THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  The chains at her wrists jingled and banged against the bed as she straightened it from her sleep. Sleeping in chains, and a metal collar around her throat, was a challenge.

  Lala had taught her the trick was to lie as quietly as possible, once a position had been found where the chains could rest comfortably against the pallet. Never had she thought she would need to know such information.

  “What’s for breakfast?” she asked as she walked towards the table. “Korsh, I suppose. By the god’s toenails, you should have someone in the kitchens who knows how to make a decent meal for breakfast. How can you stand to eat it everyday?”

  His deep chuckle surprised her.

  “Korsh is only for the slaves. It is made up of ingredients to ensure your health and stamina. It is the best thing for slaves to eat.”

  “Is that so? Well, it tastes like black beetle dung!”

  “How do you know what beetle dung tastes like? Do humans make it a habit to eat such foul things?”

  She scowled at him. How could he be so handsome so soon after rising from sleep? That beard he wore made her forget he was the enemy, a hated Night Elf.

  “Don’t be an ass. Of course we don’t eat such things,” she answered, ignoring his look of displeasure. Before he could reprimand her for calling him names, she hurried on, “I’m just saying your slave food tastes as foul as I think beetle dung would taste. Have you ever tried it?”

  L’Garn’s displeasure turned to astonishment.

  “Of course not. Why would I eat slave food?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Feenix said in a nasty voice. “Perhaps to see what your property is forced to endure while you enjoy the finest feasts. Slumming, perhaps? An experiment?”

  He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head as if he were seeing her in a new perspective.

  “Why would I want to know those things? Ah, I believe you are teasing me,” he said, nodding as if he had just solved a great puzzle.

  “No, elf-man, I’m not teasing you. Didn’t you ever wonder what it was like to be a slave, to be forced to eat only a certain type of food, or work all day doing a job you had no choice over?”

  He shook his head at her, the puzzlement back in his eyes.

  “We eat the food provided for nourishment and health. We all do the work required of us, each according to his station. No one has the freedom to choose what they will be or do in life, Teela. Where did you get such strange ideas?”

  “Where did I get...” she broke off in amazement. “You are a prince, by the god’s ears! A prince! Doesn’t that mean anything around here? You could have whatever you wanted just by asking for it!”

  “I am a prince, that is true, but I can not have whatever I wish. There is no order in such a thing. I have what I need to do my job and fulfill my duty. What more could be needed? You seem to think that the title of prince carries with it something more than duty and responsibility.”

  She was almost speechless.

  “But you must be obeyed because you are the prince! Everyone must do your bidding, except for the king, I suppose.”

  “Why?”

  She blinked at him, wondering if she was still asleep and this was part of her odd dream.

  “Because you are a member of the ruling family! And you must be rich because that’s the way things are!”

  “Where?”

  “Where?” She could barely contain herself. She paced in front of him, trying to release some of the pent-up frustration she was feeling at his obtuse questions and implications.

  “Here! In Cragimore. Surely the Night Elves are ruled by the king, and as a prince of the ruling house, you are obeyed and honored.”

  He shook his head, looking as if he were amazed at her strange ideas.

  “The fact that I am a royal prince merely means my job is a bit different from others. I have no choice in it. I am required to prepare myself to submit to the mantle of duty when my grandfather dies. This is not a job that others envy. They know the burden of such a mantle.”

  “But you can command others to make that job easier. You don’t have to do it alone.” She didn’t understand him. “Mac Lir knows you have enough wealth to make the chore a pleasant one!”

  “I do? What wealth would that be? The only wealth that matters here, Teela, is that we have enough supplies to feed all of our people. Enough cavern space to house them and keep them safe and warm. Wealth is measured in survival here, Teela. How do humans measure wealth?”

  “Why, in gold and gems, of course! With enough of those you can buy all the supplies you need. You could buy the people needed to keep your caverns clean and safe and warm!”

  The thought of the piles of riches Cragimore must house sent her heart pounding and her palms itching to hold it.

  “We do not need to buy labor, Teela. We have slaves. What need to buy supplies when we can provide them for ourselves? Or raid for them? We have no need of gold or gems, except when we deal with humans and other species. It is beyond my comprehension how you can value something that sparkles prettily, but is otherwise useless.”

  “Useless?” The elf-man must have gone daft living inside a mountain range all his life. “With enough wealth, a person doesn’t have to live from day to day hoping to find a scrap of food or a filthy job no one else will do. Your belly would never go hungry; your clothes would always be fine. People would see you for who you are inside, and not the filthy street urchin trying to stay alive for just one more day. With wealth comes power, and your enemies back off and don’t spit at you, or kick you around. Or worse.”

  She was aware that her voice had risen sharply and a frenzy was fast consuming her, but she was unable to stop the words from tumbling out, or the memories and pain from squeezing her heart.

  “With enough wealth, elf-man, people look at you like you’re someone special. They treat you with respect, and they listen to you when you tell them to go away...to stop...no!”

  The last word reverberated off the stone walls and hung in the air, refusing to go where spoken words go when their usefulness is at an end. L’Garn had a stunned look on his face, and Feenix felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment as she realized she must have sounded like an insane woman to him.

