The Gaellean Prophecy Series Box Set

by C S Vass

  “I have,” Paetrick said. “I also know stories about people being killed by werewolves.”

  “Why don’t you leave the fighting to the fighters, boy?” Brett said, clearly not wanting to talk about it any longer.

  “I bet you can’t even name all of the constellations,” Faela said.

  “I can too,” Paetrick shot back. “There are the signs of power, the Dragons, Wolves, Cats, and Murderers. The signs of manipulation, the Serpents, Mystics, and Seducers. Then there’s the signs of magic, the Demons, Mages, and Imps. Wait, that’s ten but I feel like I’m forgetting something. What is it?”

  “The sign better left forgotten,” Brett said. “The Forsaken.”

  Faela shivered. “Do they even count?”

  “Of course they count,” Brett replied. “They have silver eyes, don’t they?”

  “They’re marked by the stars, but certainly not blessed,” Faela said.

  “A horrendous fate,” Brett mused. “I think I’d have to take my own life if I were born such.

  “Don’t say that!” Paetrick gasped. “That’s terrible.”

  Brett shrugged. “It’s the truth. Not every life is worth living.”

  “As a monk, I could not disagree more with that sentiment.”

  “Which would you pick, could you be one?” Faela asked, determined to keep the conversation friendly.

  “Well, Dragon is pretty lucky I suppose,” Paetrick said. “A lot of folks default to that. I wouldn’t mind being a Cat.”

  “I always wished I were a Wolf,” Brett said. “That super-human strength to aid you in battle.”

  “I suppose I’m biased,” Faela said. “But I wouldn’t change a thing about my stars.” She laughed weakly.

  “Here I took you for a Seducer,” Brett grinned.

  “Shut up. I’m surprised you’re not a Demon.”

  “What would be wrong with that?” he asked. “They can’t be killed!”

  “That’s not true,” Faela said. “Demons can be killed. They just can’t be killed by poisons or a lack of oxygen.”

  “That’s what I meant,” he said.

  “What about a Mage?” Paetrick said. “I met a Mage once who could restore sight to the blind and make the old folks’ hands stop aching.”

  “Nah,” Brett said with a wave of his hand. “Mages live too long. They can last for centuries. I’m not looking to expand my stay here beyond the natural time.”

  They spent the rest of the day talking about which constellations they would be born under if they could choose. Before long Paetrick forgot that he was in a bad mood, and even Faela wasn’t so anxious at the prospect of going to see the Shigata.

  “You know,” Faela said, interrupting a conversation in which Paetrick was claiming he was certain he would make an excellent Mystic, “If you both have such a fascination with old magic, then you could always go see the elves in Coldclaw and learn some for yourselves.”

  “The constellations aren’t old magic,” Brett said. He wrinkled his brow. “Are they?”

  “Of course they are,” Paetrick said matter-of-factly. “Any nature magic is old magic. The gods of ice and shadow teach old magic too.” He put his head down, sadly remembering. “That’s how the monks handled the cultists who came to the temple for me.”

  “Be glad they did,” Brett said. “Nothing wrong with killing an enemy who intrudes upon your home. Especially when your home is a sacred place.”

  Paetrick looked to Faela.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” she said. “Listen, you know I don’t have a lot of love for those old men. But they do have that right. This world is cruel. It’s never a bad idea to be able to defend yourself and the ones close to you.”

  “You speak wisely,” Brett said. “Maybe you should think on your own words, Faela. It might influence your opinion of the Shigata.”

  Faela’s foul mood came rushing back to her. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  Brett shrugged. “Very well. We should be able to reach Frost tomorrow evening so long as there are no unexpected delays. We’ll have one more night in the wilderness and afterward we can sleep in warm beds next to a hearth as hot as you care to make it.”

  “I’m going to put hot coals in a pan under my mattress,” Paetrick said dreamily. “I don’t think I even remember what fire looks like.”

  The stars were busy that evening. As soon as the sun dipped away beyond Ice Bay, a sea of dancing shapes emerged in the sky.

