him for comfort.
Orin watched all this distantly, his thoughts blocked by the pain in his heart. Rocking the body of his little girl, he cried silently.
Badr rushed over and examined little Samara, then placed a hand on Orin’s shoulder and said what the girl’s father already knew. “It’s too late. She’s gone.”
Epilogue
Hours had passed, and Orin found himself building another funeral pyre, only this time, he didn’t work alone. Nikolai and Zayra had left, which he was glad of. He felt that if he ever saw the boy again, he would kill him.
The others, however—Badr, Varisha, and the child, Omar—had stayed and helped him erect the funeral pyre. Priestess Samara had also stayed, but she could barely move after her struggles.
Orin was grateful for their company. His daughter’s voice haunted him, and their stories of how they had come upon Samara and of her short time with them were a welcome distraction from his pain.
He swung his axe and chopped through a log as big as his bicep. He tossed the piece over to Badr, who began stripping it of its branches. Orin took a deep breath and gazed to the east, pausing briefly from his labor. This would be the last log they needed before they placed Samara on the pyre and said their final farewells.
I’ll always be with you, Daddy. He shook his head, gulping back tears, and stared up at the sky. The first rays of the sun peeked over the mountains. Is it beautiful?
“Yes, it is, baby girl,” Orin said under his breath. Then his sorrow took over, and he cried into his hands. A gentle touch drew his attention. Badr stood next to him, patting his back. Unable to control himself, Orin sobbed. Clenching his fists, he said, “I keep hearing her.”
Badr’s eyes teared up as well. “I can’t imagine your loss,” he said, and put his arm around Orin’s shoulder. Grateful for the support,
Orin cried some more. After some time passed, Badr released him and said, “Come, it’s ready.”
Orin wiped the pain from his face and walked over to his daughter. She lay on the ground, looking peaceful in death, still clutching the knife to her chest. Next to her sat Priestess Samara, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She looked weak, her eyes sunken and her normally vibrant olive skin now a deathly pallor.
She waved Orin closer, and in a hoarse whisper, she said, “Orin, please forgive me for not being able to help.”
Shaking his head, he said, “There’s nothing to forgive. You would have helped if you could have.”
She smiled, “Thank you, my friend.” Then she bent forward in a coughing fit. When she finished, she leaned against the tree, gasping for breath. Orin looked at her, concerned. “I’ll be fine . . .” She paused, then smiled again. “Eventually. If it hadn’t been for Zayra, the exertion would have killed me.”
Orin patted her shoulder, then turned to his daughter and lifted her up. Slowly—reverently—he carried her to the pyre and laid her body on top. He bent over and kissed his daughter’s forehead for the last time, then took two steps back.
Behind the pyre, the earth fell off into the largest body of water that he had ever seen, and he could hear the water crashing against the cliff below. Sweeping his brown eyes over the vast ocean, he could see the elven ship, a speck on the horizon, barely visible in the growing light. It sailed to the ends of the earth, and bitterly, he hoped it would fall off.
Behind him, he heard the crackling of fire, and he turned to see Omar bringing him a burning stick. He took it, smiling at the boy. Varisha asked, “Will you go back to your people after this?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t belong with them anymore.”
“You’re welcome to come with us,” Badr’s deep voice said from the other side of him.
“You can tell us more about Samara,” said Omar.
Orin smiled at the boy and fresh tears threatened to surface. It’s time, Father.
“Yes,” Orin said, then whispered, “It’s time.” Stepping toward the pyre with the burning stick, he knelt in front of his daughter. Before he could light the pyre, however, it burst into flames, and he scrambled backward. A bright blue-and-white torrent twisted into the sky, so bright and hot that everyone had to back away from it and shield their eyes.
When the flames died down, Orin dared to peek at the pyre. The wood was completely burnt away, a pile of ash at the feet of a child-sized skeleton. It stood there, motionless, clutching the undamaged kukri in one hand.
It turned its head to survey its surroundings, then settled its gaze back onto Orin. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he felt awed. “Father,” the skeleton said through an unmoving jaw. It sounded like Samara, but as though she spoke through a tunnel.
Slowly, she took a couple of steps toward them. Glancing at the others, Orin noted similar expressions of fear and awe on their faces. A yellow halo surrounded the bones, then a strange liquid muscle flowed around the skeleton, followed by flesh.
Before them, Samara, standing upright and regal, said, “I am Abizou!”
Her words meant little to Orin. All that mattered to him was that his darling little girl, by some miracle, now stood before him. Grief washed away in waves of elation, and he leaped up and gathered his daughter into his arms. “Samara! My baby, oh, thank the spirits,” he cried.
Smiling, she returned his hug. “Yes,” she said. “I am also Samara.”
*****
When Orin finally released her, Omar was next, then Varisha and Badr. They cried and doted on her, and Abizou allowed them their joy. For she remembered everything. Her time as Samara was fresh and impressionable, and she loved these people who had cared for her, and she still mourned the loss of her human mother.
But her memory went far back. She remembered Priestess Samara and Emperor Khalil and all their lineage, and that she had loved them as well. After all, she had watched them grow up.
Further back than that, she remembered being the queen of the Malaikah, and the adoration and the love she had received from her subjects. How peaceful and wonderful her reign had been.
