Feray nodded, thinking of the sword that was tucked under the blankets behind the saddle of her own horse. The wonderful leaf-shaped blade that Marc had forged right before the festival. The one she had dropped and been forced to retrieve when Marc was mortally wounded by the earl’s fiendish son. Marc had said it would be Luc’s one day. He had imagined his son as a squire, perhaps even a knight of renown, but she had known what he really looked forward to was teaching his son how to care for the sword. How to wield it and how to keep its edge razor sharp, those were father and son things, the types of things Luc would never experience because of a senseless act of violence.
“Let’s move on,” Feray said. “I’m finished here.”
“Can I ride with Orin?” Luc asked.
Feray nodded, the boy jumped for joy, and Via giggled. Feray let the younger woman bring the horse along and while Orin was busy with Luc, she hurried ahead, down the winding path that led to the stream. When she reached its edge she bent low, dipping her hands in the cool, clear water. The trout swam out to greet her, swimming in circles and splashing the water near the eddy where it lived.
“Goodbye, beautiful trout,” Feray said. “Grow fat and live happy before you’re caught in a fisherman’s net.”
The fish splashed again, and Feray waded through the small stream, just ahead of the horses. She enjoyed taking off her shoes and walking barefoot to feel the power of the earth rising up through the soles of her feet, giving her strength. Her newfound sense of magic made everything new, even the mundane, ordinary things she had once taken for granted. It was impossible not to marvel at the way magic seemed to radiate from everything around her.
She was ready to put the past behind her, especially the pain. The Mountain Veil was visible in the distance. They were days away from the Evergreen Forest and the mountain pass that led to the Wilderness, but she was anxious to return. Floralon held nothing but painful memories for her, but beyond the mountains was a world of magic and wonder, a place she was anxious to return to.
***
Orin directed his horse across the stream and couldn’t help but think about how different his life was since the last time he’d been at the homestead. Over the past few days he’d spent a great deal of time with two women, both beautiful in their own way. Feray was strong, with thick shoulders and thighs, a pretty face, but sad eyes. Via was younger than Orin by a little more than ten years, yet he found her captivating. She had been curious at first, watching him from the shadows while Feray healed the injuries he’d received at the hands of Earl Uthar’s knights. Initially, her fear of Orin was obvious, but over time she had become more comfortable with him, smiling up at him and watching him when she thought he didn’t realize she was doing it.
Via was thin and tall for girl, with long fingers and big, brown eyes. Orin found himself wanting her attention more and more. He had dreamed of her more than once, even though he felt slightly guilty. His bond and his pledge was to Feray, even though she had been clear that theirs was not a romantic relationship. Still, he felt as though his feelings for Via were somehow a betrayal of his pledge to Feray. Perhaps they would all stay together. Perhaps he could have Via as his lover and still protect Feray. Not that she needed him to protect her. He had seen her power and knew she was more than capable of fending off danger.
In the towns and villages they passed, seeing a woman alone might have invited trouble. Orin was certain Feray could handle any situation she might find herself in, yet he didn’t mind that his presence kept the foolish and desperate at bay. Feray had been through more than her share of grief and trouble. She deserved to return to the Wilderness unmolested.
Orin was looking forward to exploring the great land beyond the Mountain Veil. It had been a dream of his to one day find a way across the mountains and into the unknown. Already he had seen beauty the likes of which he had never imagined. Not to mention the great, red dragon. Orin wanted to see the beast again, and others like him. He wanted to see elves and dwarves and fairies, and whatever else lay beyond the mountains. And he was glad that he wasn’t being left behind.
They rode most of the day, and finally made camp just before nightfall. Via saw to the horses while Orin and Luc gathered wood for a fire, which Feray kindled very quickly. She then set to work frying salted pork in a skillet, and then cooking a variety of vegetables in the fat rendered from the pork. They had bread, a crock of butter, some fruit and nuts, as well as fresh greens. It was a fine meal, and the night was warm. The fire burned merrily as Rolo snored softly beside Luc, who was struggling to stay awake but failing.
“I’m going to take a walk,” Feray said.