  “How about that!” Paetrick shouted. “The Mage is out!”

  So he was. Faela was never able to quite see how everyone else recognized an old man with a pointed hat and tall staff out of the cluster of stars that formed the Mage, but she had seen him enough times to recognize when the pattern was there.

  “I wish the Dragon would come back,” she said forlornly. “Maybe then I would get my fire.”

  “It shouldn’t be too long,” Brett said kindly. “Other Dragons had lost theirs and gotten it back in mere days.”

  “But some others still haven’t gotten it back,” Faela said gloomily.

  Brett didn’t respond.

  “I have a bad feeling,” Paetrick said as they settled down and the sun completely vanished. “Maybe we could have a fire? Just this last night?”

  “No,” Brett said firmly. “I will not risk us being seen by some enemy in the wild. Be brave for one more night. It’s only one more night.”

  “Plus the return journey,” Paetrick grumbled. “It’s completely freezing. Is there any way to make this rune work better?”

  “I know you’re uncomfortable,” Brett said. “But I’m hoping we can convince a few Shigata to come back with us. If we manage that, we can have fires every night.”

  “Big if,” Paetrick grumbled.

  “Enough,” Faela said. “Go to sleep. Cold hurts less in your dreams. When the sun is up we will be off. Frost is just over the horizon.”

  She could tell the young monk was not content with her answer, but he dozed off all the same.

  That night she dreamt of a city she had never been to. There were fires everywhere. They burned her as flames never had burned her in her life. She was helpless. Out of the fire emerged a man…or perhaps a demon. It was hard to tell. He had a sword as black as jet that glowed with deadly red runes.

  She felt a burning heat as he approached her…

  Faela awoke with a jolt. For a moment she thought she was still dreaming. She saw fire again.

  “Paetrick!” she hissed, horrified.

  The young monk was sitting in front of a small blaze, warming his hands. “Shh!” he whispered, panicked. “Don’t wake him. Please. I was so cold Faela. You can share it with me if you don’t tell.”

  “Put that out right now!” she said.

  “Faela, don’t! I mean—”

  A vicious, hellish howl pierced their ears.

  Brett was upright in an instant, his sword out of its sheath. “What’s happening?”

  He saw the fire at once.

  “You blasted fucking moron!” A string of curses leapt from the Captain of the Guard’s mouth while he stamped out the flames with his boots.

  “I warned you. I told you. I ought to throw your empty head into the Dark Sea! Do you know how stupid that was?”

  “I’m freezing!” Paetrick whined. “We’re almost to the city.”

  “Then maybe those wolves will almost not eat us. You’ve risked all our lives for a little warmth. I can’t—”

  Another howl interrupted him. Followed by another.

  “Fuck!”

  Sweat glistened on Brett’s forehead in the moonlight.

  “It’ll be okay,” Faela whispered. “Shut up and be quiet.” She quickly scattered the remaining embers amongst the snow as best she could.

  “Be quiet and crouch down over here. They’ll never know we’re here. It can’t be long until sunrise.”

  They crouched among the trees of the Southern Shield waiting in dread.

/>   “They’ve been prowling about since the start,” Paetrick whispered. “They’re not interested in us.”

  “Shut up,” Brett hissed.

  Just then one of the horses whinnied, crying out in fear.

  “It’s caught the scent of something,” Brett warned.

  More howls. Different pitched howls. Happening at once. Coming closer.

  “I’ve killed us,” Paetrick said in horror. “I’ve fucking killed us.”

  “Maybe, so you damn well best make up for it and kill one of them,” Brett said as he shoved a shortsword into Paetrick’s hands.

  “I don’t know how to use this!” the monk exclaimed in terror.

  “You better learn quickly,” Brett snapped. “Come on. I have a better death ahead of me than being torn apart by wolves in the bloody Shield.”

  Faela was hardly listening to them. She was trying with all her might to connect with her fire. To make a spark, an ember, anything.

  She was empty.