Then her eyes darkened, for she also remembered how that had all ended when the mage Abdhul Havelle had tricked and captured her, tearing her from her kingdom.
“Samara, what is it?” Orin asked her.
She smiled and walked past him, to the weakened priestess still resting against a tree. “Abizou?” the priestess asked.
“Yes, Samara,” Abizou said. Then she placed her hands on the older woman, and the priestess’s color returned. Priestess Samara sat up, amazed by her recovery. “Thank you, Abizou.”
Abizou said, “I know it’s confusing, but I prefer to be called Samara now.”
The priestess stood and nodded. “Will you be returning to us now that you remember who you are?”
Little Samara smirked and said, “Eventually.” Then the child’s smirk turned to a frown. “Tell Lord Havelle, not your father but your greatest of grandfathers, that I will return to thank him for the thousands of years of hospitality that he bestowed upon me.”
Abizou turned from the priestess and went back to her human father. Taking Orin’s hand and urging him toward the Khaliji, she said, “Come, Father, let’s go home.”
EXCERPT OF LAVENDER ROSE, THE NEXT BOOK IN THE DUFONTE CHONICLES
“Daaammmmian,” a honeyed voice rang out from his apartment. “Please refrain from killing my men. I have no intentions of harming you.” The Syndicate obviously wanted him alive. Ignoring the voice, Damian used his free hand to quietly open the window at the end of the hall. “Really, Damian, I just have a job for you. There’s no need for violence,” said the man.
Instead of entering through the open window, Damian moved to the closest apartment door. “I don’t work for the Syndicate anymore!” he shouted and shot down the hall, masking the sound of his boot kicking the door open. The door bounced, eliciting a scream from behind the door.
Slipping in quickly and quietly, gun first, Damian noted an obese naked and tattooed man stumbling back from the door, swearing about a broken nose. The man’s belly bounced as he landed heavily on his rear. Damian pointed his gun at the man. “Shut up,” he said, his voice cold and deadly. He quickly shut the door behind him. The apartment’s layout looked like a mirror image of his own. The likeness ended there. This man’s slovenly messes littered every room. A terrible stench wafted out of the kitchen, and in the bedroom, a woman hid her nakedness behind cheap blankets. Damian pointed the gun at the woman and repeated, “Shut up, now!”
The man nodded enthusiastically, encouraging her to capitulate. His eyes were wide with shock and fear, and blood stained his unruly beard. Damian returned his aim to the man.
After determining that they had acquiesced, Damian turned his body to the side, enabling him to peek out of the spy hole in the door while still keeping the pistol trained on the obedient man behind him. He heard the group out in the hall talking amongst themselves in Japanese. “He must have gone out of the window,” one said. Then the honeyed voice spoke again. “Follow him; don’t lose him.”
If you enjoyed this excerpt, stay tuned for more in Michael C. Sahd’s upcoming novel, Lavender Rose (The DuFonte Chronicles, Book 2).
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, and above all else, I would like to thank my wife, Laura, who took time out of her own professional editing career to attend to my scribbles. She pushed me to get published, and without her, my stories would hide under piles of gray matter, never seeing the light of day. This book in particular she pushed for an August release, and worked really hard on it despite everything else that needed to get done this summer.
Next I would like to thank James Pruett, J.C. Pruett, Mary Pruett, and Darovin Showalter for beta reading The Unfettered Child and for providing invaluable feedback in an incredibly short amount of time. James practically stayed up all night so that he could give
us his feedback the next day.
A few other beta readers deserve a mention as well. Although Matthew Hull didn't finish the novel in time, he gave us feedback while he read until he was out of time. I would also like to thank Phillip Lumsden and Deidra Bagley Myers, who continued to read even though they both suffered some personal hardships that wrenched them away from the story.
In addition, although I primarily designed and created the cover art myself, I would like to thank some people for their invaluable contribution. Celeste, my daughter, allowed me to use her as a model for Samara. Her image can be found on the cover and on several advertisements on the web. Jarrod Woods at JRW Pictures provided the photography of my daughter, and he also beta read the book and gave me feedback. Dennis Swain spent hours cursing me, sometimes throughout the night, while he slaved away on the costume that Celeste wore.
When I started the art for the cover, I posted it to Twitter, and three artists immediately began giving me pointers on how to fix it. This started with @ZenFuryBuddha, who then linked me with @GDNaturedVLLN and @SaraGSpaceNerd. If it wasn't for these three, I wouldn't have realized my lighting was off. Then, for the final touches, @UponADayDreamer provided instructions on how to fix the lighting and overall design of the book, allowing me to come up with the amazing image of Samara drawing lightning out of the sky.
Finally, I want to thank all the amazing ARC reviewers who rated my book before publication. Some of them handed me insights that helped me sculpt the final version of the book.
Thank you to everyone who helped, without whom, this novel would not be what it is.
- Michael C. Sahd
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael C. Sahd grew up in Santa Fe, New Mexico. From a young age, he read voraciously, particularly in the fields of fantasy and science fiction. Shortly after becoming a teenager, he learned to play and enjoy fantasy games such as Dungeons and Dragons. At around the same time, he began writing stories and D&D campaigns of his own.
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