by Jen McIntosh
‘Wake up,’ he whispered urgently. Keriath blinked and looked at the sunlight pouring through the crack of the tent flap. It was mid-afternoon, and sunset was still hours away. Something was wrong.
‘What?’ she snapped, sitting up.
‘Get up,’ he ordered. Then he rose and slipped from the tent. She crawled over to the entrance and lifted the flap so she could peer out. Dell stood right outside and gestured a warning at her with his dagger.
‘You stay right there where I can see you,’ he growled. ‘If you so much as think about running, I will gut you like a pig.’
She snorted and clanked her chains at him. ‘Not going anywhere in a hurry, am I?’ she said scathingly. He rolled his eyes and stepped closer to her.
She peered past him to see what all the commotion was about and felt her heart swell with hope. From over the horizon, a dozen riders had appeared. She could tell from here that their palomino mounts were Unicorn warhorses, but that didn’t mean much anymore. More interesting was their golden armour, flashing in the evening sun. She’d seen its kind before.
Dragons. And they were headed this way.
Keriath fidgeted with her chains as she watched the Dragons grow closer. Drosta didn’t try to retreat – he wasn’t stupid; he knew there was no point. She wondered why he’d ever allowed them to get this close to Dragon lands. Even with so few left, they were still dangerous and he had to know they killed Darklings on sight. It was one of their highest laws. For a Dragon to suffer a Darkling to live was a death sentence. It had been ever since the Fall.
Dell let out a warning growl as she itched forward. Maren, standing in the middle of the Hunts with Drosta at her side, glanced round at the sound and scowled at her.
‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ she warned. ‘We don’t have time to let you heal from another beating.’
Keriath heard the threat beneath the words. They’d kill her before they let her go free.
The Dragons were drawing closer, the long legs of their mounts making quick work of the uneven ground. Keriath eyed them speculatively. Golden mounts. Golden armour. Òr Clan – no other clan would ever be so ostentatious. Loyal to their purse first and kin second, if memory served. But would they help her or hinder her?
The Hunts closed ranks as the Dragons drew nearer. But the riders made no move to draw their weapons. And as the Dragons came closer still, understanding seeped at the edges of her consciousness.
She could not see their skin. Every single inch was covered. They were all hooded and gloved, with scarves drawn across their faces. Then they reined in their mounts as they surrounded the Hunt, and she saw their eyes. Instead of the deep gold that would have matched their armour, they were pure black. Her heart sank.
Nightwalkers. Every single one of them was a blasted Nightwalker. Keriath swore under her breath. She would get no help from these bastards. Murderers. Traitors to their kind, every single one of them. For the Graced, the murder of their own kind was one of their greatest crimes. To have the blood of the Graced on your hands was to become a Nightwalker. Cursed to walk in the dark, never to feel the kiss of the sun’s rays on your face again, or else accept the punishment of death.
She should have known. Nightwalkers had ruled Ciaron since the Fall and those still free of the curse were rarely trusted. Not in a group this large and not this far beyond Ciaron’s walls. Certainly not armed. She’d been a fool to hope. But curse or no, they were still Dragons. And Dragons hated Darklings above all others.
Sure enough, even despite the coverings across their faces, Keriath could see the distaste in their eyes as they surveyed the Darklings. Their hands rested on the hilts of their weapons, though they made no move to draw. Eventually, their leader spoke.
‘Which one of you is the Hunter?’ a woman’s voice asked from behind her golden scarf. Drosta stepped forward without hesitation.
‘What do you want, Nightwalker?’ he asked.
Black eyes regarded him impassively from beneath a golden hood.
‘Drosta, is it?’ she asked.
He gave her a vicious grin. ‘I do so love it when my reputation precedes me.’
‘Òr Lorian,’ she said. ‘I was expecting you three days ago.’
Drosta relaxed, motioning to his Hunt to stand down. Maren stared at him incredulously and did not follow suit – a move noted by their visitors.
‘My apologies,’ he exclaimed, bowing. ‘We were delayed.’