  She turned away from his light, searching eyes and busied herself with adjusting the dull gray gown, brushing at the creases and wrinkles without any discernable change in the rag’s appearance. She was a fool. Those thoughts and memories hadn’t surfaced in years. By the god’s left toe, what had she been thinking?

  She felt a light touch on her shoulder, and she whirled around, bringing her chained hands up into a defensive position.

  “Don’t touch me, elf-man, unless you want to die.”

  His eyes were full of sympathy, and she wanted to rip his head from his shoulders for it. She was Feenix of Port Marcus. She didn’t need anything from anyone. Least of all sympathy.

  “Save your soft looks for some other slave, prince!” She bit off the last word as if she wanted to fling it in his face.

  “I did not intend to open old wounds and inflict pain, Teela.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she blustered, lowering her hands and relaxing her stance. “The only painful wounds I have are from your stinking guardsman, Holdert. Who, by the way, has an appointment with death very soon. And, elf-man, my name is Feenix, not Teela.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but then must have changed his mind. Instead, he went to the door and spoke low to the guard standing outside. When he returned, he looked her in the eye, and Feenix got the feeling something important was about to happen.

  “Lala told me that yesterday you worked well.”

  She hadn’t thought her performance of yesterday was the main thing on his mind.

  “So?”

  “So,” he said, taking a silver key from inside his tunic, “give me your word that you will not try to escape or kill anyone, and I will remove your manacles and chain.”

  She was t
empted. By Mac Lir’s ears, it would be good to have free movement of her arms again! But she could not give her word to him about not escaping.

  “No.”

  He pulled himself to his full height and glared at her.

  “No? Do you mean you deliberately choose to remain shackled?”

  “I mean I can’t give you my word not to escape. It’s my job. If you take the chains off, or if you leave them on, I will continue to try to find a way to escape this hole. I will be no one’s slave willingly.”

  “You are a stubborn human.” He ran his hand through his short hair and looked as though he wanted to shake her. “Do you not see the uselessness of trying to escape me? You do not know the way out. Cragimore is full of my people who would kill you in an instant.”

  He stepped closer to her, and Feenix had to force herself from taking a step back. “I could have your food drugged with an herb that would take the will from you! Is that your wish?”

  L’Garn’s anger confused her. Why was he angry that she should want to escape? If the situations had been reversed, she was sure he would also be trying to escape.

  “Fine. So, I’m stubborn and unreasonable because I don’t want to be your slave. But at least I don’t have to resort to rooming with captives just for a little companionship.”

  Now she had done it. The silence of the room rang in her ears like the clamoring of a warning bell.

  Being chained and manacled must have a dulling effect on one’s reflexes, Feenix thought, for before she could react to the rage in his eyes, L’Garn had grabbed the front of her gown and shoved her against the stone wall.

  “Just what are you trying to say, Teela?”

  His face was so close to hers that she could see the individual whiskers of his beard, and the fanciful part of her brain noticed that he hadn’t yet shaved since arising from bed. His light blue eyes had turned deep gray with emotion, and he looked like he wanted to rip out her heart with his bare hands.

  If Feenix of Port Marcus had learned anything in her twenty-eight years of life, it was that you never back down when someone was ready for a fight. To back down was to offer your neck to the blade of an enemy.

  “I may have been blindfolded and under a spell when you brought me in here, elf-man, but I noticed your men aren’t overly fond of you. Do you have to pay them to spend time with you when you’re looking for a relaxing game of dice or a drinking partner?”

  His fist pushed her even harder against the stone wall, and he stepped into her, effectively trapping her chained hands between their bodies. Feenix was caught fast between the cold stone of the cavern wall and the rock hard body of L’Garn in a rage.

  “I have never needed to pay for companionship in my life, human.”

  Knee to knee; thigh to thigh; stomach to stomach and chest to chest, Feenix was aware of every tiny muscle movement of her antagonist as he used his lean body as a brace and a clamp to keep her from escaping his fury. He looked deeply into her eyes, daring her to push him further.

  His breath came fast, as if he had been running a marathon, and with each movement of his lungs, his chest snuggled into her breasts in a way that caused her nipples to tighten. By the god’s left ear, was she crazed that her body would respond in such a way to his threatening stance?

  Before she could fling another insult at him, his left hand came up and claimed her jaw, his fingers splayed across her cheek and his thumb in the tender hollow under her chin. He snapped her head back against the rock, but not hard enough to cause more than a mild discomfort.

  He turned his body slightly, raised her up against the wall a bit, and pressed his hip into the juncture of her legs.

  “What need have I for paid companions, Feenix of Port Marcus, when I have you to use as I wish?”

  His breath raised goose flesh on her skin as it tickled a few tendrils of her long hair that had been loosened from the confines of her braid. She watched his mouth as he spoke the menacing words, and had a fleeting wish that he would kiss her.

  She forced her eyes closed and swallowed hard. In another moment she would have been drooling for his lips, by Mac Lir’s blue bells!