“Aren’t you tired?” Orin asked.
“Not yet,” the sorceress said, rising gracefully to her feet and wandering out into the darkness.
Orin knew she wasn’t being truthful. She didn’t need to go for a walk, and they were all tired, Feray most of all. She was emotionally and physically tired. She carried the weight of the entire group’s safety and felt responsible for getting them out of Floralon. Yet Orin knew instinctively that she was leaving him alone with Via, perhaps to test his loyalty, he couldn’t be sure. It crossed his mind that the girl was too young for him, even if she were interested in being more than friends.
“Alone again,” she said, moving closer to the man with no hands.
“So it would seem,” Orin said.
“You were quiet last night. I thought we might have spent more time together in the stable.”
“There wasn’t much room,” Orin said. He had used the excuse to avoid being alone with her. The stable had been small and crowded with horseflesh, but his real motivation was fear.
“I don’t take up much room,” she said, looking up at Orin so that the firelight made her eyes sparkle.
“I do,” he said, starting to get up.
“Why do you do that?” Via asked. “Why do you turn away from me? Am I not attractive enough?”
“You are a beautiful girl,” Orin said.
“But too young,” she said, looking down. He couldn’t see her face but he could sense the frown there. “That’s surprising. I thought most men liked young girls.”
“I’m not most men.”
“I know that,” she replied. “I just thought that you felt something for me.”
“Via, I…” Orin couldn’t find the right words.
The truth was he was terrified. He had faced dangers in the forest and in the arena. He had slaughtered armed men without a weapon of his own, and feared no danger great or small. Yet he lived with a fear of rejection. He knew the pain of being an outcast, of being excluded and ridiculed. All his life he had been seen as less than human because of his lack of hands. He had been the butt of jokes, and the subject of nasty rumors. He had been beaten for being different, he’d been disowned and unloved. The pain of rejection had forced Orin, son of King Olmas, the man with no hands, to build invisible walls around himself. He needed distance to insulate himself from the pain of rejection and he feared that Via was on the verge of tearing those walls down. What if she shuddered at his touch? What if she were merely playing a game and was pretending to get close to him so that she could ridicule and reject him when he least expected it? Those possibilities made him tremble with fear and drove him away.
“Don’t leave,” she pleaded.
“I must.”
“Is it because you love Lady Feray?” Via asked from her knees as Orin stood up.
“No,” Orin replied, but he wasn’t sure he was being honest. He had strong feelings for both women, but he had never been in love. He didn’t really know what he was feeling. The truth was that in twenty-eight years of life he had never been shown love, he only knew he would do anything to protect both Feray and Via.
“I just can’t,” he admitted. “Not now. I’m sorry.”
He walked away from the campfire, letting the darkness cover his shame. Hot tears welled in his eyes, making him feel weak and foolish. He walked far enough
from the fire that he felt invisible and free from the expectations in the camp. Feray was nowhere to be seen in the darkness. Clouds covered the moon and most of the stars overhead. A cool breeze was blowing, and Orin debated returning to the camp. He could see Via slumped by the fire. The dress she wore was plain, and a little small. It hugged the curves of her body and made Orin’s blood run hot through his veins. He wanted to go back and accept the affection Via was yearning to give him. There was no reason to reject it, he thought to himself. If she rejected him he would be no worse off and he had lived with the pain of rejection before. He could endure it again for the chance of something sweeter, something he craved almost as much as life itself, even if the thought of being spurned made him tremble slightly.
He had taken three long strides when he saw movement. It was nothing more than a shadow among the dark tree trunks and dense shrubs, but Orin had seen such movement many times. Animals moved with slow, carefully calculated precision when they stalked their prey. Only humans lurched and darted. The shadowy forms Orin had seen were men, moving toward his camp, and he had no illusions as to what they wanted. Men who skulked about in the dark only ever wanted one thing - to take what wasn’t theirs by force.
With a loud whistle Orin alerted Rolo and dashed forward, leaping over the fire and plunging into the darkness on the other side. Running fearlessly toward danger and feeling a sense of sweet relief from the worries that had been crowding his heart.
