“This is where we grind our wheat to make flour for our bread.”
The pride in L’Garn’s voice was warranted, she thought. She had never seen anything like what lay before her gaze, there in the middle of Tylana’s largest mountain range.
She watched as two, not one, large grindstones slowly turned, causing a rumbling and grinding sound that she could feel reverberate up her legs, as well as pound through her head. The huge stones were turned by teams of male slaves pushing a large wheel in a relentless, never-ending circle. The slaves looked as if they had been at their job for so long that they were, in fact, an actual part of the device that crushed the wheat.
A path had been grooved into the stone floor where countless feet had walked in a never-ending circle. How many years did it take for living stone to be marred like that? Feenix couldn’t even begin to guess.
The weary looks on the sweat-soaked faces of the yoked teams of slaves echoed the flat expression in their dull eyes. Nowhere could she see a spark of interest or intelligence. Day after endless day of the monotonous labor must have ground out any glimmer of spirit from them long ago.
Such a life was not for her, she thought to herself. Feenix would die before allowing this scum to turn her into an animal of burden.
“Don’t ever expect me to be chained to something like that,” she said to the prince of the Night Elves. “I will die first before ending up like that, and I’ll take as many of you filthy scum with me as I can before I go.”
L’Garn turned to her, speaking loudly over the constant noise of the room.
“This work is not for females. Only the strongest males can survive the heavy work here. As I told you, you are a servant of the royal House. Your work will be considerably lighter and more pleasant.”
Any work as a slave would be unpleasant, and the weight of captivity heavier than anything she had previously encountered, she reflected. But she did not share her thoughts with the Night Elf. Instead, she watched the slaves as they mindlessly walked in an unbroken circle, heads down, backs bent, knees pushing and bare feet gripping the worn track. Mac Lir save her from such a fate, she prayed.
She noticed an old elf with only one hand, who looked more alert than the others. In fact, now that she paid close attention, when others around him were ready to drop, he spoke to them, in words she could not hear. Each time, the flagging slave seemed to gain strength from the other’s words and continued on.
The right arm was missing, from about the middle of the forearm. A large wad of material had been strapped to the stump, and the elf was able to brace it against the wooden bar he was chained to, allowing him to push with both arms.
Feenix noticed other indications that the elf had seen a battle or two. Old wounds, their ragged scars still vivid against his skin, crossed his chest, upper arms and even his thighs in a way that proclaimed to her they had been made by a sharp sword. Here was a warrior who had some how been captured and forced into slavery, just as she had been.
For the first time since entering Cragimore’s depths, hope flared in her breast. She didn’t know how she would go about it, but she knew she would have to speak to that slave. Perhaps he could help her with the plan to discover the Night Elves’ weakness and escape. Who knew? Perhaps she could help him escape, too.
“Come.”
L’Garn walked to the nearest grist mill without a look at her, obviously expecting her to follow. Like a blasted dog, she mumbled to herself, but she followed without a word.
When they came within a meter or two of the production, he motioned for the guard to join them.
“Put a crew on the lift,” he ordered above the racket of the mill.
The guard saluted sharply, then jogged to the wheel. Feenix could not hear, of course, but she watched as the Night Elf stopped the slaves and ordered three of the strongest of them to another part of the cavern. The slave with the missing hand was one of the ones removed from the wheel.
“Come along, Teela.”
“Where are we going? You haven’t told me anything since before breakfast.”
He gazed intently at her for a long moment, and she felt her cheeks blush at the remembered kiss they had shared. She was acting like a young girl with her first lover, Feenix told herself with disgust. Get a grip on yourself!
The mysterious look on his face didn’t do much for her feeling of well being, but at least he didn’t mention their pre-breakfast activity.
“We are going Atop.” He turned and walked towards the area where the crew of slaves had been led by the Night Elf guard.
“So you said, but that doesn’t tell me anything.”
Stubborn elf scum! Feenix didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, and it appeared as if he wasn’t going to enlighten her.
Well, she might as well follow him and try to get a clearer picture of the inside of this massive stronghold. Maybe she would even see a way out of this hole.
Watching her step as she moved across the uneven cavern floor, she followed L’Garn.
The slaves stood around a smaller version of the grist mill wheel. Each of the men had a long, well-worn wooden bar and waited patiently for the order to start moving. The guard had a whip at his side, but she had yet to see him use it. Apparently, these slaves were well trained and didn’t need the added incentive of the leather’s bite.
Now that she was closer to the laborers, she could see that the one-handed slave was, in fact, a Sea Elf. She recognized the bronze skin tones and the lanky build. The slave’s eyes were the color of a spring day, greens and blues combined to remind her of tender young growth and clear, clean sky. They stared directly into her eyes without wavering.
Feenix’s stomach did a little lurch as she thought she recognized the elf—but that was impossible, of course. How could she know some old elf who had obviously been a slave in Cragimore for more years than she had been alive? It was more likely a family resemblance to someone she had seen on Sasheena…but who?
Suddenly, Feenix had a brilliant idea. Perhaps she could get some information out of this royal prince without him being aware of her intent.