  And then his words registered in her brain. He had called her by her name. She looked at him again, and suddenly her will to resist him seemed to melt away. No! How could her body betray her like this? By the god’s beard, she would be no one’s slave!

  “Big words, elf-man. I am chained and fettered and still recovering from an illness. Remove the chains and give me a sword. Then we will see who uses who!”

  Again he shifted, this time raising his right arm to rest beside her head, smoothing her hair from her temple with his long fingers. He had captured every inch of her, and she could not even move her head from side to side. Her breathing was labored and her heart raced in her chest. It seemed like all the nerves throughout her flesh were sensitive and attuned to his every movement.

  The anger had left his eyes and had been replaced by a smoky haze of lust. Instead of registering fear, she felt her body respond and prepare itself for his touch. Much too long without a lover, she chastised herself.

  “Ah, Teela,” he whispered in a horse voice, “you tempt me.” She was aware of his double meaning. “However, I fear for your safety. I would not want to be responsible for any more scars on your lovely body.”

  “Don’t worry, L’Garn,” she tried to push him away with her bound hands, but couldn’t get any leverage behind the effort. “Once I have a sword in my hands, you’ll be dead before you know what happens to you.”

  He chuckled deep in his chest. His hips moved in short, tight spurts as his laughter escaped. A new light entered his eyes, and his lips curved into a deeper smile. She thought he looked like a starved man, just before a meal.

  She felt a liquid fire rush through her womb, and her blood suddenly felt hot and heavy. She couldn’t keep herself from squirming against his hip.

  His eyes roamed her face, and his fingers touched her here and there; temple, cheek, jaw line. But soon his gaze lowered to her lips, and she caught her breath. Why would a man’s eyes on her lips cause such a riot inside of her?

  He stilled for a long moment, looking at her lips. She dared not move, fearful of what he would do. Or wouldn’t do.

  “I will taste you now,” he said. He waited, and Feenix didn’t know if he paused for her approval or denial. She almost begged him to hurry up and do it, but fortunately, she had no breath to utter the humiliating words.

  Then he lowered his dark head and captured her lips in a kiss that stormed all her defenses. It was not a gentle caress, but a searing assault that was as brutal and fierce as the jagged mountains and naked cliffs that had nurtured him. His mouth demanded her will, her soul, her very existence. She fought his lips’ command, but it was a losing battle. Deep within, she wanted his domination. She craved a lover strong enough to bend her to his will. But Feenix of Port Marcus would never admit such a thing—to herself or to another living being.

  Unfortunately for her peace of mind, her body did not have such high standards and it admitted to the craving, welcomed it in fact. She was lost in the sensations his mouth, tongue and hands were evoking, and she gave back to him all that he demanded.

  She wanted him—needed him—in a way she had never known before. Little whimpering sounds came from deep in her throat as her body tried to coax him into every part of herself.

  He had stepped away to allow his hands free access of her body. The slave’s gown had been ripped from her shoulders, and he was fondling her breasts with skillful strokes.

  Her hands had located the belt at his hips and had freed the strip of leather from his waist. While the chains restricted full movement of her arms, they were long enough to allow both of her hands to dip inside L’Garn’s leather tunic and feel the textured flesh of his stomach and hips.

  The musky pine scent of him excited her to a fevered pitch, and her body ached for the promised joining. Unconsciously she rubbed against his hard body
, begging silently for his touch.

  Feenix felt the gray gown slide down the length of her body, and almost screamed when he reached down and cupped the hot flesh of her buttocks and pressed himself into her.

  A heavy knock at the door startled them both. They looked into each other’s eyes, and it was as if each were dunked into icy water.

  Feenix backed away and tried to cover herself with her arms. By all the water in the god’s blue ocean, what had she been thinking? She grabbed the blanket from a cot and wrapped it around herself.

  “Teela,” he said as he straightened his own clothing and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “We will speak of this later.”

  The knocking came again, this time louder and more insistent.

  “Damn right we will, elf-man,” she said, barely controlling her anger. “And when we do, you better bring a weapon, because I plan to kill you.”

  L’Garn walked to the door, leaving Feenix to wonder who she was angrier with—the prince for forcing his touch onto her, or herself for being so weak as to actually want that touch?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They were under attack! Shalridoor was under attack yet again after more than three hundred forty-seven years!

  Thelorin ran to an outcropping of huge boulders, leading a small squadron of warriors. He brandished his sword and cut down one attacker before the line of defense could be breached.

  The assault had been completely unexpected, but the sentinels on watch were alert and gave warning in time. How could their enemy, the Night Elves, have known they were back at Shalridoor? They must have a system of spies all along the Tylana coast, he thought. How else could those at Cragimore, which lay fifty leagues away to the southwest, have known of their return?

  Unless, he thought as his distrust of all things human kicking in, that human woman had spilled her guts and told the enemy everything. He knew humans were inferior in all things. Apparently, she could not withstand a little torture.

  Thelorin’s brother, Rendolin, climbed atop a large rock and wielded his mace with deadly accuracy. Two Night Elves lay dead at the feet of the boulder, and another fought for his life as Mac Lir’s High Priest swung his weapon, chanting prayers as he bashed in the heads of his adversaries.