Chapter 4
“Until I name a new earl, I shall rule the Darnish Counties personally,” King Olmas was saying. He was hosting a feast for the nobles and warriors in the grand palace, a mere two hundred paces from the ancient keep that gave the town its name. The stone tower was still intact, but the interior was completely destroyed by the fire that had been set several days before by the king’s firstborn son. The son King Olmas rejected. It pained the Raven King to realize he had been betrayed by his children. Perhaps both had fallen under the spell of the widow witch, he couldn’t know for certain, but both had turned against him. Both of his sons had disobeyed him. They had chosen the witch and their own fears over his direct orders. He couldn’t let such defiance stand.
“Make no mistake, I will have the witch and her son. The measure of my resolve hangs on the bailey wall,” he went on, waving toward the front of the great hall where just outside Prince Alvee’s body had been hung for his guests to see. “This is not a joke. The woman is a threat to the entire kingdom. Her power must be bridled, her defiance brought to heel. Your mission is to find her. We know where she is going, so finding her trail will not be difficult. The entire war band will pursue the witch and bring her back to me. Do I make myself clear?”
There were nods and murmurs. King Olmas didn’t expect anyone to defy him. Anyone willing to murder their own child was not to be trifled with, yet the Raven King sensed a great opportunity. He didn’t need the witch to unite the kingdom under his reign, King Olmas was perfectly capable of that without her help. His strongest rival was dead without an heir, and none of the other earls would challenge him. They didn’t like him, but they also feared him, so they toed the line and hoped that the next king would be more tolerant.
What King Olmas saw in the witch was a chance to expand the kingdom. For as long as anyone remembered, the Mountain Veil was the western boundary. Not that the mountains were impassable, but no pass had ever been found as a way to safely cross through the towering, rugged peaks. If the widow could show him a way through, he would summon an army and conquer the Wilderness. He knew the stories about the land beyond the Mountain Veil. He knew it was a place of magic and magical creatures, but Olmas didn’t fear magic. Once the witch was under his control he would have access to her power and he planned to use it to bring whatever waited on the far side of the Mountain Veil to its knees.
“My liege,” said a servant. “The prospects are waiting outside.”
“Very good,” the king said. “Bring them in.”
At a signal from the servant, the big doors were opened and another servant led in a dozen women. They were all young, barely old enough to be called women, but all were of child-bearing age. They were attractive despite being obviously frightened. The Raven King knew the corpse of his own son hanging outside would set the proper tone. He needed a wife, and he wasn’t looking for a companion, or queen to rule by his side. King Olmas needed an heir, and he intended to marry a young bride and get her pregnant as quickly as possible.
“No,” Olmas said as the first of the girls stopped and bowed before his throne. He could feel the discomfort from the nobles in the great hall, and he reveled in their fear. To be king meant he held the power of life and death over his subjects. It was best that they never forgot that. A child with a sword could take a life, any fool could kill, and while he was the sovereign ruler of the Kingdom on the Coast, he was also just a man. King Olmas knew the only way to keep the warriors under his command in line was through fear.
“No, no,” he said, rejecting two more. “Yes, she will do. What is your name, girl?”
“Evett,” she said.
“Very good. The priest is waiting,” King Olmas said.
“Shall we send the other girls away, my liege?” asked the servant.
“No, keep them close. If Evett proves unable to conceive we will need to be able to replace her quickly.”
“Of course, sire,” the servant said.
The marriage ceremony took less than five minutes. King Olmas didn’t like giving anyone authority over him, but he knew he needed a legitimate heir and if he didn’t marry the woman who bore his child it would be considered a bastard, unfit for the throne. So he married the girl, ordered wine brought to all his guests, toasted their new union, then took the child to the king’s personal chambers.
Ten minutes later he was finished consummating his marriage and with any luck the young girl, who had cried throughout the wedding and was probably still weeping in the bed chamber, was already pregnant. King Olmas wasn’t disillusioned about who he was or his age. He could have been his young bride’s grandfather, yet he had always believed in his ability to do whatever it took to further his ambitions. When Orin had been born lame, he wasted no time conceiving another child. It had taken four attempts to have another male child, but Alvee had been whole and, up until just recently, fit to carry on his father’s empire. He would do whatever it took to ensure his dynasty, and that meant fathering a son and finding the witch.