“Is that a Sea Elf?” she asked him. She had deliberately pitched her voice to be mildly surprised and, she hoped, innocent.
L’Garn turned sharply to her and grabbed her arm in a painful grip.
“What do you know of the Sea Elves?”
She hadn’t expected such a reaction from him, and hadn’t even tried to evade his touch. So much for innocent, she thought. Now what?
“Get your hands off me.”
“Speak, Teela, if you value your life.” He gave her a little shake to emphasize his words.
“I said, get your filthy hands off me,” she yelled, but Feenix didn’t try to break the hold herself. For some reason, his touch sent warmth rushing through her body to pool in the region of her belly.
Instead of releasing her, he took possession of her other arm, holding her with a firm grasp. He glared at her intently as if he could force her to speak by his will alone.
“Teela, if you know anything of the Sea Elves, you must tell me immediately. Lives depend upon it.”
Strange, she thought. Now that she had some decent light—not enough, of course, but decent—she could refresh her memory about the things she noticed the day she was captured. His eyes were a pale blue, almost white color. Except near the middle, where a tiny ring of blue, the shade of Kestrel, outlined the black of his pupils.
His lips were a deep rose color and right now were tight with grim concern.
His forearms were dusted with a covering of dark hair, just enough to proclaim him very male. His short hair was not long enough for her to run through her fingers, but she imagined that it would feel wonderful against her sensitive palms and fingertips.
She noticed a tiny swirl in the whiskers of his beard. It wasn’t a full beard, thank Mac Lir’s toes. She hated the thought of touching facial hair that grew in abandon all over a man’s face and across his lip, hiding
those sensuous muscles from her eyes.
No, L’Garn’s beard was short and did not hide his upper lip with growth. His beard began just beside his two silvan-tipped ears, and raced along his firm jaw line, meeting at his chin. Nor did the bristles grow down his neck and throat, like a black shadow from an outcrop of rock. He allowed it to cover the skin just under his jaw and chin with what, Feenix thought, was perfect taste. Clean, crisp lines, like the blade of a sharp sword.
“Answer me!”
The sharp note of concern in his voice brought her back from her musings. She broke his grasp on her arms and took a step back, glaring into his face.
“The only thing I know is that you better keep your hands off me, elf-man!” She rubbed her arms where his fingers had left slight marks.
“Tell me what you know about the Sea Elves, Teela.”
He ground out the words between clenched teeth, and she knew L’Garn was close to losing his control. She didn’t want to push him that far again so soon after their earlier battle.
Because she knew about the long hatred between Rendolin’s people and his, she understood his fierce emotion. However, there was no way she could let him know that he had inadvertently brought a spy—the warrior in charge of the Sea Elves’ army, in fact!—into his very stronghold. She had to keep him from finding that out before she had an opportunity to learn Cragimore’s secrets.
“I don’t know anything about them. I thought they were just legends, like everyone else on Tylana does.”
“Then how were you able to identify his race?”
“I just guessed. It’s easy to see that he’s not a Night Elf. Look at him,” she commanded with a wave of her hand. “He stands taller than any other elf around him, even though his back is bowed with age. His skin is darker than the average Night Elf, and his eyes are a different color. It’s easy to see he didn’t come from Cragimore’s breeding stock.”
He looked at her as if he wanted to believe her story, but wasn’t quite ready to let it go.
“Lala has dark skin, yet you haven’t asked about her origins.”
“But Lala has such a different build. I’ve seen other slaves like her, short and stocky with the dark skin of a people used to the sun. Lala’s type seems to be very common. Sea Elves, if they exist, would be very rare. That one is the only elf of his kind I have ever seen.”
She watched him digest her words. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension eased from his body. He looked around as if ashamed to have anyone see the way he had reacted to her question. He knew he didn’t have to answer; his reaction confirmed her suspicion. The one-handed slave was a Sea Elf. He had probably been taken in a raid, long before Rendolin’s people had found sanctuary on Sasheena.
Feenix cast a glance over the slave in question. He stood erect and met her eyes without flinching. A tiny smile flirted in the quirk of his lips. By Mac Lir’s eyes, he reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who.
“I am pleased that you notice such things,” L’Garn finally said to her. “Come. I have better things to show you than the workings of the mill.”
He took her arm again, only this time his touch was almost gentle and his face held anticipation. It was obvious L’Garn was going to ignore her question. Fine. She would satisfy her curiosity on her own.
He turned her towards the waiting slaves before releasing her arm, and again she followed him as he led the way to a small enclosed area. As she passed the Sea Elf, she pretended to trip and stumble in the slave’s direction. He naturally reached out to prevent her fall. Because she was close to him, his reaction was faster than the half-elf’s.
Feenix righted herself and took a second to thank the one-handed elf, and to whisper one word for the slave’s ear alone.
“Sasheena.”
For a quick moment, the old slave’s fingers grasped Feenix’s hand in a wrenching grip. His eyes registered shock, then showed an odd combination of surprise, longing and fear before he dropped his head and backed away to the wooden bar. She knew he had heard.