  A horse whinnied again, kicking its legs in the air like a frantic infant.

  The werewolves emerged from the darkness slowly with saliva dripping between pointed teeth. They moved with the confidence of predators after an easy kill. Faela continued to push inside herself. To try to find some spark of magic. The effort was making her feel like the blood vessels in her brain would burst.

  “Oh gods,” Paetrick whined as the werewolves came into view. “Save us.”

  The horses panicked and fled with their possessions. Not a single one of the beasts so much as glanced as the horses fled past in a gallop of terror. There eyes were focused on the humans.

  They approached slowly, hungry for bloody flesh.

  Chapter 22

  This might be the best bloody beer I’ve ever had.

  Torin had been reluctant to stop at the no-name inn on his journey south. It was a falling down structure with a single unlit brazier underneath a sign thats words had worn away long ago.

  Normally he would have moved right along, but the snows were falling ever-faster and the hope of a warm meal, regardless of the quality, encouraged him to investigate.

  Inside it was more crowded than he had expected. Dozens of villagers had packed themselves into every nook and cranny of the establishment leaving the air rank with sweat. He had managed to find a few mouthfuls of rice cooked in chicken stock and half a river trout to satisfy his hunger.

  He decided to pay for a room.

  Torin was on the verge of going up for the night when he decided to have a beer first.

  “Where was this brewed?” he asked the barkeep, a thin man with greasy hair and sharp blue eyes.

  “Right in the basement,” the man replied. “Which is where I’ll throw you if you start bringing me complaints.”

  “You misunderstand me, sir,” Torin said. “This is remarkable.”

  “You want another?”

  Torin nodded.

  “Price just went up a silver.”

  For a heartbeat Torin was torn between anger and amusement. Why not, he thought. The man can brew an excellent beer. What’s another silver?

  He placed the coin on the table and returned to his thoughts.

  The tavern thinned out as the night went on. The only ones left besides Torin and the barkeep were a group of traveling musicians who had gotten quite drunk and were telling stories, some gamblers throwing their gold away on rounds of Tanzen, and a lonely prostitute in the corner who had found nobody to entertain for the evening.

  “You want to keep it going?” the barkeep asked Torin many drinks later.

  The Shigata smiled. He wore a sword at his waist, but his thrygta was tucked away safely beneath his tunic. “Aye, why not?” he said.

  The door banged open with a crash. In stormed three men with shortswords in their hands and bandanas covering their faces. One was bald with a tattoo of two crossed blades inside of a crudely drawn heart at his temple.

  “What the fuck is this?” the barkeep demanded.

  The bald man ran to the bar and punched the barkeep hard in the face with his sword hand. Torin heard his nose break as the blade’s hilt slammed into it, sending blood spraying across the tavern.

  “Watch it,” Torin said. “You nearly got blood in my drink.”

  “You fucking funny, old man?” one of the intruders said. Torin lowered his eyes as the man approached him. He glanced at Torin’s sword. “Ah, I see. What are you? A vet from Bloodwater? Or just some lord’s pisshead servant? Well? You going to be a hero?”

  Torin grinned. The chance to amuse himself was somewhat tempting, but he also was curious to see how the situation would play out on its own. Was this the type to piss his breeches at the sight of a thrygta, or would he think to make a name for himself by killing Torin?

  “I’m talking to you old man!”

  “Not tonight,” Torin said. “I don’t feel like a hero tonight.”

  “Smart man.”

  The bandits turned to the card game. “Quite a jackpot,” one of them laughed as he took their bag of gold. “Better luck next time, boys.”

  “You bastard,” one of the gamblers growled. He was answered by a boot to his chest that sent him tumbling to the ground in his chair.

  “What do you lad’s think? We have time to amuse ourselves with this one?” He gestured to the prostitute.

  To her credit the girl was made of stronger stuff. “If all you have is what you took off these bums, you can’t afford me, love,” she said without glancing at them.

  “Come on, let’s off,” one of the men said.