Òr Lorian’s eyes flickered to Maren, and she nodded in understanding, snapping her fingers at her men. They dismounted and began pulling items from the horses’ packs. ‘We have business to discuss, Drosta. I would prefer to do so face to face,’ she said while her men began erecting a small pavilion with practised ease.
He smirked but inclined his head and followed her into the shade.
Dell hesitated, as if torn between standing at his Hunter’s side and standing guard over his charge. Drosta seemed to sense his second’s indecision and summoned him with a jerk of his chin. Keriath stumbled as Dell dragged her with him, but Òr Lorian barely spared them a glance.
The Nightwalker lowered her hood and pulled the scarf from around her face, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. She had a sharp, pointed face, but age and weariness had left their mark. As she removed her gloves and rolled up her sleeves, Keriath noted her tattoos, her dragon-marks. Gold, but also small and simple. Keriath smirked. Dragon-marks increased in size or intricacy according to the strength and power of the individual. Òr Lorian was weak. Very weak. A life without light would do that to a person.
‘I don’t see my goods, Nightwalker,’ noted Drosta, looking around. ‘You’d better not be reneging on our deal.’
‘Your goods are secure, Darkling,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve got Dragons guarding them half a day’s ride from here – with orders to destroy the lot if I don’t return,’ she added with a knowing look. ‘The price has doubled.’
‘Piss off. What?’
‘Your delay cost me money. My warriors need to be paid, your livestock need to be fed and housed … you should consider yourself lucky it’s not more. They wanted me to charge you triple, the original fee multiplied by the number of days you kept us waiting.’
Maren interrupted before Drosta could say anything. ‘Livestock?’ she asked. Òr Lorian glanced between them, frowning, but she answered all the same.
‘Darkling cattle.’ She sniffed in disgust. ‘Life for the taking.’
Keriath couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath as understanding dawned. Drosta was buying human lives. Slaves to feed the Darkling horde. Drosta and Dell both glared at her, but it was not until those black eyes settled on her that Keriath stilled. The Nightwalker hissed.
‘Problem?’ Drosta asked, turning back. But Keriath knew him well enough now to hear the warning in his voice.
The Nightwalker glared at him. ‘Your prisoner is one of the Graced,’ she snarled.
Drosta glanced round at Keriath, feigning surprise. ‘Oh? I hadn’t noticed?’
Maren snorted at the outrageous sarcasm in his voice, but Keriath didn’t find the situation funny at all. Nor did Lorian.
‘Hand her over,’ the Nightwalker demanded.
Drosta’s feigned levity disappeared as fast as it had come. ‘No.’
Maren hissed. ‘She’s going to the Queens, and if you try to stop us, we’ll kill you all. I reckon between you, you’re enough to keep our Hunts fed for a week, even if Nightwalker blood tastes like mud.’
‘Watch yourself, Darkling,’ Lorian growled in response. ‘Nightwalkers might be welcome here, but our law is clear when it comes to your kind and I’ve risked my head by not killing you and your Hunt on sight. This is Ciaron – we execute those who fail their duties here. Don’t make me regret my decision. Each one of my men is worth a dozen of you.’
Maren shifted her weight from one foot to the other as if readying herself to strike. Keriath fidgeted, despite another warning growl from Dell. She needed them to fight o
ver her – it was her best chance of escape. Drosta seemed to realise this at the same time, and he growled, calling Maren to heel. For once, the Huntress did as she was bid.
Lorian crossed her arms over her chest, considering. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she announced. ‘I’m prepared to negotiate. All of your livestock for her.’
Drosta snorted. ‘Negotiate all you like. She’s not for sale.’
Lorian exchanged a long look with her second, before turning back to Drosta. Keriath watched them closely, and the Nightwalker studied her in return. Those black eyes lingered on her scars and her star-marked brow. Keriath wasn’t sure which was worse – a madman like Drosta, or a woman who would kill her own kind. A woman who traded in human lives. At least Drosta had a vested interest in keeping her alive – Gods only knew what the Nightwalker wanted.
‘How much does Drosta owe you?’ Keriath asked.
‘What does it matter to you?’ sneered Drosta.
Keriath shrugged, her chains clanking. ‘Just curious to know how much I’m worth.’