“This floor is rough and uneven,” L’Garn said as he helped her to his side. “You must pay attention at all times, Teela, and watch your step.”
She answered something in response to his words, but her mind was busily trying to plan a way to speak with the Sea Elf privately, and soon. It was obvious such a meeting wasn’t going to happen right now, but she vowed to make her way back to the mill and find an opportunity to talk with the slave.
Without warning, the floor under her feet jerked and began to move. She reached out to grasp the first solid thing she could find, and blushed as her fingers found themselves entwined in L’Garn’s linen shirt.
“What’s happening?” She barely controlled the panic in her voice.
“We are in the lift.”
For the first time she noticed that they were standing in a metal, box-like compartment, its walls only as high as her waist. Thick iron beams continued up to connect overhead, making an open ceiling. A rope and pulley were attached to the cross beams above them. As the slaves pushed the wheel, the lift rose inside a carved-out stone shaft.
The assent was smoother than she would have thought possible, but still she clung to the half-elf as if her life depended on his solid support.
“What if the rope breaks?” She hated herself for her panic, but couldn’t seem to get control of it. By the god’s left eye, she was acting like a completely helpless female!
L’Garn put his arm around her, the strength of his warm body giving her support and comfort beyond her imagination. She breathed in the scent of him, musky male mixed with a tangy trace of pine.
“The rope is strong, Teela. It will not break.”
He looked down at her, and she caught her breath as his eyes held her captive. How could she feel so safe in his arms when she knew first hand how brutal he could be? He was the scum who had made her his prisoner. His slave. The one who had savagely assaulted her in his room not more than a few hours ago.
She shivered, not sure if it was from fear or anticipation. His eyes held a promise. She was not surprised to see lust and desire in their pale depths. They also held secrets she thought might be better left untold. An answering wave of anticipation coursed through her veins, and she found her body responding to the blatant desire on his face.
The slight rocking movement of the lift gave her an excuse to press closer to his side. He didn’t seem to mind as his other arm came around to hold her more tightly.
“You don’t have to hold me. I can stand on my own,” she lied.
He ignored her words and continued to brace her against the rough ride. She felt his heart beating strongly, and an odd idea popped into her head that her own heart synchronized itself with L’Garn’s. What a wild idea; she forced it from her mind.
“Look up.”
His voice was pitched low, almost a whisper, but she felt the words reverberate through his chest rather than actually heard them with her ears. She didn’t want to break contact with his chest, but couldn’t think of any excuse to give him for her refusal to look up as he commanded.
Feenix tilted her head and looked above the iron lattice work. Her stomach felt as if it dropped to her knees.
Stars!
She saw midnight blue sky and thousands of tiny points of light! They were rising out of the hole of Cragimore.
“Sky,” she breathed as if it were a holy word. Clinging even tighter to L’Garn and forgetting for a moment where they were, she bounced a little on her toes and couldn’t hide her grin of delight. “We’re going out?”
The lift lurched two or three times before L’Garn tightened his hold to stop her excited movements.
“Easy, Teela. While the rope is strong, we do not need to cause more work than necessary for the crew working the lift.”
Feenix stilled and felt the blood drain from her face. She looked down the shaft and was horrified to see exactly how far they had come in the time they had been in the lift. If the rope broke,
or if the slaves faltered, they would plunge to their deaths. Her stomach did another flip, only this time it wasn’t from joy.
Sweat broke out over her body; she could feel the tingling sensation under her arms spread across her backside. Her breath came in little gasps, and her head felt light. Was there no air in this stinking shaft?
“Teela, it is all right. We will not fall. Look up and do not think of anything except the sky.”
His breath cooled the moisture on her brow. By Mac Lir’s toe, was she going to end up a red mass of skin and bones at the bottom of this endless shaft? What was the point of the last few days, if all the blasted god had in mind was to let her drop to her death inside the hold of Cragimore?
“Look up!”
The command snapped her out of the panic that threatened to overpower her mind. Without pause, she again tilted her head up and focused her eyes on the stars. The sky seemed to be lightening, and it wasn’t so easy to see all the points of light. “Keep your eyes on the stars, Teela. We will be Atop in another moment or two.”
“If this contraption falls with us in it, elf-man, I will never forgive you.” She didn’t know where she found the breath to get the words out. Her lungs didn’t seem to want to function properly.
L’Garn chuckled and the rumble from his chest, and the comforting support of his arms helped soothe her fear. Again she cursed herself for acting like a witless female, but she couldn’t control the fear without his support.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” she demanded.
“Patience, Teela. We are almost Atop.”
He rubbed her back with his hand in a reassuring way, tracing wide circles over her gown with a light pressure that did not cause pain to her almost healed wounds. For a Night Elf, he was being suspiciously tender and gentle with her. Why, she wondered?
At the thought, again her body responded to his, and she felt her breasts tighten and swell in anticipation of his touch. She found her arms around his neck, but couldn’t remember putting them there.
She dragged her eyes from the sky and looked into his face. He had been watching her closely, and a jolt of pleasure shot through her as their eyes met.
THE CHOOSING Page 15