  “Stuck-up bitch,” the man who accosted the woman growled. He turned back to approach her when Torin grabbed him by the arm.

  “You got something to say, old man?” the bandit rasped beneath his bandana. Sweat glistened on his pale, bald forehead.

  Torin looked the thug in his beady black eyes. “You’ll want to go now, lad,” he said.

  The man nodded, suddenly sleepy. “Aye. Come on!”

  As suddenly as they had come, the bandits were gone. A few sobs and moans filled the vacancy they left behind them.

  “Gods above,” Torin growled. “Is it too much to ask to drink in peace?”

  “What the hell were you doing?” one of the musicians, a woman with long blonde hair, said as she approached him. “Silver eyes and a sword and you sit there pissing yourself? Why didn’t you help us?”

  “I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better not to mess in affairs that aren’t my own,” Torin said.

  “You bastard! They stole my grandmother’s necklace. That was the only thing of value I owned, and it’s gone. They were right, you are just a pathetic old man! What the hell were you going to do anyway?”

  “I”m not your keeper,” Torin said defensively. “I apologize for your troubles, but I really think that your anger is a little misguided.”

  She slapped him. Hard in the face. The crack sounded throughout the tavern like a whip. Torin’s eyes narrowed in anger. “That was unwise,” he said softly. A look of fear crept into the woman’s eyes as she tried to back away from him.

  His right hand was wrapped around her wrist.

  With deliberate slowness he placed his right hand into the folds of his shirt.

  “I don’t want more trouble,” the woman whimpered.

  “No,” he agreed. “No I don’t imagine that you do.”

  “Torin!”

  He turned.

  “Of all the rat bastards to meet in the world,” Torin chuckled. “I thought our business was concluded for the time being.”

  Torin turned back to the girl. “Again, my condolences for your loss. Have a round of the bartenders tavern-made ale. I promise it’ll take your mind off of your troubles.”

  Sniffling, the girl went back to her friends.

  “Torin, I trust you have a few minutes for me?”

  “For my best and oldest friend?” Torin laughed. “How could I not?”

  “You flatter me,” the Messenger repl
ied from behind his cat-like mask. “Or you insult me. With you I find I can never tell.”

  “A little of both, in just the right amounts,” Torin laughed. “These folks are a bit shaken up from a bit of a brawl that happened so don’t mind them. Come sit. I shit you not, this tavern has the best ale I’ve ever tasted. You’re going to have to try some.”

  “Very well,” the Messenger said.

  “What? No joke? I’ve been trying to get you to take that mask off for years now, and you’re just going to give in that easy?”

  “We’ll have to take care of the other guests first,” the Messenger said. “Cover your eyes, quickly.” He reached into his cloak and tossed something into the air. Torin covered his eyes just in time to see a blinding white light flash throughout the room through his eyelids.

  “Is it safe?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “All is well,” the Messenger assured him. “I have simply made it so that no memory of this night will remain with these people. We may talk freely. But first, Torin, a sign of my trust. You have earned it.”

  Torin smiled. “You flatter me, friend.”

  The Messenger reached for his mask and removed it. Torin would have gasped, had he not anticipated gasping and prevented himself. “Well of all the things I might have expected. Is it rude if I ask for an explanation?”

  The Messenger smiled. The face that stared at Torin was blood red and covered in scales. His eyes were black welts with two golden irises without pupils to fill them. Two curved horns protruded from the Messenger’s forehead. He grinned with intelligence.

  “Square teeth?” Torin asked. “All that and you’re a damn herbivore?”

  The Messenger laughed. “You see my true face and the first thing you comment on is my diet? You never fail to surprise me, Torin.”

  “Well? Don’t tell me you’re going to do that big dramatic reveal just to leave me guessing. What the hell are you?”

  “He looks funny,” the musician who had lost her grandmother’s necklace said sleepily.

  “That’s alright sweetheart,” Torin said to her. “Don’t you worry about him. Have some of that ale, on me. In fact, I think everyone here could use a round on me.”