The Choosing
Part Two of
The Sylvan Wars Saga
by
PhyllisAnn Welsh
NBI
NovelBooks, Inc.
Douglas, Massachusetts
This is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the characters, incidents, and dialogs are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Penny Hussey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review. For information, address NovelBooks, Inc., P.O. Box 661, Douglas, MA 01516 or email [email protected]
NBI
Published by
NovelBooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 661
Douglas, MA 01516
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Produced in the United States of America.
Cover illustration by Ariana Overton
Edited by Gail McAbee
ISBN 1-931696-22-5 for electronic version
ISBN 1-931696-77-2 for trade paperback
Formerly published under the ISBN 1-929034-74-1
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:
The Best Children in the World—Mine!
My Forever Friend & Lover, Georgie
WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO:
All My Cyber Friends, My Supporters in the Town of Douglas
(You know who you are!)
Scott Cohen—Huff Puff! Thanks for the Inspiration!
PROLOGUE
The sea god, Mac Lir, looked upon the lovers and was pleased. The Binding of these two races had been successful. His High Priest had found his soul mate, Korrene finally knew the truth of her heritage, and the Sea Elves had a new infusion of strong blood.
Thanks to his timely intervention—some would call it meddling—his children, the Sea Elves, had a good chance of survival. He smiled indulgently as he thought about how smoothly his arrangements had proceeded. Things were touch and go for a bit, but Mac Lir’s will had triumphed.
However, his work was far from complete. His eternal enemy, Tuawtha, had sworn to eradicate all of Mac Lir’s children from the Seven Cella Worlds. Already one world, Earth, was devoid of pure silvan kind and their magical kin: fairies, sprites, nymphs and more. Only rumors and legends—a few mostly forgotten songs and stories—remained of the elfin population that once flourished there.
The demon god had recently turned his malice to the silvan children of Tylana, and Mac Lir was determined his enemy would not succeed.
Mac Lir had successfully bound together his most powerful high priest with the sole part-silvan survivor of his children from Earth. Together, they would raise a race of beings more able to face the changes and deceit launched at them from Tuawtha.
His children of the sea now stood a good chance of survival. Mac Lir was ready to begin the next phase of his plan.
He cast his eyes to the north and west. The Wood Elves had been fighting their own battle for survival. They also must be brought to safe harbor before the demon god could be defeated. It would require cunning and skill. And an unlikely catalyst. However, the time was not quite ripe for the god’s plans in that area. His children of the trees would have to hold on a bit longer while the tool of their salvation was readied.
Mac Lir again looked to the island of Sasheena and smiled. All was proceeding as planned, but there was a chance everything could still be lost. He had an unwilling servant in the human warrior woman, and she could be so contrary if she thought she was being controlled. But eventually she would do his work. Of that he had no doubt.
For a god’s heartbeat, Mac Lir frowned and the clouds darkened. If this part of the plan did not go as envisioned, another Cella World would fall to Tuawtha’s evil hold. Not merely the elves of the woodlands and the sea would die, but all magical kind—including selkies, unicorns and the like—on the world of Tylana would go the way of their brethren on Earth. The danger was great.
A twinkle returned to the kind god’s eyes, and the sun broke through the clouds once again. He never left anything to chance…or the whim of a human. Even one as beloved by him as the warrior woman.
His keen eyes pierced many layers of rocks and minerals, crystals and ore. Despite the danger and the chance that his influence on this world could be as fleeting as a sunrise, Mac Lir shifted into a more comfortable position of observance. Anticipation broadened his smile.
He was going to enjoy the taming of Feenix of Port Marcus.
CHAPTER ONE
Deep are the caverns of Cragimore
Dark are the souls found there
Lost is the hope of Shalridoor
Forever gone to Meedrion’s lair.
The Helm of Souls upon his head
The Sword of Truth beside him
The light of dawn forever dead
All dark, all death betide them.
Deep are the caverns of Cragimore
Dark are the souls found there
Lost is the hope of Shalridoor
Once descended to Meedrion’s lair.
—Ancient song sung by Tylana children; origin unknown.
Feenix’s head rose above the churning waves. She spat out a mouthful of salty water, struggled awkwardly to her feet and waded ashore. The water-worn rocks bit her bare feet and provided no purchase for her unsteady gait.
Dawn washed the coast in golden-red hues as it broke over the towering cliffs. The world was on fire with the sun’s glory. Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming their hunger for the new day.
Feenix’s belly rumbled in agreement.
Brushing the dripping hair from her eyes, she scanned the boulder-strewn beach anxiously. Time was of the essence, and she had none to waste. Many lives depended on her returning to Shalridoor before the noon meal.
“Where did that elf put my clothes?”
The sun’s rays promised to blister her tender flesh if she didn’t cover her exposed skin soon. The sea breeze was chilly, but it was no match for the power of the Tylana sun.