King Olmas sat at his table, sipping wine and watching the nobles. There were quite a few landed knights in the Darnish Counties, and even more warriors looking to make a name for themselves. He would send them out at dawn. He didn’t care how much they drank during his wedding feast, they would be expected to sally forth and bring back his prize. The witch had a head start, and Prince Alvee had assured his father that his own trusted men were following the widow and her child. King Olmas was grateful that despite his son’s betrayal, Alvee had been smart enough to keep tabs on the witch. The war band would hunt her down, and while they did, King Olmas would gather an army from across the kingdom. It would be the largest single fighting force ever assembled. The Raven King would lead them through the mountains and into the fertile lands beyond. Just the thought of it made him giddy. He would be remembered for a thousand years as the ruler who opened up the West.
When King Olmas finally returned to his bed chamber he found the young girl asleep. She lay huddled beneath the blankets, which she held wrapped around her body as if they would protect her. He considered waking her, but he was too tired. The bed was large enough that he could sleep comfortably without ever touching his young bride.
A few hours later, he woke up and felt the dawn approaching. He dressed quickly, ignoring the ache behind his eyes and the fatigue he felt. The servants were up, and when Olmas went to the balcony overlooking the courtyard between the palace and the keep, he could see the horses being saddled and the banners fluttering like lazy butterflies in the weak mornin
g wind. He knew most of the men below him were actually just squires, most were hardly old enough to be called men, but their lords would be along shortly.
Prince Alvee’s body was bloated and it stank. A flock of carrion birds were clinging to the body, digging for morsels from his son’s rotting flesh. A fleeting pang of guilt flashed through him, like lightning concealed in a storm cloud. King Olmas felt it, recognized the emotion, then just as quickly discarded it. He had no time or patience for guilt. As king of Floralon, his actions were above reproach and every subject was his to do with as he desired. If he was going to lead an army through the mountains, he needed to ensure that his orders were carried out. He wrapped his thick robe around his hunched shoulders and stared out over the courtyard. The men below him carried torches and lanterns, but the light didn’t reach the balcony where the king watched his knights preparing in the predawn gloom. When the sun finally rose, it didn’t take long for the knights to catch sight of their sovereign. The Vulture, as he was sometimes referred to, although never to his face, resembled the bird of the same name. His long, thin neck protruded from the hunched shoulders that were wrapped in a dark robe. A white horseshoe of hair sprouted from his skull above his ears, but the crown of his head was bald. His large nose curved down like a beak, and his small eyes scanned the crowd.
“Well,” he said in a croaking voice. “What are you waiting for? Go find the widow and bring her to me. Fail, and you will all die.”
After his pronouncement he spun around, the robe billowing out around him so that it looked like a bird fluffing its feathers. Then he disappeared into the palace. Some would say later that they could hear his new bride weeping, others said she shrieked with terror. It only made the Raven King smile with wicked glee to know how much they feared him.
Chapter 5
Outlaws were not unheard of in the Darnish Counties, but Feray had not anticipated the arrival of the men running toward them from the trees. In truth, her guard was down because she was focused on another problem. Orin was on her mind, and she felt guilty about it. Guilty because she was recently widowed and it was much too soon to even consider having feelings for someone else, but also because she felt that Orin hadn’t chosen the life he was living. He had sworn his life to hers, but what choice did he have. The first time he swore, the day he received the dragon kiss that marked his face the same as hers, he was pinned to the earth by a dragon. His only options were to help her or die, and she knew anyone in their right mind would have agreed. The second time he swore his oath, just a few days before, outside Glory Keep, his promise had come just after she had healed his broken body, and his brother, Prince Alvee, had threatened his life if he stayed in Floralon. It wasn’t a direct threat, but she knew what she heard and she was sure that Orin had, too. The prince wanted Orin out of the kingdom, far away where he wouldn’t make trouble for the king’s heir. What choice had Orin had then?
The Man With No Hands Page 3