Lorian told her. Keriath let out a low whistle. It was an enormous sum. The Nightwalker would only pass up that kind of money if she was confident she could get it back later. And judging by how her black eyes kept skirting over Keriath’s star-mark and pointed ears, it wasn’t too hard to figure out what she was thinking. Lorian knew how powerful Drosta’s prisoner was, even if the Darklings didn’t. There was only one place that paid that kind of coin for power. The Nightwalker would sell Keriath to the Shade Court. The King’s enemies would pay handsomely for the power to overthrow him. If they ever learned who she was … perhaps Alexan had been right to stay silent after all.
‘The number is irrelevant,’ Drosta snarled. ‘She’s not for sale.’
‘It’s a low offer, anyway. Even the poorest member of the Court would pay double that,’ breathed Keriath. She neglected to mention that the Shade King’s enemies, those who believed his lies, would pay ten times that for his supposed heir. The King himself would pay a hundred times that to have her in his grasp. Determined to stir things further, she looked to Drosta. ‘How much was Zorana paying you to bring me to her again?’
Drosta whirled, his arm lashing out as his hand cracked across her face. She was sent sprawling on the ground, and he followed up with a hefty kick to her chest. Then he grabbed her by the throat and placed the tip of his knife below her eyeball.
‘Drosta!’ Lorian barked in alarm.
‘I wonder how powerful you’ll be once I carve those pretty eyes out of your skull and feed them to you?’ he said.
But Keriath would not be cowed. ‘Still powerful enough to kill you,’ she breathed, gasping as his fist tightened around her neck. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, and Keriath hissed at the sting of the blade piercing her skin. ‘Go on,’ she dared him, ‘destroy the best evidence you’ve got of my bloodline.’
‘So long as that mark remains on your brow, I’ve all the proof I need,’ he reminded her, the knife cutting a little deeper. His hips dug into her suggestively. ‘I can do whatever I like with the rest of you.’
‘Drosta, in the name of the Gods, leave her be,’ Lorian snapped. ‘You’ve wasted enough of my time as it is. I have better things to do than watch you rutting on some poor girl.’
He relented, stepping back and allowing Dell to haul Keriath back to her feet. He licked the blood from the edge of his blade before sheathing it, his eyes glowing red as he inhaled her scent. Keriath touched a finger to her lip. It came away bloody. She offered it to him, daring him to take it, to provoke them further. But he was too smart for that.
‘If your time is so precious, we’d best get moving,’ he said to Lorian. ‘I want to see the condition of this livestock before I pay for them. Dell, load her up.’ And with that he turned and stalked away with Maren following in his wake.
The Nightwalkers exchanged long glances as they covered up once more and dismantled the pavilion. Keriath could feel Lorian’s black gaze on her all the way as Dell dragged her back to his horse. Someone else had already dismantled his tent and packed his bedroll. Keriath jerked out of his grip as they approached, tired of being hauled around like a sack of meal, but Dell wasn’t having any of it. He shoved her towards the horse, crowding her against its flanks with the size of his body.
There was something dark in his eye as he took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. He offered her a wicked grin before he sucked her bloody finger into his mouth. Keriath gasped and recoiled, trying to pull away, but he held her fast as his tongue rasped over the pad of her finger. Then he dropped her hand and pressed his mouth against hers. It might have been mistaken for a kiss, but it was her blood that he sought. His mouth closed around her split lip and he sucked hard.
Keriath snarled, her knee jerking up, but there was no room, and Dell only laughed.
‘Gods you’re sweet,’ he breathed against her mouth. ‘I can’t wait to taste more of you.’
Keriath wrenched her head free. ‘Fuck you,’ she snarled, wiping her face as if she could wipe away the violation.
He grinned. ‘Promises, promises,’ he said. Then his hands were on her hips, and he threw her up into the saddle before climbing up behind her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in close, whispering in her ear, ‘Stop pushing him. It’s going to get you killed.’
Keriath snorted. ‘Promises, promises.’
Dell’s grip on her waist tightened. ‘I’m serious,’ he warned. ‘Drosta is wild and unpredictable at the best of times, and that bitch Maren is doing everything she can to throw him off balance. She wants to present you to the Queens herself. She’s ruined enough of his plans already. He’ll kill you just to spite her if it comes to it.’