Searching the shoreline for a flutter of material, she couldn’t find her belongings. She looked west and then east, noting the position of the sun and the cliffs. Rarely was her sense of direction wrong. Her irritation increased as she realized she was wasting valuable time.
“By the god’s right toe, I’ll fillet that priest and his brother as soon as I find my clothes, if I have to hunt them down forever!” She threw a fist-sized rock and it exploded against a boulder. “I have a war to lead, and I can’t do it without my gear!”
The ocean breeze dried the sea from her naked body, setting goose bumps to chasing each other as she scanned the shadows. Her teeth chattered a counterpoint to the wash of the waves against the rocks.
The feeling of being totally vulnerable and assailable should an enemy happen along made Feenix jittery. Not that she couldn’t protect herself, even in her state of undress. She was Feenix of Port Marcus, Captain of the High Priest’s Guard of Sasheena, after all.
But by the god’s left eye, she hated feeling so exposed.
She lifted her eyes to the cliffs then scanned the shoreline beneath, and could see nothing more dangerous than two gulls fighting over a bit of fish. Again her stomach rumbled.
“Why didn’t I eat that ocean carp when I had the chance?”
It was going to be a glorious day, but the sun hadn’t yet touched the boulders tossed across the beach. As she
searched amongst the rocks for her missing gear, the shadows thrown by the cliffs made the area seem like twilight rather than day. She didn’t know which was worse, the chill of the shadows or the expected heat of the sun. Either way, she would combat the elements better if she had her blasted clothes on.
“Mac Lir, you son of a sea whore,” she screamed at the sea. “The very least you can do, since I had no choice in your cursed Change, is show me where those damned elves left my clothes!”
She thought she heard the god laugh at her, but it was merely the distant cry of the gulls. She picked up another rock and threw it at one of the birds dancing in the waves. The gull easily avoided the missile and flew away, screaming a protest.
Feenix hated every aspect of the Change, but especially this part when she was naked and exposed to the world while she hunted for clothing and weapons. The feeling of being out of control was intolerable. The fact that Mac Lir’s high priest, Rendolin, knew about the Change was almost more than she could endure. It seemed as if Mac Lir couldn’t wait to pass this little tidbit of Feenix’s weakness on to the elf.
Rendolin’s brother, Thelorin, also needed to know about her disability because he was the leader of the Sea Elves. But if they ever told another living soul, Feenix swore she’d have their livers for dinner.
She had no control over the Change. Once a month, during a waning crescent moon, the warrior woman would magically transform into the graceful shape of a dolphin. It happened regardless of where she was at the time, and that could be dangerous. And terrifying.
Some years back, when she had first been afflicted with the god’s curse, she’d been stationed in the middle of a desert training raw recruits when the warnings of the Change made themselves known to her. If she hadn’t stolen a teleportation medallion from the barracks’ priest, she’d be bleached bones right now. No one would have been able to explain a dead dolphin in the middle of a desert, or where the drill commander had gotten to.
“Blasted god,” she swore as she continued to search the crevices and rocks for her missing outfit. She turned and glared out to the sea and the wind whipped her long black hair around her like a legendary medusa come to life.
“You think you’re so damned smart, don’t you, Mac Lir? Just because I refused to bow down and worship you, you had to go and curse me with this Change. Well, it won’t work, you sorry excuse for a god!”
She shook her fist at the crashing waves, and it seemed as though the gulls mocked her with their cries.
“As soon as this blasted war with the Night Elves is over, I’m going to take my share of the bounty and find a magic user of great power to remove this curse!”
She turned her back to the sea and stepped heavily around the rocks tumbled in her path.
“Feenix of Port Marcus worships who and what she wants, and nobody—least of all YOU—is going to tell me differently!”
She tripped over a lose rock, but caught herself before pitching face first into the sand.
“To hell with you, Mac Lir! And to hell with your cause! If I ever get myself some clothes again, you and your precious silvan children have seen the last of Captain Feenix.”
Expecting no reply, she continued on with her task of locating her things. At least the effort of the search warmed her muscles and kept the early morning chill at bay.
“Damned elves were supposed to leave my clothing and weapons in the crack of the largest boulder. They promised they would not fail me.” She shook her head in disgust. “That priest, Rendolin is probably still abed with his new bonded mate, Kory. If she has anything to say about the matter, I’ll be hiking home in nothing more than blistered skin.”
Panting a bit from her angry search, Feenix climbed up on a smooth boulder, hoping to spot something from the higher perspective. She gathered her long hair in her hands and tried to run her fingers through the wet tresses, but the sea water was sticky and the strands clung together in tangled black ropes. Twisting the strands, she wrung as much salty water as she could from the thick mass.
“Don’t even have a blasted pin to put up my hair. I must look like a damned Port Marcus whore.” Lifting her head, she again yelled to the silent sea, “And it’s all your fault, you miserable god!”