‘Why do you even care?’ snapped Keriath with a withering look over her shoulder.
His hand drifted a little lower. ‘I have my reasons.’ She lashed back hard, elbowing him in the ribs. He grunted but removed his hand.
‘He’ll kill you if you keep that up,’ she hissed, edging as far away from him as she could. Dell said nothing but manoeuvred his horse closer to Drosta. The Nightwalkers were mounted, their scarves pulled tight across their faces as they wheeled their great palomino horses around. Lorian was still watching Keriath, but she said nothing as she signalled to her men and charged back up the hill they had come from. Hooting with excitement, the Darklings followed.
It was not long until Lorian dropped back to ride alongside Keriath and her ever-present jailor. ‘So, what’s a member of the Unicorn nobility doing playing prisoner to a mortal Darkling?’ Lorian asked, her voice light. Keriath kept her face impassive.
Dell snorted. ‘This one? A lady? You’ve got to be joking.’
But Lorian’s eyes were on Keriath’s scars.
‘It’s the eyes. During the Rebellion, before the Unicorns were Unicorns, the people of that region accepted refugees from another land. Legend says their leader had eyes like amethysts, and she married the Lord of the Isles himself. If you believe the legends, which I tend to, eyes like that only turn up in the nobility,’ she said. ‘Though only the Graced would bother to learn those stories. Darklings can’t get much further into the Old Tales than hearing ‘Kah Resari’ before they wet themselves.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought Nightwalkers could be much braver after what your kind did to her,’ Keriath hissed. An image flashed through her mind – a small, dark-haired child nailed to a cross. She shuddered with disgust and forced the memory from her thoughts.
‘We hesitate to cross her path,’ Lorian admitted with a shrug. ‘She did vow to kill every single one of us after all.’
It was Keriath’s turn to smirk. She’d seen first-hand the retribution meted out at Resari’s hand. The Nightwalkers were right to fear her. Darklings too. The sickened cast to Lorian’s face suggested she knew all too well why Nightwalkers should fear that name.
Keriath chuckled darkly. ‘You’ve seen it. What she does to the likes of you.’
‘She killed my mate,’ Lorian murmured, staring ahead. ‘I’ve seen nothing like it in all my life. I didn’t think anyone was capable of that much savagery.’
Keriath’s lips pulled back in a silent snarl. ‘It’s hardly surprising.’
‘We’re not all the same, you know,’ Lorian snapped. ‘The Nightwalkers who did that were the worst of our kind – handpicked by Jenia herself.’
‘You’d fit right in,’ Keriath spat. ‘Trading human lives for coin? To the creatures you were born to destroy?’
Lorian scowled. ‘I didn’t set up this deal, just facilitated it. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I answer to a higher power. He is the one who sourced the mortals, and who arranged the buyer. I’m just the middleman.’
‘And yet you were prepared to trade it all for me?’ asked Keriath. ‘One life for how many? A hundred? More?’
‘Graced lives are worth far more than mortal ones,’ Lorian said.
Keriath just shook her head in disgust and didn’t bother to respond. She wouldn’t waste her breath on murderers. Dell seemed to sense her fury and kicked his heels to his horse’s flanks, urging the beast onward to put some distance between them and the Nightwalker.
‘Thank you,’ Keriath said. She meant it too.
Dell chuckled. ‘I’m sure you can find some way to repay me.’
Keriath didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
They rode through the evening and reached the river just before sunset. The Nightwalkers seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the retreating light, but they didn’t dare remove their coverings. Not yet, anyway. Lorian had clearly made this journey many times before – she led them through a maze of narrow gorges and hidden glens without hesitation.
They followed the river for a few more hours to a point where it took flight and plunged over a cliff to the deep pool below. The journey down was treacherous, Keriath’s chains catching on rock and root more than once.
There, in the wide pool at the bottom of the waterfall, three boats were moored – one smaller vessel and two large barges. Keriath’s lips pulled back in a silent snarl, remembering what the latter were for.