Feenix would rather face ten goblins with battle axes and pikes than admit to herself that she was on the brink of tears. That’s what the Change did to her. Reduced her to a blithering female idiot concerned about how she looked and who was going to see her. If she didn’t get a grip on herself, she’d start hoping for someone to come along and rescue her.
“Ha! That has about as much chance of happening as a Night Elf has of loving his mother.”
She shook out the long tresses and draped them over her back and shoulders. They made a sort of curtain that would conceal most of her body from the rising sun and any prying eyes. Not that there was anyone around to see, of course, she fumed. But the wet strands gave her a false sense of protection which was somewhat comforting.
She scanned the beach from her perch, hoping she had missed something. Not a flutter of cloth, nor a glint of steel met her gaze. Did she have the wrong cove?
“My sense of direction’s never failed me. Those elves are probably lost!”
By the position of the sun, morning was coming on fast, and she had to get back to the ruins of Shalridoor soon. It was dangerous to be out without her weapons, although the danger from the Night Elves was slim to none. They could not stand the light of the sun and only raided during the night.
For the past two weeks, Feenix and the band of Sea Elves from the magical island of Sasheena had been reclaiming the ancient, ruined city of Shalridoor from the wilderness and the encroaching sea, while simultaneously planning a war against the hated Night Elves. Preparations for the attack were almost complete, and she needed to be there to lead the offensive.
“By Mac Lir’s beard,” she swore. “I suppose I’d better get moving or my skin will burn to a crisp just sitting here waiting for those elves to show up with my gear.” She dusted a layer of fine sand from her hands. “Although I have half a mind to walk away and leave those high and mighty elves to their own incompetence.”
As she rose, she heard a soft whirling sound to her right. Her war-honed senses screaming a warning, Feenix crouched and reached for a sword that was no longer strapped to her side. She had time to see the face of her attacker before a rank fishing net dropped over her head.
Branded in her mind were ice-blue eyes glaring with an inner fire, a strong nose above firm lips pulled back in a sneer, and cropped black hair exposing ears tipped as only a silvan’s could be. But it was the lean, pale face that held her in shock. This elf wore a trim, dark beard along a jutting jaw line. No elf she had ever seen could grow a beard.
She raised her arms and ducked to ward off the entrapping mesh, but was caught fast in the net.
“Oh, damn!”
~*~
L’Garn ordered his men back to Cragimore. The sun was due to come up shortly and they would be no use to him then. Night Elves could not survive long in the sun. He, on the other hand, was an outbreed, one who had human blood running through his veins, polluting his silvan heritage. While he did not like the sun, he could tolerate it for short periods.
His men obeyed without the usual resistance and slightly veiled disrespect that always accompanied an order from him. L’Garn knew their compliance had nothing to do with his authority. He was sure they wanted to be caught in the deadly rays of the sun even less than he did.
The only reason his men followed his orders at all, L’Garn knew, was because he was the royal prince. His grandfather would have them staked in the sun and whipped if their insolence ever came to his ancient, royal ears. L’Garn himself would rather be staked on his back, naked in the sun with his eyelids removed, than tell King Zimpher that his grandson could not control the few men in his command. No, L’Garn would continue to ignore his men’s defiance as long as they eventually obeyed him and did their jobs.
The dawn was just breaking, but the cove would be in partial shadow for another hour or so. As long as the rays of the sun did not touch him directly, he could survive the daylight without much inconvenience. He had plenty of time to do some reconnoitering before going home. He was in no hurry.
It was not often he was able to get away from the crowded conditions of Cragimore. Rarer still was the opportunity to be alone for any length of time. His duties as a royal prince prohibited the luxury of solitude. His allegiance to the throne was an effective chain, keeping him from leaving to satisfy his curiosity about his tainted blood. His human heritage.
He forced his mind away from such forbidden thoughts, and found a comfortable spot below the rim of the cliff, where he could watch the beach and ocean without being observed. While L’Garn did not expect to see anyone, it was always wise to prepare for the worst.
One of the scouting parties had returned yester eve to report that a band of Sea Elves were living in the ruins of Shalridoor, which lay east of Cragimore on the coast. Zimpher was almost insane with rage at the news, since he’d been sure that the sea scum had been eradicated all those years ago.
Many fine Night Elves had lost their lives during that time, including their great king, Meedrion. But L’Garn’s people had been victorious in the end, enslaving many of their enemies, and killing the rest. They had not had to deal with that menace for a long time. Not since before L’Garn’s own birth, in fact.
If the scouts’ reports were correct, it looked like another war was in the making. Perhaps he would be able to prove to his grandfather, and the rest of the people of Cragimore, that his tainted blood did not mean he was worthless and beneath contempt. After all, the blood of his royal mother Sembali flowed through his veins just as much as the hated human blood. That had to count for something.
THE CHOOSING Page 1